Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Businessmen in Arms
How the Military and
Other Armed Groups Profit
in the MENA Region
R o w ma n & L i t t le f i el d
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v
vi Contents
Figures
Tables
Maps
vii
List of Abbreviations and Acronyms
xi
xii Foreword
civil-military relations in the MENA. Nor has the more recent phenomenon
of direct and/or indirect, systematic capture of material resources by NSAGs
or by states’ coercive agents, which results primarily from state decay, been
adequately described, let alone theorized. This book addresses both these
lacunae. By so doing it provides a rich body of empirical information cou-
pled with suggestive hypotheses to account for similarities and differences
between the region’s state and nonstate coercive actors, while helping us to
begin to understand how and why the nexus between coercion and capital
accumulation is so central to MENA political economies. In the remainder of
this foreword, a few of the book’s most relevant themes will be briefly noted.
What might be termed the emergence of a Frankenstein military economy
may be the most recurrent theme running through the chapters on state-
based militaries. Regimes in the Arab republics of Turkey and Iran initially
breathed financial life into their respective “Military, Inc.” monsters out of
mixed motives, key of which was coup proofing. Endowed with the gift of
financial autonomy and provided guaranteed life support by a robust drip-
feed of state resources, these militaries spawned sprawling enterprises, which
in turn assisted the efforts of those armed forces to subordinate or even
devour, as in Egypt and Pakistan, the very regimes that first created those
Frankenstein military economies.
The consequences for the position of the military in national political
economies, for military capacity, and for national economic performance
have been profound. Material growth and reward have supplanted national
security as the raison d’être of these armed forces and their officers. As the
authors of the various chapters contend, the political and class alliances
of militaries have changed in tandem with the evolution of their mission
from fighting to enrichment. Increasingly allied with state and private upper
bourgeoisies, militaries have subordinated workers, peasants, and lower
bourgeoisies in whose name they seized power in the immediate postcolonial
era. Formerly champions of import-substitution industrialization, militaries
have embraced at least some elements of neoliberalism, including the need
to forge business relationships with global economic actors, whether from
the East or West. Accompanying this distorted globalization has been the
shift from dependence based on Cold War–generated rents to those that flow
from security assistance predicated on alleged shared interests in combating
terrorism. Those relationships, again whether with East or West, have been
vital not just to the further growth of military economies, but to the mili-
tary’s marginalization of civilian organizations and institutions. The primary
antithesis to the thesis of militarization of economies and polities is Islamism
in its various forms, it being virtually the only movement capable of giving
voice to those marginalized by militarization and the accompanying politi-
cal and economic stagnation. The rise of Islamism has in turn reinforced
Foreword xiii
the claims of militaries to be the sole force capable of containing the jihadi
threat, thus presenting foreign backers with a Hobson’s choice. Except in the
cases of Turkey, where the West backed the AKP against the military, and
Egypt after 2011, where the United States in particular willingly accepted
the Muslim Brotherhood’s rise to power, the West has chosen to support
armed forces in preference to civilian organizations and institutions. This
has in some cases been interpreted by militaries as literal licenses to kill
their civilian opponents, as the cases of the Bhuttos in Pakistan and Muslim
Brothers in Egypt suggest. In virtually all these countries, civilian political
actors have been neutered, as attested to by the means of return to civilian
rule in Pakistan, where General Musharraf was forced from power not by an
organized political movement, but by the judiciary, the sole remaining coher-
ent civilian institution.
The volume provides ample evidence of the negative impacts on national
economic performance of the empowerment and embourgeoisement of
militaries, as well as indications of the deleterious effects on their discharge
of security duties, which is, of course, the justification for that empower-
ment and accompanying enrichment. It also provides evidence in support
of the proposition that patronage is steadily supplanting professionalism
within these armed forces, thus further undermining an already precarious
institutionalization.
Within this broad characterization of civil-military relations in the MENA
countries under consideration there is considerable variation in detail. In
Iran, for example, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) is por-
trayed as a less-dominant political and economic actor than are militaries
now in Egypt, Pakistan, Jordan, and Sudan and formerly in Turkey, Yemen,
and Syria. The Iranian political system is comparatively complex, providing
counterbalances to the IRGC and other armed forces. The state of Pakistan
was from its creation virtually an extension of the military, so its penetration
of the national economy is deeper and broader than elsewhere. The Turkish
and Iranian militaries have taken direct control of financial institutions, sug-
gesting their development of a type of military financial capitalism, whereas
armed forces in the Arab republics and Jordan have neither created banks nor
listed their companies on stock exchanges. These Arab military economies
have thus not graduated from industrial to finance capitalism. In Yemen and
Sudan, state institutions, including the military, are less coherent, with tribal
and regional loyalties having undermined the state to the point of secession,
threatening to leave Yemen’s reunification a temporary phenomenon and to
further fragment the unity of (northern) Sudan. Moreover, a greater propor-
tion of resources captured by these two countries’ militaries appears to derive
from autonomous unit action, such as through smuggling and trafficking, than
it does in the more corporate MENA militaries.
xiv Foreword
All the military economies described in the book are a mix of directly
owned and operated enterprises; firms controlled through subsidiaries, such
as pension funds; so-called officer economies, meaning businesses estab-
lished by retired officers engaged primarily in subcontracting to the military
economy or the civilian state; and direct seizures of assets through illegal
activities. But the mix varies substantially from country to country. So,
too, does the degree of centralized control by ministries of defense or their
equivalent. In some cases, such as Pakistan and Turkey, many units within the
armed forces have their own business enterprises that operate autonomously,
whereas in others central control is asserted by the high command, typically
concentrated in ministries of defense, over all military-controlled enterprises.
As for relations between the military economy and the “national bourgeoi-
sie,” they are generally mutually beneficial but vary in intensity across and
within any given country over time as the two contest for market shares and
external partners. Finally, land and specific types of economic undertakings,
such as cement production, which benefits from energy subsidies, lack of
pollution controls, and natural protection from imports, are of importance in
most of the military economies under study, albeit in different manners and
magnitudes.
The volume also provides insights into particular cases that invite specu-
lation as to their relevance elsewhere. The steadily expanding Jordanian
military economy, for example, appears to be impelled and structured by the
need for royal patronage to sustain officers’ loyalties, reflecting the continued
political preeminence of the king. Presumably this relationship also obtains
in Morocco, another personal rather than family dynasty, so lacking kins-
men to serve in the armed forces. But whether nascent military economies
in the GCC family dynasties serve an equivalent function or the need for
such patronage is obviated by sons, cousins, and uncles serving as officers, is
the type of comparative question that this volume stimulates. Similarly, the
issue of how militaries and security/intelligence services divide the share of
the nation’s economic pie they control is alluded to in several of the country
studies, thus inviting more systematic comparison. Yet another phenomenon
suggested by the work for future comparative analysis is the ways and means
by which militaries sought to counter the “Arab Spring” upsurge of marginal-
ized forces, in part because such an upsurge is ongoing in some countries and
likely to recur in others.
The book also addresses the roles of NSAGs in Yemen, Libya, and Syria
and their relations with surviving state institutions as they compete for control
over resources. Of particular interest is the observation that these residual
states can, and at least in Libya and Yemen, do, serve NSAG interests in that
they channel resources to them. Rump national militaries and NSAGs also
coexist, as in the case of Iraq, which is not analyzed in the book, suggesting
Foreword xv
The idea of this book started from a two-year research project on Arab
militaries as economic actors that brought the editors together in 2012. The
project included field and archival research on four Arab armies, those of
Egypt, Syria, Jordan, and Sudan, to investigate how their economic interests
influenced the way they reacted to the “Arab Spring” uprisings in 2011. The
project as well as the book production was funded by the Volkswagen Foun-
dation, which had approved our research proposal “Understanding the Role
of the Armed Forces during the Arab Spring and Thereafter” within its fund-
ing initiative for pilot research projects in social and media sciences on the
developments in the Arab region. We express, first of all, our deep apprecia-
tion of the Volkswagen Foundation for its financial support of the research,
as well as for its patience with all the modifications the team made during
the project. We also would like to extend great thanks to the scholars who
participated in the project, namely Salam Said, Walid Abu-Dalbouh, Atta
El-Battahani, Afag Mohammed Sadig, and Ahmed Khalifa. We are greatly
indebted to them. Especially the lively discussions about the first findings
on the enterprises of the military and the emerging proliferation of nonstate
armed groups during our project workshops in Amman (June 2012), Aswan
(January 2013), and Bonn (June 2013) helped a lot to develop the concept
of this book. Special thanks have to be extended to each author of this book,
who came and contributed most valuable ideas and insights during the final
project workshop in Bonn (October 2014), and Shana Marshall already in
Aswan. We are also very grateful to scholars who commented on papers we
presented during panels and workshops in Europe, the United States, and the
Middle East to share the findings of this project and to develop this book, in
particular during conferences of the Mediterranean Program in Mersin and
MESA in New Orleans (2013), and BRISMES in London (2015). We would
xvii
xviii Acknowledgments
like to thank all colleagues who gave us feedback at these events and beyond,
in particular Robert Springborg, Amy Austin Holmes, Nefissa Naguib,
Holger Albrecht, the BICC researchers, and among them in particular, Marc
von Boemcken. We are grateful to BICC for housing and administering the
project, and in particular, to Heike Webb, the copyeditor, for her commitment
and keen eye for detail and to Max Messling for his tireless correction work.
We greatly appreciate the continuous advice in managing the team given by
Mohammed Yousif Aburok, and, in particular, his commented glossary.
Introduction
Political Economy of the Military
and Nonstate Armed Groups in the
Middle East and North Africa
Elke Grawert
“Bread, freedom, dignity” had been the demands of the masses of people who
rose up to oust the corrupt, repressive military or military-backed regimes1 in
the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) in 2010 to 2011. The words of this
slogan revealed deep frustration in society about the economic, political, and
moral decay of state-society relations in the countries of the region. However,
the emerging spirit of optimism toward a new social contract2 with freely
elected civilian rulers after the fall of the long-standing presidents of Tunisia,
Egypt, Libya, and Yemen soon receded. In the years following the eruption of
the “Arab Spring,”3 societies in the MENA region had to cope with even more
economic hardship, setbacks in political reform processes, rapidly deepening
divisions within societies, and increasing violence.
The MENA region is one of the most militarized regions in the world, with
thirteen countries in ranks 1 to 30 of the Global Militarisation Index (GMI),4
measured by military spending in relation to gross domestic product (GDP)
and health expenditure (cf. Appendix C, Table C.1). Severe violence of vari-
ous state security forces against citizens and frequent incidences of torture
are rampant in the region (see Appendix C, Table C.2). The response of the
military to the popular uprisings of the “Arab Spring” in Tunisia, Egypt, and
Yemen, where it had refused to turn against the masses and thus helped oust
the presidents in 2011 to 2012, brought to light that within the armed forces,
there have been different factions with different interests.5 In both countries,
a strong faction of the military had withdrawn support for the president, indi-
cating a loss of regime legitimacy and an erosion of the ruling bargain.
One year after the beginning of the “Arab Spring,” in 2012, the gov-
ernments of Syria, Yemen, Libya, and Sudan were at war with nonstate
armed groups (NSAGs). The violent domestic conflicts developed regional
dimensions, most significantly in Syria in 2014. It is important to note that
1
2 Elke Grawert
incubators, butane gas cylinders, . . . pasta and poultry products . . . (as well
as) . . . services such as domestic cleaning and gas station management.”11
• The King Abdullah II Design and Development Bureau (KADDB) is
an independent government entity within the Jordan Armed Forces,
established for industrial production. Under this bureau, joint venture
companies between the Jordanian military and foreign arms producers
design and develop defense and security products. KADDB also provides
military training and cooperates with technical research institutions and
universities.12 It pursues “offset projects that directly benefit the regimes’
domestic security constituencies,”13 such as transfers of arms technology,
infrastructure, housing and employment creation, and converting facilities
for manufacturing defense products into factories for civilian commodity
production.
• NSAGs in Libya and Syria have captured oil facilities and ports and are
generating revenues through oil sales and exports. Leaders of armed groups
use the combination of military power and conquest of oil sites as a dead
pledge in order to make political deals.14 The control of crucial parts of riv-
ers and dams by NSAGs has become a weapon in their conflict with regime
forces in Syria and Iraq.15
under the control of the armed forces.22 The military organized infrastructure
and building campaigns and made soldiers work in construction, pursuing a
vision of rapid modernization to catch up with the industrialized world.
One focus of research in the postcolonial MENA region was on the
dynamics of military disengagement from political rule. Frequent abrupt
change, large-scale political upheavals, demonstrations, and strikes created
uncertainty, not only among the protesters but also in the military.23 Civilian
coalitions coming to power had an impact on the military, which usually split
into factions of hardliners and moderates.24 This undermined the cohesiveness
within the military and either led to a coup by one faction of the military or to
a political stalemate, which used to be broken by the military after a period of
time. Hence, the withdrawal of the military hardly led to sustainable regime
change. Ben-Dor identified several reasons for the temporary character of
civilian regimes: their failure to build a civilian framework of politics with
political participation of individuals and pressure groups, and the stabiliza-
tion of military rule.25 These are a persistent corporatism based on threat and
use of force and oriented toward the center of rule, concentration of coercive
power in the military, which they legitimized by the fear of Israeli expan-
sion, “mastering government technology,”26 propaganda and a sophisticated
security system, and the elimination of civilian and intramilitary opposition.
Whereas focusing on the military, this strand of studies also sheds light on the
power resources of the armed forces and their centralized and biased resource
distribution.
On this background, the historical analyses of the economic activities of
the military in the cases presented in this book consider the question of if and
how the military had been involved in development and modernization of
their respective countries.
Europe and Africa and, later, into the rigidities of authoritarianism from an
institutionalist perspective.
Along this line, studies by Fähndrich, Schlumberger, and Beck et al.28 pro-
vided an elaborate insight into the functioning of the regimes in the MENA
region and their socioeconomic orders. Elbadawi et al.29 developed a model
about the relationship between economic development and democracy in
the MENA region, systematically extending the work of Lipset.30 Accord-
ing to their findings, oil and violent conflict have been the main variables
correlating and leading to a “democracy deficit” in the MENA region. The
cross-country analysis confirmed earlier insights in the neopatrimonial char-
acteristics of political systems erected by rent-seeking states based on oil
wealth, and semirentier states gaining revenues from a favorable location for
strategic reasons or tourism.31
Of late, a (renewed) research focus examined authoritarian systems using
a macro-quantitative institutional perspective.32 Subsequently, several schol-
ars dropped the concept of transition with its implication of being a phased
period leading to democracy.33 Research on system change opened up toward
all possible directions such change can take. However, most of these studies,
including the above-mentioned books on the MENA region, applied as a nor-
mative measure the degree of political and economic liberalization in order
to identify the deficits, hindrances, or opportunities toward democracy and
liberal market economy. These studies did not explicitly focus on the armed
forces when analyzing changes within authoritarian regimes or processes of
transformation, and hardly considered the economic position and interests of
the military.
Economic research on the MENA region focused on the attempts and
setbacks of economic liberalization,34 reflecting the growing influence the
International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank wielded on indebted
states. Along with the shift from the belief in the developmentalist state
toward perceiving the private sector as the engine of development, structural
adjustment programs reducing the state’s economic role became a condition
for international loans.35 Fawcett compiled studies about the incorporation
of MENA states in the globalized economy and the social and political
challenges they had to face in this process.36 Others argued that neoliberal
changes fostered authoritarian rule in the region and undermined attempts
toward democracy.37 Whereas some authors related the spread of crony
capitalism among the circles closely linked to the regimes to the (neo-)liberal
turn,38 the economic role of the military was left out of the scholarly analysis.
The authors in this book therefore shed light on the response of the military
to the neoliberal turn in the cases of Egypt, Turkey, and Jordan.
Along with the scholarly trend to study democratic institution build-
ing, civil-military relations reentered the academic stage. Institutionalist
Introduction 7
of components that do not necessarily operate in line with one another but
may even cause contradictory outcomes.68 According to this approach, state
components may refer to executive bodies such as administration, judiciary,
armed forces, decentralized units, or subsections of these bodies. The various
components of the state encounter “pushes, pulls, blurring of boundaries and
domination by others . . . (in) numerous junctures between . . . (the) state’s
diffuse parts and other social organizations.”69 The respective interactions
may create more power for the state components and the social groups
involved, they may weaken both, or state actors may ally with select social
groups against other groups. This differs in society’s fields of action, which
Migdal characterized as “multiple arenas of domination and opposition.”70
The outcome may be “dispersed or integrated domination,”71 depending on
the coherence and territorial completeness of domination of any major social
force, be it the state or a dominant social group outside the state, and even
an NSAG. Applying this concept to the military, it may form such a state
component—a rather autonomous political and economic unit—as a whole,
or sections and factions of the military may collude with other social groups
in times of mass protest and transformation, as happened in Egypt and Yemen
in 2011. Such alliances can also involve groups outside the state territory,
governments or the military of allied countries, and foreign business compa-
nies or neighboring states, as, for example, in Syria.
For the study of behavior and motivations of the military and NSAGs in the
process of transformation after the uprisings of the “Arab Spring,” an analyti-
cal approach that focuses on society and social order instead of taking a state-
centered perspective will be useful. Emerging from social theory, which put
social action and the resulting formation of structures and institutions at the
center of analysis,72 a discourse among scholars developed around “compet-
ing orders.”73 According to this approach, “order” denotes a set of social rela-
tions, which are subject to different forms of domination over subsocieties,
territories, and resources in areas within the territory of a state, or extending
beyond state borders. For example, the order of the state may regulate certain
parts of a society, but in remote areas, local orders of communities or larger
entities regulate the societies in these areas. Sometimes there are enclaves,
for example, schemes run by multinational companies, on whose territory
particular regulations prevail and create a distinct order for those groups liv-
ing in this area. A particular order that uses “violence as regulation”74 occurs
in societies where armed groups, a warlord, or a mafia control a quarter of
Introduction 13
might provide a suitable model to look into the connections between the mili-
tary or NSAGs and other economic actors in the MENA region.
The topic of this book is traditional in the sense that it follows the course of
earlier elite-centered studies of political transition, examining the military
as one of the most powerful groups in society. However, different from this
literature, in this book the resource base of the military, its sections and fac-
tions, is neither taken as determining their social action, as in structuralist
theory, nor is it neglected, as in institutionalist approaches. This book studies
processes of transformation in the sense of deep socioeconomic and political
change, extending to the socioeconomic order and social redistribution.83 This
is distinct from “transition,” which has become the term for a phase in politi-
cal change from authoritarian to democratic rule, focuses on modifications
at the levels of state and civil society, and is mostly applied in a normative
way in democratization research. Transformation in the sense used in this
book may lead to changed power relations, however, not necessarily within
democracy, but also again within the framework of authoritarianism.
The authors of this book combine two theoretical approaches:
1. Political economy for the analysis of the resource base of social actors, the
related formal and informal structure of the political order, corresponding
behavior rationalities, and impact on the ruling bargain
2. Social theory, that is, considering social action and interaction as consti-
tuting structures and institutions while at the same time, actors are influ-
enced by internalized structures and symbolic guidelines. This approach
reveals how the military creates legitimacy as an institution, taking over a
role of protecting the nation not only in terms of defense against external
enemies but also proactively as an institution engaging in economic devel-
opment. Hence, institutions are considered as resulting from processes
of action. Social action may thus have the intended or unintended effect
of reconfirming or restructuring existing institutions or establishing new
ones. Examining the strategies the military and NSAGs use to legitimize
their actions through the official security discourse, or through practices
of redistribution among the poor and setting up welfare organizations,
may point to a restructured “security doctrine,”84 to a set of regulations for
access to assistance or other institutions.
In this sense, this book examines the practices and social relations of the
military, its subdivisions or components, and those of NSAGs. It investigates
Introduction 15
how they are shaping formal and informal institutions, such as constitutions
or procedures of acquiring access to resources in interaction with other social
groups and organizations, and in some cases, taking part in establishing
particular orders with their own structures of rule and redistribution. Where
this is the case, the chapters look into the means and interactions intercon-
necting different social orders. They address the legitimizing practices for
exerting rule over population groups, territories, and resources, practices to
maintain the established or emerging order and (local) rule economically,
and examine how this is connected with aims to change the ruling bargain.
This open approach with regard to identifying fields of action of the military
and NSAGs makes it possible to reflect the outcome, not just from a state-
centered, but also a societal, perspective.
The chapters of this book thus consider the military, its subdivisions or
factions, as state components and scrutinize their economic and development
activities in a historical perspective. They investigate the links and interac-
tions of the military with other state components and with other groups in
society and politics, and examine the ideologies or “security doctrines” set
up to safeguard a sociopolitical and economic order that benefits the military.
The authors examine the adjustments of the military to a changing social and
political environment following the uprisings of the “Arab Spring” and, even-
tually, the formation of other armed groups in this context. Where NSAGs
have emerged, the authors trace the origin and development of these groups,
carefully considering the resources they use, how they get access or control
over them, and to what extent they are involved in establishing a particular
order in the territories under their control.
Chapters 1 to 6 contain studies of the economic activities of the military in
Egypt, Pakistan, Iran, Jordan, Turkey, and Sudan. Chapter 7 shows how the
military and NSAGs compete for similar economic resources in the case of
Yemen, and chapters 8 and 9 focus on funding and economic engagement of
NSAGs in Libya and Syria.
Zeinab Abul-Magd unearths, with historical and political economy per-
spectives, how the Egyptian military became a powerful economic player
as an institution running its own productive organizations. She points to a
turning point in the early 1980s when pressure to liberalize the economy
created the opportunity for military officers to become managers of priva-
tized state companies and governors with privileged access to economic
resources. Accordingly, the uprisings of the “Arab Spring” in Egypt chal-
lenged not only the government but also the whole economic apparatus
established by the military. On this backdrop, Abul-Magd thoroughly traces
the behavior of the military in the aftermath of the “Arab Spring,” bringing
to light the concealed aspects of the rollback and renewed military rule in
Egypt.
16 Elke Grawert
Philippe Droz-Vincent points out that the military had been a weak compo-
nent of the security forces in Libya for decades. After uprisings and a Western
military intervention ousted the regime in 2011, a range of militias, legiti-
mized by the “revolutionary struggle,” assumed political and economic roles.
They are competing with rudimentary state forces over control over Libya’s
economic resources—oil, gas, airports, ports—and this struggle shapes the
(re)construction of state institutions in a way to preserve the militias’ privi-
leges. Militias established local rule and a “moral economy” derived from
previous patterns of partially autonomous orders in many parts of the coun-
try. Droz-Vincent thoroughly traces the multitude of militia funding sources.
Since 2014, in the context of a political stalemate that brought state building
to a halt, rival militias have been fighting each other in an escalating civil war.
Sherifa Zuhur describes the emergence of Syrian fighting groups after
the “Arab Spring” in terms of their ideological underpinnings, local sites
of control, local and foreign membership, economic activities, and regional
webs of funding. She thoroughly traces the connections between groups and
their divisions and factions. In her chapter, she argues that the Syrian conflict
is primarily ideologically driven, while increasingly, “markets of violence”
have evolved around armed groups’ robbery, smuggling, trafficking, occupa-
tion of oil and gas facilities, and economic activities. Zuhur shows that the
boundaries between Syrian military and nonstate armed groups are blurred,
not only due to the range of paramilitary groups the regime has created for its
self-protection but also due to the history of involvement of military officers
in illegal business. The “shifting landscape” of armed groups in Syria and
their diversified economic resources are signs indicating the perpetuation of
the conflict.
Notes
71. Ibid.
72. Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice; Giddens, Die Konstitution der Gesellschaft.
73. Neubert, “Competing Orders and the Limits of Local Forms of Socio-Political
Organisation,” 49–68.
74. Lock, “Gewalt als Regulation.”
75. Grawert, “Auf schmalem Grat: Good Governance zwischen Globalisierung
und Schattenglobalisierung,” 42–44.
76. Bellagamba and Klute, Beside the State: Emergent Powers in Contemporary
Africa; Hüsken, “Die neotribale Wettbewerbsordnung im Grenzgebiet von Ägypten
und Libyen,” 117–43.
77. Grawert and Andrä, Oil Investment and Conflict in Upper Nile State, South
Sudan.
78. Schetter and Glassner, “Neither Functioning nor Failing of the State! Seeing
Violence in Afghanistan from Local Perspectives,” 141–60.
79. Cf. among many others Schneckener, “Fragile Staatlichkeit und State-Build-
ing,” 98–120; Mair, “Intervention und ‘State Failure,’” 82–98.
80. Mielke, Schetter, and Wilde, Dimensions of Social Order, 4.
81. For South Sudan see Grawert and Andrä, Oil Investment and Conflict in Upper
Nile State, South Sudan, 85–95.
82. Ibid., 10–11.
83. Zinecker, “Einleitung,” 16; Polanyi, The Great Transformation.
84. In this book, “security doctrine” signifies the official discourse, statements,
and documents about threats and requirements for defense and protection from the
perspective of state bodies and armed forces.
Chapter 1
On a hot Ramadan day in the summer of 2014, the Egyptian lower and middle
classes woke up to dreadful news: their newly elected president significantly
reduced food and gas subsidies. Amid continuous power cuts, the govern-
ment also announced the raising of electricity bills. President Abdul Fattah
al-Sisi, former minister of defense who swept elections last summer, called
on the nation several times to adopt austerity measures in order to face the
ongoing economic crisis, escalated after the 2011 uprisings, and to reduce
the national budget deficit. He asked the patriotic citizens to donate to the
state in a fund that he had created and called “Long Live Egypt.” Meanwhile,
al-Sisi approved an increase of EGP 8.3 billion (about US $1.2 billion) in
the military’s budget, which totaled EGP 38 billion (US $5.45 billion) in
2014. Furthermore, military contractors have established a near monopoly
over public construction projects, and a gigantic military fuel company has
obtained vast tracts of land to build new lucrative gas stations. Charitably,
army soldiers occasionally distribute free boxes of food to impoverished citi-
zens who desperately fight over their shares of this food that comes from the
expansive military farms.1
In Egyptian postcolonial history, al-Sisi is the fourth officer to take off
his uniform and govern the country since 1952. Before him, Nasser, Sadat,
and Mubarak all formed authoritarian regimes where fellow officers enjoyed
superior political and economic privileges entrenched within the state appa-
ratus. This chapter argues that while Egypt has weathered many fundamen-
tal moments of political and economic transformation during the last few
decades, including a “revolution” in 2011, the country’s semiautonomous
military institution has managed to adapt to these changes and survive
them. At crucial moments of socialist, neoliberal, or revolutionary transi-
tion in Egypt, the military managed to maintain a hegemonic position within
23
24 Zeinab Abul-Magd
Within the global Cold War context, Third World armies at large believed
themselves to be vanguards of modernization and vehicles of progress in
their respective postcolonial or developing states. In the Latin American
and Turkish experiences, for instance, armies created military dictators
that perceived themselves as “guardians” of their nations and protectors
of national values and unity.3 During this period, many military regimes
adopted socialism. Nazih Ayubi explains that in the 1950s and 1960s,
global and Middle Eastern military institutions introduced themselves as
more organized, educated, technologically advanced, and able to modernize
their societies. Ayubi uses Gramsci’s concept of “revolution from above”
to describe the actions of many Arab militaries that appropriated politics in
the name of “development” and applied “radical socio-economic reforms.”4
He adds that militaries “tended to justify their intervention either by citing
nationalistic reasons (fighting colonialism or confronting a foreign threat);
the need for national unity above ethnic and tribal lines; the need for
order, discipline, and organization; or the need for prompt socioeconomic
reform.”5
By the end of the Cold War, many military regimes that had previously
adopted socialism came under pressure to enter a transformation process
toward a market economy, and many had to transition to civilian democra-
cies. Forced to adjust to substantial budget cuts due to neoliberal reform
schemes, armies in transforming states engaged in civilian production to
compensate for their financial and political losses. Frank Mora and Quintan
Wiktorowicz indicate that the failure of import-substituting industries in the
Soviet Union and the Third World and subsequent economic crises led former
socialist states to apply economic reforms. They assert that from the 1990s
onward, the priority of security matters declined on Third World states’ agen-
das and more urgent socioeconomic challenges replaced them. Armed forces
that faced severe budgetary cuts started to invest in self-sustaining economic
activities, and autocratic governments allowed such investments as a neces-
sary strategic step to maintain the loyalty of their officers and avoid mutinies.
The authors indicate,
In the aftermath of the Cold War . . . , the military’s participation in com-
mercial activities became part of the regime’s survival strategy to “purchase”
military support as it sought to either overcome a crisis or implement a series
of politically dangerous economic reforms. A number of these armies have
built up deeply entrenched commercial interests in key sectors of the economy
such as tourism, telecommunications, banking, and transportation, making them
influential economic actors.6
The Egyptian regime and military in the 1990s and 2000s functioned
within this rapidly changing global milieu.
26 Zeinab Abul-Magd
Most recently, Middle Eastern armies have had to respond to the sweep-
ing realities of the “Arab Spring.” They did this in different ways that led
to mixed outcomes, ranging from success to failure (as some of this book’s
chapters indicate). Within its regional context, the Egyptian military has so
far been the most triumphant in adapting to change during the last few years,
emerging from it with ever-greater gains. This chapter poses questions about
whether its victory will last.
On July 23, 1952, a group of young officers launched a coup that deposed
the monarch and kicked out the British colonizer. A few weeks later on
September 9, in response to the long-standing demands of the lower classes,
the new military regime issued the Land Reform Law, Law No. 178, which
resulted in the confiscation of thousands of acres from the landed aristocracy
and distribution of them to impoverished peasants. This was soon followed
by other measures regarding the industrial properties of national and foreign
capitalists in the country, gradually nationalizing many of them. In 1956,
Colonel Nasser became the country’s first military president through a public
referendum.
In his book The Philosophy of the Revolution, Nasser spoke about the duty
of the army to liberate the country and give her freedom and dignity, and its
responsibility to lead a “social revolution” for social justice. The leaders of
the Egyptian army’s top-down revolution came from middle- to lower-class
social backgrounds. From the late 1950s onward, officers and “military
technocrats”—officers who studied civilian subjects such as economics, law,
journalism, engineering, political science, and more—occupied most leading
government positions.7 In 1962, Nasser issued a new constitution stipulating
that socialism was now the official state ideology. The state came to own
all economic assets through nationalization and then built numerous public
enterprises, aiming for an ambitious plan of import substitution industrial-
ization. In 1964, Nasser issued a new socialist constitution that stated that
“the people control all means of production,” and army officers were the
self-appointed deputies of the people in controlling these means. Corruption
and mismanagement proliferated throughout the public sector, and Nasser’s
project ultimately failed to deliver the promise of economic prosperity. As
a result of having neglected their main task of defending national security,
Egypt suffered a defeat in the 1967 war.8
After humiliating military and economic failures, the army fell from
grace politically. Anwar Sadat—the second military president of the country
(1970–1981)—took radical steps to demilitarize the state. Sadat marginalized
Egypt’s Adaptable Officers 27
the officers in politics, reduced their economic influence, and had them focus
on war efforts to rebuild following the defeat. Every time an officer retired
from civil service, Sadat appointed a civilian. Cooper states that in the 1972
cabinet, “the military declined to a level below any other cabinet since 1952
and it continued to decline. Under Sadat, of 127 ministers, 7.5 percent were
officers and 7.5 percent were officer technocrats.”9 He also radically reduced
the number of military governors; in 1980, only five of twenty-six governors
were military.10 Moreover, the army’s economic control over the public sec-
tor declined with Sadat’s “open door” (infitah) policy, as he privatized parts
of the state-owned enterprises that socialist officers had managed. The army
now had to share influence with a rising community of crony capitalists.
Nonetheless, the military institution adjusted to these hard times and
quickly managed to return to a hegemonic place within the state under
Mubarak—the third military president of the country (1981–2011). After
the end of the last war between Egypt and Israel in 1973 and as part of the
1979 peace agreement, the Ministry of Defense created the National Service
Products Organization (NSPO), whose goal was to assimilate the energy of
the officers who were no longer needed to fight into economic development
efforts. Field Marshall Abd al-Halim Abu Ghazala, Mubarak’s first defense
minister and also a member of his ruling National Democratic Party, turned
NSPO into a business empire for civilian production and services. Abu
Ghazala strongly believed that the liberalizing policies of infitah should be
applied not only to the Egyptian economy but the military as well.11 Thus, he
decided to enter the domestic consumerist market and sell civilian products
for profit, while enjoying a superior status within this market. Throughout
the 1980s, NSPO and other military corps established factories of frozen
vegetables, mechanized slaughterhouses, chicken farms, fish farms, pasta fac-
tories, textile factories, bakeries of subsidized bread, and much more. They
constructed thousands of apartment buildings, bridges, roads, schools, and
hospitals for the government.12
Consequently, officers disappeared from movies and songs that celebrated
their war heroism, and they forged a new discourse about their contribution
to “economic development” in the postwar country. In order to justify their
penetration into nonmilitary economic realms, the army asserted that its civil-
ian products and services were mainly for its own self-sufficiency, national
price control, and the welfare of the lower classes. Abu Ghazal claimed to
help the government with its five-year economic plan by using illiterate,
low-class conscripts who were not “medically, culturally, technically, or
psychologically fit” for military service, pressing them into civilian service
instead—as free labor.13 Abu Ghazal started the army’s profitable activities
through humble projects building subsidized apartments for officers.14 But
later he ventured deeply into the field of construction, as the army assumed
28 Zeinab Abul-Magd
put in charge of many natural gas and oil companies. They also controlled
part of commercial transportation. The head of the Suez Canal was always
a former military chief of staff. The heads of the Red Sea ports were retired
generals, as was the manager of the maritime and land transport company.18
These appointments of ex-generals in the bureaucratic apparatus fostered the
power of the state over the market, while that very influence was supposed to
be reduced after applying economic liberalization policies. Thus, the remili-
tarization of the state worked against the economic liberalization policies that
Mubarak claimed to apply.
Military entrepreneurs expanded much further in the 2000s, taking advan-
tage of the rapidly accelerated pace of applying market reforms. This was
also part of Mubarak’s strategy to coup-proof his regime and his son’s suc-
cession scheme. Mubarak’s oldest son, Gamal, assumed the leadership of the
ruling National Democratic Party with conscious plans to succeed his aging
father in ruling the country, and the military’s consent was fundamentally
required. In 2004, Gamal installed a cabinet from his close clientelist circle
of neoliberal business tycoons, called the “government of businessmen.” The
cabinet hastened the pace of privatization, eliminating subsidies and opening
the market to international investments. Gamal’s clients collaborated with the
military and mostly submitted themselves to its superiority in the domestic
market. The army then started to invest in projects with a capitalist and global
orientation, such as in heavy industries, export-oriented agriculture, and the
construction of toll roads. Their new ventures enjoyed legal privileges in
the form of free land, tax breaks, and exemptions from paying customs and
duties. For instance, in 2004, AOI purchased Simaf, the railway car factory
located on the outskirts of Cairo from the state; in 2005, the Ministry of Mili-
tary Production opened a steel factory in Qaliubiyya; in 2010, NSPO started
building a cement factory in North Sinai; in 2011, the same organization fin-
ished building a complex for chemicals—including fertilizers—in Fayyum.
NSPO invested in Tushka export-oriented farms neighboring other local and
Arabian Gulf capitalists and created a Nile transportation company in Aswan
to ship Tushka’s farms’ commercial produce. Furthermore, military contrac-
tors developed many regular roads into toll highways, and military companies
collected their daily fees in a semimonopolistic manner that deprived most
public and private sector companies from engaging in such large projects and
distorted the theoretically liberalized market. When other private and public
companies were listed in the newly reopened stock market, military busi-
nesses were not required to do the same and none of them accepted civilian
shareholders—they were only the property of the military institution, and no
public information was made available on them.
As Tantawi was a member of the public sector privatization committee,19
military entrepreneurs formed lucrative ties with local and international
30 Zeinab Abul-Magd
The Kuwaiti group M. A. Kharafi and Sons . . . has joined the Egyptian military
in a number of ventures, including the Arab Company for Computer Manu-
facturing, Egypt’s only producer of computer hardware and laptops in which
Kharafi owns 71 percent of shares, and the AOI and a Ministry of Military
Production subsidiary each own 5 percent. The military and Kharafi also run
an operation called Maxalto, which relies on technology from the German firm
Schlumberger to manufacture smart cards.20
government far above market price. Although the government pays the bill,
the military propaganda in the media brags about how the army benevolently
builds projects for the people. Every year, the army holds an “Engineers
Authority Day” to celebrate its excellence, “youm tafawwuq al-hay’a al-
handasiyya.” On this day, Tantawi used to praise the organization’s contribu-
tion to economic development and the welfare of the lower classes, and he
also watched a documentary on the fundamental role of the organization in
designing a historic bridge to cross the Suez Canal in the 1973 war.
The field of building affordable public housing (or subsidized social hous-
ing) for middle- and low-income classes—masākin al-shabāb, for example—
was in the hands of the military engineers’ authority, in collaboration with
the Ministry of Housing and its “Organization of New Urban Communities.”
Retired army generals and colonels dominate high administrative positions
in the Ministry of Housing and its new urban communities organization.
Without public tenders, the Ministry of Housing and its urban communities
organization directly grant the authority contracts to build middle-to-low-
income suburbs on the outskirts of Cairo. Evidently, the work of the authority
is not the most efficient: the public complains about extensive delays and cor-
ruption, and private sector contractors accuse the authority of stealing their
designs.22 Such practices further distorted the theoretically liberalized market
of the Mubarak regime. Employees inside the ministry and the organization
have called for the firing of the corrupt retired officers there.23
In February 2011, after a long sit-in of eighteen days, the protesters in Tahrir
Square celebrated deposing Mubarak and aborting his son’s succession plan.
They carried banners calling for social justice against Mubarak’s destruc-
tive market transition. Led by Field Marshall Tantawi, the Supreme Council
of Armed Forces (SCAF) immediately offered its help to run the country
for a short transitional period of six months. Grateful for such support, the
Egyptian masses chanted, “the army and the people are one hand,” and state-
owned media played the 1960s national songs of Nasser’s era. SCAF stayed
in power for a full year and a half until they delivered power to an elected
president from the Muslim Brotherhood in June 2012. When the January
2011 uprisings targeted the neoliberal regime of Mubarak, his son, and their
crony capitalists, and the protesters demanded to replace the failed market
economy with policies emphasizing social justice, the officers again quickly
adapted to the new situation. After serving as Mubarak’s minister of defense
for two decades, Tantawi abandoned Mubarak’s regime of business tycoons,
and the retired officers who enjoyed market and political influence under the
32 Zeinab Abul-Magd
After his election, al-Sisi appointed more fellow generals to other key posi-
tions, such as the head of the subways and tunnels authority, and the maritime
navigation safety authority.
Furthermore, different military contractors embarked on large public con-
struction projects worth billions of Egyptian pounds without having to go
through competitive and fair public tenders. In order to ease the process, the
interim president issued decree No. 48 of 2014 to amend the public bids and
tenders law, allowing the government to conclude agreements with contrac-
tors through “direct allotment” in “urgent” matters for construction projects
of EGP 10 million or less. Thus, the government hired military contractors
to build or develop hospitals, bridges, roads, tunnels, thousands of social
houses, and the Cairo-Alexandria toll road and collect its fees. Between the
two months of September and November 2013 only, different army entities
obtained public construction contracts worth around EGP 7 billion—accord-
ing to official statements.40 After al-Sisi’s election last August, the head of the
military engineers’ authority stated that his corps was engaged in 850 public
construction projects in the fields of transportation, affordable housing, educa-
tion, health, sanitation services, government buildings, and land reclamation.
In addition, after his election, the military obtained ten thousand acres for land
reclamation and commercial farming in the western desert, and another forty
thousand square meters to build four gas stations in Upper Egypt.41
Such hegemony over this field generated discontent among the business
elite. During his presidential election campaign, al-Sisi sought the support of
the business tycoons still influential from Mubarak’s era. Many of them did
back him, especially those who owned media networks, but others showed
noticeable apathy. In April 2015, the head of the Federation of Egyptian
Industries complained about the outrageous privileges of military contractors
in developing and administering toll roads, and insisted that the Cairo-Alex-
andria highway contract in particular was illegal.42 The presidential elections
witnessed such low turnout that voting time had to be extended into a third
day, and one of the reasons for the crisis was that owners of private sector
factories refused to give their workers time off to go cast their votes.43 A few
weeks after his election, al-Sisi invited a large group of businessmen for a
Ramadan breakfast meal at the presidential palace where he encouraged them
to contribute to the country’s development, and promised to revise invest-
ment laws in order to stimulate more local and foreign capital.44 Meanwhile,
his new cabinet imposed a 10 percent tax on capital gains in the stock market
in an attempt to boost state revenue, which scared off investors and led to a
drastic drop in the country’s already suffering exchange. It later had to cancel
this tax under pressure from the business community.45 In addition, business-
men were intimidated into donating to the Long Live Egypt fund set up by
al-Sisi, and his supporters made a blacklist for those who would not.46
Egypt’s Adaptable Officers 37
On the labor side, the situation does not seem much better. Workers’
protests in various sectors in the country demanding a minimum wage
and other financial rights never ended.47 During his presidential campaign,
al-Sisi appealed to workers for electoral support, and succeeded in secur-
ing the endorsement of both the old labor unions previously affiliated with
Mubarak’s ruling National Democratic Party, as well as many of the newly
formed independent unions.48 After becoming president, al-Sisi’s cabinet
decided to introduce a minimum wage, but only for bureaucratic govern-
ment employees, and not for workers in the public or private sector or the
state-run holding companies.49 In an after-election statement, al-Sisi strongly
affirmed that he would not respond to labor protests and their “sectorial
demands” because the government does not have the resources. In reaction,
various labor unions rose objections, and there was broad controversy about
this statement.50 Meanwhile, al-Sisi issued a new law to increase military
pensions by 10 percent after they were already raised by 15 percent under
SCAF in 2011, and another 15 percent under Morsi in 2012. He also raised
the military budget from around EGP 31 billion to 39 billion in the fiscal year
of 2015.51
As for middle-class women, whom al-Sisi always addressed in his
speeches and repeatedly appealed to for support, they are having to face
financial difficulties in their own homes. Al-Sisi intensively targets women
with ultranationalistic rhetoric about their duties as wives and mothers for the
nation, and women across social classes and ages voted for him in presiden-
tial elections and danced in front of electoral committees to show him sup-
port.52 Immediately after elections, al-Sisi opted for austerity, as the cabinet
suddenly reduced food and gas subsidies in the middle of Ramadan in 2014 in
order to reduce the budget deficit. For subsidized bread in particular, special
government smart IDs were required to buy only a few loaves daily.53 The
government has also raised electricity and natural gas fees, which will mul-
tiply the figures on the bills that these middle-class women pay monthly in
their homes. Greater Cairo and all provinces in the north and south of Egypt
have been suffering from severe power outages for hours during the day, and
for some periods on a daily basis throughout the year before and after presi-
dential elections, but poorer areas and villages have to bear the brunt, with
even longer power cuts.54
Conclusion
Throughout the last six decades, the Egyptian military institution weathered
many waves of fundamental transformation in the country’s politics and
economy and maintained a hegemonic status within successive authoritarian
38 Zeinab Abul-Magd
Notes
bi-Maydan ʿAbd al-Munʿim Riyad . . . ” ONA, September 12, 2014; Prime Minister’s
Decision No. 1455 of 2014, al-Jarida al-Rasmiyya 37, September 11, 2014. See state
budget for FY 2014 to 2015 here: http://www.mof.gov.eg/Arabic/عناوين% 20 رئيسيه/PE/
Pages/budget14-15.aspx (accessed July 2014).
2. This term is inspired by Stacker’s Adaptable Autocrats: Regime Power in
Egypt and Syria.
3. Pion-Berlin, “Turkish Civil-Military Relations: A Latin American Comparison.”
4. Ibid., 259.
5. Ayubi, Over-Stating the Arab State: Politics and Society in the Middle East,
258.
6. Mora and Wiktorowicz, “Economic Reform and the Military: China, Cuba, and
Syria in Comparative Perspective,” 87–89.
7. Abdallah, al-Jaysh wa-l-Diymuqratiyya fi Misr, 35. For tables of names of
military officials and ministers see pp. 40–50.
8. See Abdel-Malek, “The Army and the Industrial Revolution”; Wheelock,
Nasser’s New Egypt: A Critical Analysis.
9. Cooper, “The Demilitarization of Egyptian Cabinet,” 208, 210.
10. Springborg, “al-Raʾiys wa-l-Mushiyr: al-ʿIlaqat al-Madaniyya al-ʿAskariyya fi
Misr al-Yawm,” 66.
11. Springborg, Mubarak’s Egypt: Fragmentation of the Political Order, 261.
12. See Al-Malaff al-Watha’iqilil-Mushir Muhammad ‘Abd a-Halim Abu Ghazala
(Cairo: Markaz al-Ahram lil-Tanzimwal-Microfilm, 1981–1989), Part 2 and 3.
13. Abdallah, al-Jaysh wa-l-Diymuqratiyya fi Misr, 96–99.
14. Al-Malaff al-Watha’iqi li-l-Mushir Muhammad ‘Abd a-Halim Abu Ghazala,
Part 1.
15. Abdallah, al-Jaysh wa-l-Diymuqratiyya fi Misr, 81–82; Al-Malaff
al-Watha’iqilil-Mushir Muhammad ‘Abd a-Halim Abu Ghazala, Part 1.
16. See for example: General Mazlum, al-Quwwat al-Musallaha wa-l-Tanmiya
al-Iqtisadiyya.
17. For an overview of their civilian produce and services, see the official websites
of NSPO and AOI: “Civilian Produce and Services,” http://www.nspo.com.eg; http://
www.aoi.com.eg/aoiarab/index.html (last modified July 2015).
18. See Abul-Magd, “The Egyptian Republic of Retired Generals”; Abul-Magd,
“Understanding SCAF.”
19. Majdi, “Daʿwa Tutalib bi-l-Tahqiq maʿ 50 Masʾuwlan baynahum Tantawi
wa-l-Janzuri wa-Musa fi Fasad al-Khaskhasa.”
20. See Marshall and Stacher, “Egypt’s Generals and Transnational Capital.”
21. Hisham, “Al-Ihsaʾ: Irtifaʿ Asʿar al-Asmant wa-Tarajuʿ Asʿar al-Hdid Khilal
Shahr Yunyu al-Mad.”
22. Ibrahim, “Al-Mujtamaʿat al-ʿUmraniyya Tatalaʿab fi Makittat al-Iskan
al-ʿAʾiliy.”
23. For example: Abd al-‘Azim, “Iʾtilaf al-Mujtamaʿat al-ʿUmraniyyaYutalib
bi-Iqalat al-Qiyadat al-ʿAskariyya min al-Hayʾa.”
24. For more details see Abul-Magd, “Time for a Civilian Handover.”
25. Surur, “Taqriyr Huquqiy: Shiraʾ Aswat wa-Bitaqat Dawwara wa-Qudah Yuwa-
jjihun al-Nakhibiyn fi Awwal Ayyam al-Marhala al-Thalitha.”
40 Zeinab Abul-Magd
26. Ali Hasan and Nadi, “Hurra Naziyha: Ansar Mursi fi Qina Yuwazziʿuwn Zayt
wa-Sukkar wa-Lahma ʿala al-Nakhibin”; “HurraNaziha: MursiYatasaddarIntihakat
al-Yawm al-Awwalbi 57% . . . ,” El-Badil, May 23, 2012.
27. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pzs7R3lUeUQ, accessed July 2015.
28. For a full translation of this constitution see http://www.egyptindependent.
com/news/egypt-s-draft-constitution-translated, accessed July 2015.
29. See Abul-Magd, “Chuck Hagel in Egypt’s Economic Chaos”; Abul-Magd,
“Egypt’s Politics of Hidden Business Empires: The Brotherhood versus the Army.”
30. Nawwar and Kamil, “Naʾib al-Nur Yaltaqiy Waziyr al-Intaj al-Harbiy li-Bahth
Tashghiyl al-Nasr li-l-Sayyarat”; Abd al-‘Ati, “Tafaʾul bi-Intiqal Sharikat bi-Qitaʿ
al-ʿAmal li-l-Intaj al-Harbiy wa-Tawaqquʿat bi-Najah al-Nasr li-l-Sayyarat.”
31. Hijazi, “Iftitah Waziyr al-Intaj al-Harbiy wa-l-Ittisalat wa-Muhafiz al-Qaliyu-
biyya Khutuwt Intaj Awwal Tablet Masri.”
32. ‘al-Nisr, “Bi-l-Suwar. Mall Tijariy Kabiyr li-Jihaz Khadamt al-Quwwat
al-Musallaha bi-Bilbeis.”
33. “Al-Shura Yuwafiq ‘ala Insha’ Kuliyyat Tibb Tabi‘a li-l-Quwwat al-Musal-
laha,” al-Dostor, June 27, 2013.
34. “Ra’is al-Markazi li-l-Muhasabat: Ma ‘Alaqat Qa‘at Afrah a-Quwwat
al-Musallaha bi-l-Amn al-Qawmi,” Sada El-Balad, November 4, 2012.
35. For more details see Abul-Magd, “Chuck Hagel in Egypt’s Economic Chaos”;
Abul-Magd, “Egypt’s Politics of Hidden Business Empires: The Brotherhood versus
the Army.”
36. See for example Salim, “al-Raʾiys Mursiwa-l-SisiYaftatihanMihwar al-Fariq
al-Shadhli . . . ”
37. ‘Ashur, “Mursi Yasil Istad al-Qahira li-l-Musharaka fi Muʾtamar al-Quwa
al-Islamiyya li-Nusrat Suriya.”
38. Ramadan, “Muhammad Hassan Yunashid Mursi an la Yaftah Bab Misr amam
Rafidat Iran”; Dziadosz, “Egypt Mob Yelled ‘Infidels’ at Shi‘ites Beaten to Death.”
39. Kamil and ‘Uthman, “Intifadat al-ʿUmmal Tutiyh bi-Hukuwmat al-Beblawi”;
‘Abbas, “Al-ʿUmmal Iktashafuw Anna al-Hadd al-Adna li-l-Ijuwr Wahm Siyasiy.”
40. Sulayman, “Al-Jaysh Yahsul ʿala ʿUqud Muqawalat Hukuwmiyya bi-Qiymat 7
Milyarat Junayh fi Shahr.”
41. Hasan, “Raʾis al-Hayʾa al-Handasiyya li-l-Ahram: 850 Mashruwʿan Tusharik
fiha al-Quwwat al-Musallaha li-Khidmat al-Shaʿb al-Masriy”; Abu Nur, “Mahlab
Yatafaqqad 10 Alaf Faddan bi-l-Farafira Tastaslihuhum al-Quwwat al-Musallaha.”
42. Sa’d Diyab, “Ittihad al-Sinaʿat: Isnad Istighlal al-Sahrawiy li-l-Jaysh Mukhalif
li-l-Qanuwn.”
43. Muhassab, “Talabat Rijal al-Aʿmal bi-Irsal al-ʿUmmal li-l-Taswiyt, Lamis
El-Hadidy.”
44. Salim, “Tafasil Ijtimaʿ al-Raʾiys maʿ Rijal al-Aʿmal.”
45. Yahiya, “Baʿd Ilghaʾ al-Dariyba ʿala al-Bursa wa-Iqrar al-Fuwl. Iradat Rijal
al-Aʿmal Muntasira bi-Awamir Hukuwmiyya.”
46. ‘Isam, “Qaʾima Sawdaʾ li-Rijal al-Aʿmal al-Mumtaniʿiyn ʿan al-Tabarruʿ
li-Sinduwq Tahya Misr.”
47. For instance, see the report compiled by the South Center for Rights on Labor
in Upper Egypt: Rabi‘, “‘Ummal Sa‘id Misr: Ihtijajat wa Ra’is Jadid.”
Egypt’s Adaptable Officers 41
Businessmen in Boots
Pakistan’s Entrepreneurial Military
Ayesha Siddiqa
43
44 Ayesha Siddiqa
The batai formula had recognized the tenants’ right of ownership over the
land. Accepting mustajari would give the army the right to eventually evict
these tenants. While for the army it was about perks and privileges and main-
taining their power, for the tenants it was a matter of survival and livelihood.
The Okara protesters chanted malki aur maut (ownership or death). The army
was equally afraid of the “blowback” effect—if it responded to pressure from
the tenants, others around the country would begin to challenge its control.
Therefore, the army has used various forms of direct and indirect coercion
to evict farmers. The army claims that their actions in this situation were
to improve efficiency and the profit-making capacity of the dairy farms. A
parliamentary committee reported inefficiencies at the military farms and
accused the officers managing the entity of misappropriation and using the
farm’s resources for soft bribes to senior military officers.2
The Okara stories in 2000 and 2014 are not random incidents. They indi-
cate the extent to which the military would go to protect its economic inter-
ests, which are tied to its political stakes. This is not only about the exercise of
power but also about protecting the military’s economic interests, perks, and
privileges that it accumulated in due course since the country’s independence
in 1947. Besides farms, Pakistan’s armed forces own a huge and multilayered
financial empire that operates in all segments of the economy.
Historically, the military acquired a sizeable portion of central government
expenditure (CGE) mainly due to its perceived threat vis-à-vis neighboring
India. The two South Asian neighbors have fought four conventional wars
and engaged in numerous border skirmishes against each other. The first war
fought soon after independence from the British in 1947 to 1948 ensured that
the government then allocated about 75 percent of the CGE for defense. Ever
since these early years, military expenditures have been rising as one of the
two key spending categories for the state—the other being debt repayment.
In the past few years, the Pakistani military has engaged in systematic
propaganda through its various clients in the media to dispel the concern that
it consumes a major part of the nation’s resources. In June 2014, the mili-
tary’s magazine, Hilal, dedicated an issue to argue about “The Reality of the
Defense Budget,” claiming that the military only consumed about 16 percent
of the CGE.3 Such assessments hide the fact that the defense budget does
not include certain major segments such as pensions, special projects that
are highly confidential, commercial ventures, and spending on the nuclear
weapons program.4
In fact, Pakistan’s military is involved in all three major economic sec-
tors—the manufacturing industry, the service industry, and agriculture. From
manufacturing cement and fertilizer to cereal, the presence of the armed
forces can be felt in the Pakistani economy and society. This is the reason
why military business attracts negative attention and thus an effort by the
Businessmen in Boots 45
armed forces to create an impression that the negative impact of its commer-
cial ventures is nothing but a myth.5
The term I use for military business is milbus. I consider this as military
capital distinctive from the defense budget, but comprised of expenditures
for the personal benefit of the military fraternity,6 especially the officer cadre,
“but is neither recorded nor is a part of the defense budget.”7 The military’s
sympathizers claim that it is private spending that poses no burden to the state
and its finances.8 They also claim that it contributes to the economy in terms
of essential infrastructural development and the welfare of military personnel.
Thus, these commercial ventures are not subject to the same accountability
measures as other expenditures of the state. In fact, the main purpose of this
capital is gratification of military personnel and their cronies. It is controlled
by the military under its implicit or explicit patronage. In most cases the
dividends are limited to the officer cadre rather than being evenly distributed
among the rank-and-file; the top echelons of the armed forces, the main ben-
eficiaries of milbus, justify the economic dividends as welfare provided to the
military for services rendered to the state.
This economic power feeds directly into the military’s political strength.
The fact that they do not have to depend on civilian leadership to provide
for the welfare of its personnel enhances the military’s sense of autonomy.
Furthermore, it increases the sense of power of the army generals who are
independent in defining which type of commercial ventures they want to
engage in. There is no economic activity that is closed to the armed forces.
It adds to the military’s sense of superiority versus the political class and
civilians in general, whom it considers as undependable and inferior. It
also increases the military’s inner confidence in its own survival, especially
where there is a trust deficit vis-à-vis the political leadership. As Peter Lock
wrote: “It is, for example, conceivable that the military elite anticipates a
profound crisis of the state and seeks its own productive resources aimed
at autonomy and institutional stability in the midst of the turmoil shatter-
ing the civil society. The adoption of such a strategy presupposes an elitist
self-image of the military.”9
This chapter attempts to answer the following questions: What is the nature
of the military’s economy in Pakistan? What does it mean for Pakistan’s poli-
tics? Is military business a burden on the economy and the state in general?
The chapter describes the military’s economic interests and the measures it
takes to secure these stakes, and traces their historical roots and chronological
evolution from the postindependence period up until the present day. It also
analyzes the cost that the Pakistani military has to pay today by keeping its
gigantic economic empire.
The chapter presents almost a decade of theoretical and empirical research.
It involved an extensive study of other states engaged in similar activities and
46 Ayesha Siddiqa
The Pakistani military’s business empire is very large and is spread out across
the economic spectrum. It operates in the formal, informal, and illegal seg-
ments of the economy. Operationally, it is multilayered:
Most medium and large enterprises are concentrated at the level of the
military’s business empire, as is shown in Figure 2.1.
Businessmen in Boots
• National Logistics Cell—the largest cargo transporter in the country but also
involved in public sector building projects such as roads and toll collection
• Frontier Works Organization—for major public works such as road and
dam construction
• Special Communication Organization—for establishing the telecommu-
nications network in Azad Jammu Kashmir and in the Northern Areas.13
During the 1990s, the organization was tasked with expanding telecom-
munication facilities in difficult terrain.
Businessmen in Boots 49
of their subsidiaries on which they are not liable to pay any property or land
transfer tax. The subsidiaries tend to make money on their housing schemes
through the sale of land to civilians who are liable to pay all of the taxes
that military personnel do not. Therefore, most senior officers, particularly
two star and above, have several properties—plots of land or houses. The
traditional principle of providing housing or land for building a house in the
cities had a condition that recipients had to assure that they did not have any
other urban property. The law was subsequently scrapped. Pakistan’s former
president and army chief, General Pervez Musharraf, for instance, owns about
eight expensive properties.20 Such land distribution or other perks denote a
huge and unaccounted for economic and sociopolitical cost that will be dis-
cussed later in the chapter.
Under the first two military presidents in the country, about three hundred
thousand acres of agricultural land was granted to military officers in Sindh.21
According to another report, approximately one million acres were given to
military personnel, most of which was given during Ayub’s regime.22 Under
General Khan, the military was given 10 percent of the approximately nine
million acres of land reclaimed due to the construction of the Kotri, Guddu,
and Ghulam Mohammad barrages in Sindh. The government also gave land
to some senior civil bureaucrats who were the military regime’s partners.
Such grants were reminiscent of the British colonial tradition for establish-
ing feudalism—land in return for allegiance to the colonial state. From the
military’s perspective, building a system in which the higher command was
seen as looking after personnel’s personal interests was essential, especially
in the backdrop of an attempted coup in the early 1950s popularly known
as the “Rawalpindi” conspiracy.23 General Khan extended favors to his son
Gohar, who served in the army at a junior level. Ayub junior later retired from
the military to start his business and industrial venture that used his father’s
political influence and that of the army.24
A second and even more significant move toward business ventures started
in 1954 when the first foundation, the Fauji Foundation (FF), was established.
It was set up under the Charitable Endowments Act of 1890. The startup
capital of Rs 18 million (then, approximately US $72 million)25 was inherited
from the Royal British military in 1947 as Pakistan’s share of the postwar
Services Reconstruction Fund that was set up by the British for the benefit of
war veterans.26 While India, also a recipient of such funds, opted to distrib-
ute it among military personnel, the Pakistani army decided to reinvest it in
establishing a few industrial units in the western wing of the country. This
was part of the larger perspective among senior generals that the army should
play a role as an agent of development. Since the country lacked a sizeable
private sector to enhance the country’s industrial growth, the state took upon
itself the task of establishing industries. The army spearheaded the process,
52 Ayesha Siddiqa
and the FF established numerous industrial units in areas in both western and
eastern wings of the country. In West Pakistan, it set up tobacco, sugar, tex-
tile, and cereal production units. In the eastern wing, investments were made
in electrical goods production, rice growing, and jute and flour mills.
Today, the FF is one of the largest business conglomerates in the country.
The Ministry of Defense controls it, as it was created as a triservice organiza-
tion, but the army has a dominant share. The managing board headed by the
secretary of defense currently manages and controls eighteen projects that
employ almost six thousand to seven thousand retired military personnel, and
providing employment for retired personnel was presented as one of the rea-
sons for setting up such businesses. The foundation also claims to provide for
the welfare of 8.5 million beneficiaries that comprise ex-servicemen and their
dependents.27 The list of its ventures is provided in the following Table 2.2.
In 1966, another organization was established that would later be con-
verted to a commercial venture. The Frontier Works Organization (FWO)
was initially set up to build the 805-kilometer-long Karakoram Highway
connecting Pakistan with China.28 After completion of the project, the army
decided to use the surplus engineers that had built the road to form the FWO.
Today, the company is the largest contractor for major public sector projects
and comprises serving army officers.
In the period between 1971 and 1977, milbus slowed down. This period
marked the rise of the first civilian, popularly elected president and prime
minister, Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto (president from 1971 to 1973 and prime minis-
ter from 1973 to 1977 under another civilian president), and also witnessed
the military’s low morale after losing its third war with India in 1971. In
the same year it lost the battle, the army established an independent welfare
foundation, the Army Welfare Trust (AWT), arguing that it was needed as
the army had been feeling the impact of a resource crunch since the 1965
war.29 The trust was opened with an initial endowment of Rs 0.7 million
under the Societies Registration Act of 1860 for generating funds for orphans,
widows of martyrs, disabled soldiers, and providing for the rehabilitation of
ex-servicemen. The trust grew to own about forty-one independent projects,
of which about thirteen are shareholding, while the rest are completely owned
by the army (see Table 2.3).
Constructed on a Turkish pattern of investing in pension funds, AWT has
estimated assets of Rs 50 billion, it is controlled by the army GHQ, and pro-
vides employment to about five thousand ex-servicemen. The adjutant-general
of the army serves as the managing director of the committee of administration.
Soon after, the idea was replicated by the Pakistani air force in opening its
Shaheen Foundation (SF) in 1977 under the Charitable Endowment Act of
1889, with seed money of Rs 5 million. The foundation employs about two
hundred retired personnel, the bulk of whom are technicians/airmen rather
than officers. Claiming a net worth of Rs 2 billion30 with an estimated annual
turnover rate of Rs 600 million,31 SF operates about fourteen independent
projects (see Table 2.4).
The foundation is controlled by the Pakistani air force through a committee
of administration headed by the chief of the air staff.
Nevertheless, the civilian government did not encourage a lot of activi-
ties. It did allow some infrastructure expansion, but mainly that which was
required as part of the state’s objectives. This is in reference to the Special
Communication Organization (SCO) established by the army in 1976 to
which have relatively greater transparency, the smaller ventures are above
board. They are also less visible because they involve small businesses such
as bakeries, cinemas, gas stations, commercial plazas/markets, and the sale of
contracts for dredging and fishing in inland lakes.
The military’s institutional expansion was equally noticeable during this
period. In 1977, the GHQ decided to develop its own school systems, ini-
tially started for children of military families and then opened up for civilians
who paid higher fees than the military.34 The more significant addition was
in the form of the NLC, a company used for shipping, road construction,
and toll collection. Established in 1978, the NLC is the largest cargo com-
pany that has pushed out other private sector firms from this business. It has
also negatively affected Pakistan Railways, as they continue to suffer from
a shortage of business diverted to the NLC. The company also constructs
roads, bridges, and wheat storage facilities. Legally, under the control of the
Ministry of Planning and Development, its administrative control falls under
the army.35
In 1982, the Pakistani navy decided to avail itself of the opportunity and
set up its business empire. Hence, the Bahria Foundation (BF) was estab-
lished under the Charitable Endowment Act of 1890 using pension funds
worth Rs 3 million as seed money. It currently runs nineteen projects listed
in the following table. Like the other two foundations, the naval headquarters
controls Bahria.
The existing and larger foundations like the FF and AWT also received
an opportunity to expand into significant business areas such as fertilizer
production, which is a lucrative business in Pakistan’s agrarian economy.
Economist and former head of the State Bank of Pakistan, Ishrat Hussain,
claimed that the military fertilizer companies almost have a monopoly in this
field.36 The FF also expanded in other strategic sectors like oil and gas. It set
up a subsidiary, the Mari Gas Company Limited, where the FF was the larg-
est stakeholder.
The army’s AWT decided to expand into several agro-based industries. In
1984, the foundation opened its sugar mill in Badin, Sindh; and rice, ginning,
and oil mills, a fish farm, and a bicycle manufacturing plant in Lahore; and
a hosiery factory in Rawalpindi. The investment capital was obtained from
government-run banks.37 As most ventures proved unprofitable, these were
eventually closed.38 An incursion was made into the service industry: the SF
established its advertising agency in 1977, a knitwear factory in 1981, and an
airport service company in 1982. Later, a company called Shaheen Aerotrad-
ers was opened in 1988 to supply hardware and other required stores to the
Pakistani air force.39 The basic concept was to feed demand generated by the
air force by setting up relevant businesses. Following a similar pattern, the BF
set up a company in 1982 to supply stationery and office supplies to the navy
56 Ayesha Siddiqa
and other government offices. The BF also entered the business of urban real
estate development in 1986.
Watching the pattern, even Pakistani Rangers—a paramilitary force for
border security—decided to use its authority for money making. In 1977 it
began selling fishing rights in lakes located in Sindh province. This was tanta-
mount to the usurpation of the rights of indigenous fishermen, but the border
force could not be desisted, as protests and political movements were harshly
curbed.40 In any case, such rights were appropriated under the excuse of pro-
viding for security; securing national interests has always been the recipe for
justifying business and industrial ventures.
The death of General Zia-ul-Haq in a mysterious military aircraft crash in
1988 brought a change in the country’s political scene. General elections were
held that again brought to power the Pakistan People’s Party of former Prime
Minister Bhutto, now headed by his daughter, Benazir Bhutto. However,
her government was allowed to function for only two years. The military’s
intelligence agency allegedly conspired to remove her, a plan executed with
funds acquired from a business tycoon.41 The army also used money to cre-
ate an anti-Bhutto coalition, whose leader, Mian Nawaz Sharif, became the
next prime minister in 1991. He too was removed on corruption charges and
replaced with Benazir Bhutto yet again in 1993. Sharif, however, returned to
power in 1997 and was removed again in 1999, this time through a military
coup in October of that year. The three earlier removals were done using
Article 58 (2)(b) of the 1973 Constitution, which empowered the president
to remove a parliament and prime minister. This also meant that the political
government remained weak and conscious of its vulnerability.
For milbus, this meant that, unlike in the 1970s, civilian rule did not scru-
tinize the economic advancements of the armed forces. In fact, as the former
Finance and later Foreign Minister Sir Taj Aziz stated, business opportuni-
ties to the military were then viewed as sweeteners given to divert attention
Businessmen in Boots 57
officers’ and soldiers’ pension funds, and the then finance minister claimed
that the chief was personally interested in the project.48 The bank grew into
a major private sector bank until it turned less profitable after 2010 to 2011.
Since these ventures are closed to public scrutiny, there is little information
regarding reduced bank profitability. However, some people in the banking
sector and former military personnel the author discussed the matter with
thought that perhaps the bank went down because the new army management
that took over in 2008 did not consider it such a high priority. It is worth not-
ing that for top generals, the formal business empire signifies their political
power and is an expression of their autonomy vis-à-vis civilians. However,
rooted in British colonial tradition, they still do not consider military busi-
ness ventures as their primary function. Hence, a venture can get attention
for some years and then lose significance later. The AWT also invested
in expanding its industrial infrastructure, including its cement production
capacity. The investment put a huge burden on AWT, for which it asked the
government for a financial bailout it received later after the military takeover
in 1999.
The Askari Bank provided financial support to other military foundations
and businesses outside the army. The SF, the air force’s insurance venture,
received such support, and it is a case of international partnership between
SF and Hollard Insurance Ltd. of South Africa, which had a 30 percent share
in the business.49 But during this period, Shaheen entered totally uncharted
territory, especially with the media. It opened a radio channel and a pay TV
company in the late 1980s. There were rumors of SF’s partnership with Prime
Minister Benazir Bhutto’s husband, Asif Zardari.50 The project was shut
down in the mid-1990s when it began to bleed financially. However, this was
also the first instance where the military began to penetrate the media, a role
that was expanded during the 2000s and beyond. The BF, on the other hand,
invested in fishing and dredging, and setting up housing projects in partner-
ship with civilian entrepreneurs.51 All of the four major foundations also
entered a more typical field for them, the field of private security. This was
an area of activity where they had little competition. A retired army officer
runs a major private security company.52
In October 1999, the military was back in power when the army chief Gen-
eral Pervez Musharraf overthrew the civilian, elected government of Nawaz
Sharif. Sharif and his family were shipped to Saudi Arabia under a “pardon”
deal in which the former prime minister agreed not to return to the country
Businessmen in Boots 59
for about ten years.53 Later, Musharraf became president and set about bring-
ing back democracy under the close control of the military by often replacing
prime ministers but keeping the same parliament; Pakistan saw four prime
ministers between 2002 and 2007. Moreover, Musharraf perpetuated a public
narrative about the military as the most powerful and efficient organization
in the country and sustained this narrative through structural arrangements
that ensured the primacy of the armed forces. For instance, when Musharraf’s
regime promised an end to corruption and that he wanted to create a better
system of accountability, it created anticorruption mechanisms that exempted
the military and the judiciary from public scrutiny. The new accountability
law introduced in 1999 was used selectively to gain greater power vis-à-vis
the political stakeholders.54 The military’s economic activities and the corrup-
tion of its generals went untouched during Musharraf’s years.
Musharraf had to leave power in 2008, and civilians followed him, but this
barely affected the superior status of the military in politics and the economy.
Musharraf left when friction developed between him and the Chief Justice
of the Supreme Court, Iftikhar Mohammad Chaudhry, and a subsequent
lawyers’ movement that was built around the latter against the former finally
resulted in pushing him out of all positions of authority in 2008. The elections
held that year saw Benazir Bhutto’s party return to power after her assassi-
nation in a terrorist attack in December 2007. Later in 2013, Nawaz Sharif
returned to power after securing a majority in elections.
Although this was the first time that a transfer of power from one civilian
government to another took place, it did not mean a reduction in the mili-
tary’s hegemony. Since 2013, the army managed a relationship that analysts
consider as a “soft coup,” through which it has maneuvered weak govern-
ments and created a power-sharing arrangement with them—deeply affecting
the political class and its control over society.55 Media was systematically
controlled and manipulated in the process, as military propaganda continued
fostering the public narrative and perceptions about the army as the most
powerful and efficient organization in the country. Such narratives not only
worked to help the armed forces create partnerships across the ideological
divides but also to strengthen the military’s political and economic control.
The Pakistani military has established itself as the only viable political arbi-
ter, and neither parties of the religious right nor the left of center expressed
reservations about its economic ventures.
This supporting and friendly propaganda narrative helped block any
resistance to the expansion of the economic empire from the last coup of
1999 onward. Therefore, it was unimaginable to see the implementation of
the aforementioned idea of the sacked civilian government to rationalize
the institutional structure of milbus. In fact, the military government pro-
vided a financial bailout to the AWT in 2001.56 The Musharraf regime also
60 Ayesha Siddiqa
in the death of about eight peasants. The poor tenants were brutalized. The
issue temporarily subsided due to the weakening of the Musharraf regime in
2007 to 2008, but this did not change the army’s mind, which continued to
put pressure on the tenants. It did not even concern itself with the opinion of
the Provincial Board of Revenue, a department responsible for all land trans-
actions, stating that the military is in illegal possession of the Okara farm-
land.61 In June 2004, the army increased the rent to such a significant extent
that the peasants did not agree to pay, which led to clashes. However, no one
in the country, especially among the political class, seems to have the power
or the will to reclaim the land. Even the Pakistani media, which many boast as
one of the most independent segments of civil society, did not bother to report
the recent clashes—perhaps out of fear. In 2001, the army threatened a BBC
journalist reporting the Okara incident with dire consequences. The military
also gave land to its subsidiaries. The AWT, FF, and BF run agricultural and
dairy farms. The former are used to supply sugarcane to sugar mills owned
and operated by the FF.62
Land acquisition and distribution also tends to encourage corruption, as
was evident in a particular case in 2011 to 2012. A scam was unearthed in
which the Defense Housing Authority was involved in a scandal estimated
to cause a loss of Rs 62 billion (US $682 million).63 The case was initially
taken up by the National Accountability Bureau, the primary anticorruption
organization in Pakistan, but it was later dropped under pressure from the
then army chief, Ashfaq Pervez Kiyani, and other generals.64 I was serving
in the Bureau at the time and closely observed the military’s manipulation
of people and facts. This was a rare occasion that a scandal of this sort was
exposed, yet without any follow-up as far as accountability or arresting the
culprits is concerned.
During the last couple of decades, all military foundations increased their
involvement in the educational sector. They opened more schools, colleges,
and even universities. In fact, the AWT set up an independent Askari Educa-
tion Board to introduce its own examination system. Furthermore, there was
a trend to appoint officers as heads of major public sector universities.65 This
emphasized their urge to become independent of civilian systems of gover-
nance and a confidence of their own organizational superiority.
Talk to any military officer about their business ventures and in most
instances they will deny that the military is involved in business. Even if
they do, the response is mostly that there is no cost to the government and
that such activities are carried out through resources of the armed forces.66
62 Ayesha Siddiqa
Given the military’s primary role in politics, Pakistan’s milbus has often
been criticized but never debated seriously. Milbus is considered a part of
military’s interest and an issue that civilians should not probe into. Part of
the problem is the military’s overall lack of accountability and the overall
political instability in the country. No political dispensation is ever allowed
to strengthen itself to a point where it begins to question the military’s
economic and political power. The British colonial and postcolonial legacy
and their contributions to national development were cited as explanations.
However, the initial growth of the military business complex was a result of
the political clout of the armed forces. The more powerful the military grew,
the more lavish it became in expanding into all segments of the economy—
from formal to informal, and in industry and agriculture. Consequently,
milbus grew large enough to become an incentive for generals to remain
powerful.
But politicians are not the only ones who failed to question this business
empire. The private sector is equally lax in challenging the military’s entry
into business. This is because private entrepreneurs are a product of and have
grown used to a semiauthoritarian political system that is based on a patron-
age network. The private sector and military are both beneficiaries of this
crony capitalism. Economic progress is not achieved through the concentra-
tion of wealth and opportunities in the hands of a few. Hence, crony capital-
ism is one of the ramifications of milbus.
Unlike other countries where militaries engage in business, such as Indo-
nesia and China, military business is not recognized by Pakistan’s armed
forces as one of its primary roles. It is categorized as part of the cost of
security, since the milbus funds are dedicated to the welfare of personnel.
Many military officers that I interviewed during the process of writing
about these activities described milbus as benign. No one talks about its
cost. However, these perks and privileges are indirect subsidies that tend to
be expensive. Also, many of the ventures do not pay taxes to the govern-
ment despite the claim that these businesses operate in the private sector.
In terms of land grants in towns and cities, military officers do not pay any
property tax or transfer fees. This means that they earn money through
selling the allotted land at a much higher price without contributing to the
public treasury.
Moreover, an analysis of some of the financial data available on military
subsidiaries indicates that these ventures are not necessarily cost-effective.67
A glance at some of the available balance sheets of some military companies
that are registered with the stock exchange indicates that their operations are
not necessarily efficient.68 In addition, as mentioned earlier, larger military
subsidiaries like AWT sought financial bailouts on several occasions. Poor
management led to the closing down of Shaheen Airlines of the Pakistani
Businessmen in Boots 63
air force that was eventually liquidated in the mid-2000s. Financial experts
whom I talked to reported that Askari Bank is facing problems as well. The
parliamentary committee investigating Okara farms had detected grave inef-
ficiencies and graft. One of the reasons for inefficiency relates to the higher
management comprised of nonexperts and nonbusiness people. The manage-
ment of all major subsidiaries and their companies consists of serving and
retired military officers. Although officers claimed that they could manage
a business venture as well as any qualified or experienced entrepreneur,
the state of their operations does not reflect reality.69 Despite the lackluster
performance, military generals refuse to rationalize milbus, which in itself
is indicative of the power politics dimension. Numerous audit reports of the
Auditor General of Pakistan have highlighted the illegal transfer of resources
from government to military business.70
The financial cost is one aspect. The more significant cost is organizational
and political. The former pertains to the impact of milbus on military profes-
sionalism. Although there is no proven linear linkage between the two, the
entire system of military business stands on graft and nepotism. There is no
specified system of merit to select officers for postretirement jobs in one of
the military-owned companies. It largely depends on personal links within
the higher command. The fear of offending higher officers during service
means it would have an impact on the postretirement package of perks and
privileges. There are some basic perks that every officer gets starting from
the rank of a major. About twenty years of service earns an officer a plot of
land and an urban dwelling. Anything additional, which includes postretire-
ment reemployment, is a favor by higher command. Some senior officers use
organizational clout to build fortunes, as was the case with one retired chief
of intelligence that used the military’s influence for beefing up his transport
business’s potential. The transport company was above board and obtained
preferential treatment in the allocation of route permits.71 Moreover, the com-
pany and its management often flouted rules and regulations.72 Any politi-
cal activity that disturbed its business was reportedly curbed by the police,
despite the company being registered as a private entity.73 The military as a
group has visibly graduated to become a class, and its serving and retired
members are benefiting from the organization’s immense power vis-à-vis
other domestic players.
The more serious cost is sociopolitical. As mentioned earlier, the military
economy gives the officer cadre greater confidence vis-à-vis civilians. It may
not be the initial cause for the military’s intrusion into politics, but it is cer-
tainly a reason that the generals like to maintain their influence. Furthermore,
by undertaking various economic activities, the military increases its social
presence and is not limited just to the cantonments. The military’s educa-
tional institutions, manufacturing units, real estate projects, and many other
64 Ayesha Siddiqa
ventures are a constant reminder of the armed forces being strong and central
to the political and public sphere.
A less talked-about notion is the social imbalance this creates. For instance,
the system of land grants tends to strengthen the clout of agricultural land-
owners in general, which are a reminder of feudalism in the country. This
concept refers to the historic system of patronage built around land owner-
ship. The large landowners are politically and socially influential and have a
network of clients that depend on them in return for subservience. The issue
here is not just of the large farm size alone, but these sizes ought to be viewed
in the context of Pakistan’s historical sociopolitical power structure and the
distribution of state resources and justice. The landed aristocracy was one of
the elite groups at the time of the country’s independence in 1947. Later on,
during the 1960s and the 1970s, land reforms were half-heartedly introduced
in a way that did not have the desired effect in changing the sociopolitical
power structure.
The distribution of land as a perk to military personnel resembles the for-
mer feudal structure, which has survived as a cultural value linked with land
as capital. However, military personnel tend to sell their land to the highest
bidder. In South Punjab and Sindh, which are known for large land holdings
but with a smaller share in the military’s human resources, armed forces
personnel who were allocated land in these areas often cash in their property
and move back to their home base. This is certainly the case with officials
who find it difficult to adopt agriculture as a profession due to limited access
to water resources and the inability to profit from small parcels. While large
landowners and senior officers use their influence that guarantees them a bet-
ter share of water for their land, the officials enjoy little clout in managing
a similar situation. As a result, they sell the land to large local landowners.
Furthermore, the military and the landowners tend to strengthen each other:
they forcibly repress any protests or action by the Water Irrigation Depart-
ment of the provincial government.74 Those who lease the land are local
political bigwigs or significant landowners who personally benefit from their
relationship with the military.75
Conclusion
with no burden on the state, the government’s auditing system and standards
do not apply to these business operations, many of which depend on public
sector resources. The lack of accountability of such activities has resulted in
the expansion of the military business empire, which has also grown due to
the interservices rivalry in the armed forces. Besides the first welfare founda-
tion created in the early 1950s and controlled by the Ministry of Defense,
every service established its own independent organization. These welfare
foundations provide the legal umbrella for entrepreneurial ventures, espe-
cially the large ones. Currently, Pakistan’s military is involved in the heavy
manufacturing of commodities such as fertilizer, cement, and cereal, as
well as in the service industry in areas such as education, housing develop-
ment, and banking. There are over one hundred projects controlled by these
foundations.
But these companies present just one segment of the private financial
empire. There are other facets as well, such as small and medium business
ventures carried out directly by the armed forces. The Pakistani military’s
business model is actually a crossbreed between the Turkish and the Chinese
model, linking the Turkish way of military investment in pension funds with
the Chinese way of military enterprises using active-duty military personnel
in business. The second method of economic predation is through providing
privileges to serving and retired personnel that can be traded for financial
resources. The system of land distribution is a case in point, as military
personnel can obtain benefits by selling the property obtained at very low
rates at very high prices. At least this is a visible perk. The help provided
to retired officers for the growth of their personal ventures cannot even be
estimated.
The military’s economic empire, in fact, represents its institutional hege-
mony over political realms. The officers justify their economic activities by
claiming that they are part of the larger cost of providing national security.
The political stakeholders have accepted this cost because of the overbearing
burden of the military’s role in providing security against India, but also as
a possible sweetener to win the goodwill of generals so they do not destabi-
lize governments. Nonetheless, government after government was sacked,
directly or indirectly, to maintain the military’s position as the primary power
player. Intriguingly, the political class has not learned any lessons. This is
because the military economy is part of the larger system of patronage preva-
lent in Pakistan’s politics. Milbus represents crony capitalism that is used
by major political stakeholders to create and strengthen their independent
patronage networks. This makes military business part of the predatory elite
economy. It has sustained the sociopolitical power imbalance within the state
and society. It also means that political governments will never strengthen
unless they develop a consensus to dismantle the military’s business empire.
66 Ayesha Siddiqa
Notes
In 2001, while Turkey was in its most severe economic crisis, the Conglom-
erate of the Turkish Military, the Turkish Armed Forces Assistance (and
Pension) Fund—OYAK, announced its annual report to the public and under-
lined its tremendous growth and profits for the year. The general manager of
OYAK, Coşkun Ulusoy, a civilian, explained this “miracle success story”
with the following militaristic words: “As a matter of fact, the business life
is a war. To the extent that military principles that have been tested by blood
for thousands of years are implemented, the possibility of making a mistake
is zero.”1 Many daily newspapers’ headlines praised OYAK.2 The fact that
the military owns one of the largest holding companies has become normal
as much as the other faces of militarism in this country.
The Turkish military has long operated in an expansive area where it
performs both the primary roles of all modern militaries to provide external
security and to fulfill additional political, economic, cultural, and ideologi-
cal roles. Therefore, Turkey has long been a case where the military enjoys
relatively autonomous power through its political, legal, administrative, and
economic power sources. The Justice and Development Party (Adalet ve
Kalkınma Partisi, AKP) period (from 2002 onward) witnessed important
civilianization efforts, albeit problematic in their capacity to relate themselves
to a democratization process. Yet the power of the Turkish military within the
economic sphere has not been problematized much during this process.
The capitalist-militarist structure in Turkey, in other words the Turk-
ish military-industrial complex, stands on three pillars. The first pillar is
the “holding company” of the Turkish military, the Turkish Armed Forces
Assistance (and Pension) Fund, or OYAK (the Turkish acronym of Ordu
Yardımlaşma Kurumu), which affirms the military’s presence as an economic
actor. The second pillar is military spending, which reaches extremely high
69
70 İsmet Akça
levels and is controlled almost absolutely by the military. The third pillar
is the military industry, where fast-paced development is encouraged in
the post-1980 period after the military intervention of September 12, 1980,
and the presence of the military through another institutional actor, namely
TSKGV (the Turkish acronym of Türk Silahlı Kuvvetlerini Güçlendirme
Vakfı—Foundation for Strengthening Turkish Armed Forces), which is still
very dominant in the sector.3
This chapter focuses solely on the first pillar and analyzes the Turkish
military’s economic role through OYAK within the framework of the social,
economic, and political dynamics of Turkish capitalism. By doing this, it also
analyzes the economic and political roles of the Turkish military in a relational
way, since the Turkish military’s political practices have been very influential in
regulating and governing capitalist development and class relations in Turkey.
Legal-Administrative Structure
and Activities of OYAK
Turkey represents one of the earliest and no doubt the most developed
examples of the military becoming a direct actor in the economic sphere.
The military’s entrance into the economy started as early as 1961 through
the establishment of OYAK just after the 1960 military coup and under the
military regime. OYAK was founded by a special law (no. 205)4 on Janu-
ary 3, 1961, which defines the legal status, the administrative structure, the
members, the financial sources, the activities of social security and social
assistance, the range of economic investments, and the legal exemptions of
OYAK. The main legal and administrative characteristics of OYAK can be
summarized as follows. Firstly, it has a legal status that allows it to benefit
from the privileges of both private (to be able to engage in economic activi-
ties) and public law (unseizability of its goods, exemption from taxes, etc.).
Secondly, even though there are both civilians and army officers in the deci-
sion-making organs such as the General Assembly and the Board of Directors,
the military members, either retired or on active duty, have always dominated
these decision-making organs. As for the affiliated companies, civilian pro-
fessionals mainly run them. Thirdly, the membership of military officers is
compulsory, and the members of OYAK, which now exceed 280,000, are
mainly commissioned and noncommissioned officers. The members enjoy
an additional retirement benefit and cheap credit. Fourthly, OYAK runs three
types of activities: it is at the same time an institution of compulsory savings,
an additional institution of social security, and a “holding company.”5
What makes OYAK sui generis is no doubt its profit-oriented investments
as a holding company. In that sense, OYAK functions as a collective capital
The Conglomerate of the Turkish Military (OYAK) 71
been under the rate of inflation every year without exception.10 On the other
hand, the transfer of bankrupt companies to public economic enterprises,
or making them shareholders in these bankrupt companies, establishing
partnerships with public enterprises in order to secure public procurement
contracts, the rescue of OYAK’s bank during the big economic crisis in
2001, and the sale of a public bank to OYAK for a very ridiculous amount
can be cited among the mechanisms for converting political power into
economic profit.11
Yet the most decisive factor behind OYAK’s economic development has
been the fact that OYAK’s investments followed hegemonic capital accumu-
lation strategies. OYAK enjoyed all of the advantages of being a part of the
hegemonic fraction of the Turkish capitalist class. This hegemonic fraction
consists of Istanbul-based large holding companies that run their investment
activities in all sectors of the capitalist economy, from finance and industry
to trade and services, and that have established close relations with the state.
were the State Planning Organization and the 1961 Constitution, which para-
doxically included both democratic rights and the further militarization of the
state through the establishment of the National Security Council. The military
anticipated that the Social/National Security State form would be effective
in solving the social and political struggles. Yet the Turkish bourgeoisie was
not willing to accept two pillars of this hegemonic project, namely social jus-
tice–social state and political rights and freedoms, since it was unwilling to
sacrifice its short-term economic-corporate interests in the name of its long-
term political-hegemonic interests.12
The coalition of social forces behind the coup of May 27, 1960, was also
reflected in the administrative structure of OYAK. To use the words of Taha
Parla, “It is a legal-institutional and decision-making structure that brings into
an organic whole (1) the armed forces, (2) the upper civilian bureaucracy,
(3) the peak organizations of big business, commanding/commanded by, we
may add, a collective capital consisting of army capital, state capital, and
private capital—both national and transnational.”13 Members of the military,
bureaucracy, intelligentsia, and the bourgeoisie supported OYAK’s establish-
ment for different reasons and joined its administrative commissions within
the first years of its founding. The military’s motive was to ameliorate their
socioeconomic conditions that had deteriorated during the 1950s in order to
be “able to live a life appropriate to their social status” and to constitute “a
big company of national dimensions.”14 The bureaucracy of economy and the
intelligentsia of the period praised OYAK as a remedy to the problem of the
lack of capital, and later on as “the third sector” besides the private and pub-
lic. The idea that OYAK could become a transitional model for a collectivist-
statist economy was disturbing to the big businessmen of the period who
had in mind a different kind of partnership with the military through OYAK.
They would have preferred to use OYAK’s financial sources for their own
investments. However, future developments and the form OYAK took would
erase this fear in a short time. To the extent that OYAK soon showed itself
to be a holding-like institution within the parameters of capitalist regimes of
accumulation and started to share the same structural interests with the big
capitalist groups, it became obvious that OYAK would not challenge the
power strategy of the bourgeoisie in the medium and long term, but rather
that it was a solid form of alliance.15
OYAK’s first leap in economic growth and remarkable increase in its total
net assets corresponds to the period between 1961 and 197816 in which a
The Conglomerate of the Turkish Military (OYAK) 75
This does not mean that it was merely the economic interests of the mili-
tary that pushed it to intervene. It was rather the political class dynamics of
Turkish capitalism that were central for an understanding of the military’s
intervention. For the politicization of the workers, university students, intel-
ligentsia, teachers, and others, the rise of radical trade unionism and left-wing
politics posed a threat to the capitalist order and a challenge to the bourgeoisie
and its political and bureaucratic representatives during the 1960s. In Politi-
cal Order in Changing Societies, S. P. Huntington explains and legitimizes
the military interventions of the period as the result of the rising politicization
of diverse social groups, which, in the case of inadequate institutionalization,
result in “mass praetorianism” overloaded government, ungovernability, and
political instability. Then, the military interventions are praised as the factor
reestablishing the political order.27 The perceptions of the then governmental
party (AP) and of the different interventionist fractions within the military
were almost the same as this Huntingtonian conservative political reasoning.
Even though the governmental party defended “[the restructuring of] the state
in an authoritarian way” under the civilian parliamentary regime, different
interventionist currents within the military were arguing that the governmen-
tal party itself was unable to govern the social and political dynamics.28 At
the end of a process, an interim regime under the guidance of the military
restructured the state in a more authoritarian way through constitutional
changes and through the repression of the social and political movement of
the working class.29 If the coup in 1960 was an attempt to govern the ISI-
based capitalist development through a social/national security state form,
the military intervention on March 12, 1971, corresponded to the transition
to govern the class dynamics of Turkish capitalism through a “bureaucratic-
authoritarian state form.”30
The 1970s were marked by an organic crisis that itself combined crises of
capital accumulation and hegemony that had been gradually deepening from
the second half of the 1970s onward. The worldwide accumulation crisis of
capitalism was manifested in Turkey as the crisis of ISI policies. The accu-
mulation crisis was organically related to declining profit rates, and their
symptomatic manifestation was the lack of foreign currency.31 After 1977, all
fractions of the bourgeoisie agreed to contextualize the crisis in terms of class
struggle, specifically by complaining about high wage levels, trade union
rights, collective bargaining, and the other rights of the working class.32 The
working-class organizations responded by radicalizing their struggle in order
to resist such attacks. In short, the second half of the 1970s was “a period of
protracted and heightened class struggle.”33
The full dimension of the crisis of accumulation was felt by OYAK. The
general assembly records indicate that after the mid-1970s, but especially in
the post-1978 period, the speeches of the president of the board of directors
78 İsmet Akça
Since the social and political struggle of the working class was seen as
responsible for the crisis in question, the main concern of the Turkish mili-
tary regime was “putting an end to class-based politics.”43 This was also the
main prerequisite for the transition to the new accumulation strategy, mate-
rialized in the decisions of January 24, 1980. Ending class-based politics no
doubt meant the disciplining of the working-class movement, the radical left,
and the democratic social opposition in order to solidify the political power
of the bourgeoisie. In this context, the violence and coercion against these
societal powers constituted a strategy of discipline in the short run. The long-
term strategy of the military regime included restructuring the institutional
architecture of the state, narrowing the political sphere for dominated social
classes and groups, limiting the possibilities of political democracy, and the
securitization of the political to inscribe and establish a new balance of forces
between classes.44
The military regime started to implement neoliberal economic policies that
would also be followed and deepened by successive governments. The post-
1980 period witnessed the domination of three main neoliberal strategies of
capital accumulation: export-oriented industrialization, privatizations, and
financial accumulation. All of the neoliberal strategies worsened the income
distribution at the expense of the working class, the peasantry, and the urban
and rural poor.45 The economically exclusivist nature of the neoliberal period
and its class relations has been governed by the changing forms of authori-
tarianism. After the end of direct military rule in 1983, the government run by
the Turkish new right Motherland Party ANAP kept the authoritarian struc-
ture established by the military regime. The 1990s were marked by a crisis
of political hegemony and the domination of the neoliberal national security
state form, and the post-2002 period was marked by the neoliberal authoritar-
ian populism of the Justice and Development Party.46
The most important period of accelerated capital accumulation by OYAK
was also the post-1980 neoliberal period.47 The conglomerate of the Turkish
military, which itself suffered from the accumulation crisis of late 1970s,
also adopted the above-mentioned three neoliberal accumulation strategies
in the post-1980 period. Together with this change of accumulation strategy,
OYAK’s discourse also changed. In concordance with the hegemonic strat-
egy of the time based on the idea of the market,48 OYAK started to emphasize
the importance of privatization and globalization instead of the nationalist
developmentalism of the 1960 to 1980 period.49
The first dominant accumulation strategy of the post-1980 period was
export-oriented capital accumulation. Besides the support policies, such
as exchange rate depreciation, preferential credit rates, tax rebates, labor
80 İsmet Akça
profit coming from all other affiliated companies.”55 The third example is
from the iron and steel sector. OYAK had already announced its interest in
the two biggest privatizations in 2005: Tüpraş (petroleum) and Erdemir (iron-
steel), the second and third most profitable industrial companies.56 After Koç
holding bought Tüpraş, OYAK bought 46 percent of the third most profitable
industrial company in Turkey, Erdemir (the public giant of iron and steel
production), for a price of US $2.77 billion. With this new company, OYAK
grew by 50 percent: its total net assets increased from US $10.7 billion to US
$15.4 billion. Erdemir’s profit in 2003 was US $610 million, which was equal
to OYAK’s net profit from forty affiliated companies.57 Hence, these privati-
zation policies were another wealth transfer from the public to the military.58
The third strategy was the financial accumulation model of the period
following the financial liberalization decision in 1989. This accumulation
strategy was based on lending money with very high interest rates to the debt-
ridden state. The model was marked by short periods of economic booms
based on short-term financial flows and succeeding financial crises whose
severity increased each time, culminating in the most severe economic crisis
in Republican history in 2001.59 The result of this financial crisis was further
deteriorating income distribution, increasing unemployment, and worsening
macroeconomic performance. In a brief formula, “the management of fiscal
debt may be viewed as an income transfer mechanism, transferring income
away from wage-labor and the peasantry to domestic rentiers.”60
The 1990s were also important years in the development and increase
of OYAK’s total net assets.61 OYAK started to profit from the financial
accumulation model before becoming strong in the banking sector. OYAK
used its high liquidity sources in financial investments and profited from the
arbitrage between the US dollar and the Turkish lira. Especially in the years
of big economic crises, OYAK’s profit reached peaks. According to Demir,
the average profitability (balance sheet profits remained constant in 1995 US
dollars) jumped from about US $15.75 million for the period 1961 to 1980
to around US $99 million for 1981 to 2001. More interestingly, the average
profitability is more striking for the period following financial liberalization:
US $165.74 million for the period 1990 to 2001.62 These were the years in
which OYAK’s financial investments surpassed those of real sector invest-
ments. According to the data announced by the president of OYAK, in 1980,
the shares of financial investments and affiliated companies out of total
profit-oriented investments were 4 to 5 percent and 40 percent, respectively.
They climbed to 17 percent and 40 percent in 1990, and to 67 percent and
40 percent in 2000.63 For instance, in 1994, which was the year of the first
big financial crisis of the 1990s, 42.6 percent of the total profit of the founda-
tion was from financial investments, and financial investments had increased
by 315 percent compared to the previous year.64 Again in 2001, the year of
82 İsmet Akça
the last and biggest financial crisis, 40.7 percent of the total profit was from
financial investments.65 Finally, in 2003, this share increased to 51.7 percent.
A comparison between the financial profits from nonoperational activities of
OYAK-owned real sector companies on the Istanbul Stock Exchange with
other nonfinancial sector companies reveals that “between 1993 and 2003, the
median net financial profit to net sales ratio of the seven OYAK firms was on
average 300 percent higher than the median in the stock market among 152
firms.”66
As a consequence, OYAK followed and profited from the main neoliberal
economic policies and accumulation strategies of the post-1980 period. The
fact that OYAK was one of the winners of the neoliberal period has had
several effects. Concerning relations within the military, it has had para-
doxical effects. On the one hand, OYAK, since it was founded, has always
been an important vehicle for the upward economic mobility of the officers,
which was seen as critical for securing the internal coherence of the military.
Through cheap loans for consumption and additional retirement benefits,
OYAK resulted in a kind of “embourgeoisement” for the military officers.
Not only the high-ranking but especially the lower- and middle-ranking
military officers were steadily drawn into the typical daily life of the middle
and upper-middle classes. This was especially critical in the neoliberal period
because of the enormous deterioration of income distribution to the disadvan-
tage of the salaried and fixed-income groups.67 Yet the enormous economic
sources OYAK controlled also triggered new axes of conflict within the
military, since the control and the allocation of resources were hierarchical.
Lower- and middle-ranking officers criticized the disequilibrium between the
legal benefits and social services on the one hand and the economic invest-
ments on the other. They also criticized the control of the decision-making
organs by high-ranking officers. Such criticism reached a climax after the
OYAK economic empire became publicly visible and reached a point where
the association of noncommissioned officers organized public protests in
2004 and 2005 and opened a case against OYAK at the first national courts
and then at the European Court of Human Rights.68
OYAK has also had repercussions on the broader class-based power rela-
tions at the economic and the political level. As already assessed, OYAK has
always played a “transmission belt role” to make the military more sensi-
tive to the capital accumulation process and the related intra- and interclass
conflicts. One of the most important dynamics of neoliberal capitalism in
Turkey has been the rise of the small- and medium-scale industrial bour-
geoisie and its clash with the big bourgeoisie. One section of the former had
also been ideologically and politically Islamist oriented since the beginning
of the 1990s.69 To the extent that OYAK has shared similar organic interests
with the big bourgeoisie, OYAK has been one of the mechanisms for getting
The Conglomerate of the Turkish Military (OYAK) 83
the explicit or implicit support of the military for the dominant accumula-
tion strategies discussed above. That said, this intraclass conflict within the
Turkish bourgeoisie has also been very central in understanding the political
developments in Turkey since the 1990s, especially the rise and the trans-
formation of political Islam and the place of the military within the power
structure of Turkey.
The 1990s were marked by a protracted crisis of political hegemony and the
domination of the military over the political sphere in the form of a neoliberal
national security state. The causes of this crisis were twofold: the exclusivist
nature of the neoliberal economic and social policies, and the militarization
and securitization of questions of identity politics, such as the Kurdish ques-
tion and the rise of political Islam.70
In a period where class-based politics were repressed, identity politics also
voiced both the intraclass- and interclass-based social unrest of the 1990s.
The rise of the political Islamist Welfare Party (Refah Partisi, RP) to power,
first in the municipal elections of 1994, especially in Istanbul and Ankara,
and then in the general elections of 1995, was an outcome of the crisis of
political hegemony and an alternative response to this crisis forged in terms
of identity politics. The RP formed a multiclass political movement bringing
together the small and medium scale, mostly the provincial and pious capi-
talist class, the peripheral segment of the working class engaged in marginal
activities and unable to find secure employment, and the upwardly mobile
and religious-conservative professional middle classes.71 Political Islamism
succeeded in representing both some of the winners and losers of neoliberal
global capitalism through a discourse based on the justice of an Islamic social
and political order pitted against the Westernized, culturally estranged, laic,
and state-monopolist segments of the population. The Welfare Party’s project
of a “just economic order” corresponded to a “utopian picture of an egalitar-
ian petit-bourgeois society composed of individual entrepreneurs.” It was
also anti-US American and anti-European Union in terms of its international
politics.72
The pious segments of the export-oriented Anatolian-based small- and
medium-sized industrialists of the post-1980 period that grew in labor-inten-
sive low-wage manufacturing industries were organized under MÜSİAD
(Association of Independent Industrialists and Businessmen, founded in
1990) and had a hegemonic position within the political Islamist social
84 İsmet Akça
The AKP, which was founded in 2001, claimed to break with its political
Islamist past and defined its political position as “conservative democrat,”
dominating the political scene thereafter by winning all successive elections
and establishing a single party government in 2002. Besides many other
things, the AKP period was exceptional in Turkish history, for it curbed the
political power of the military and changed civil-military relations.
The AKP revitalized the neoliberal hegemony by “the absorption of
Islamism into secular neoliberalism more or less successfully at all levels of
the hegemonic formation.”80 AKP’s neoliberal, conservative, and authoritar-
ian populist hegemonic project articulated neoliberal economic policies, a
new neoliberal social policy program, a claim to political reformism and
democratization, a gradual normalization of Islamic conservatism in all
spheres of life, a pro-United States and pro-European Union foreign policy,
and a neo-Ottomanist imperial strategy in the Middle East. As such, the
AKP’s hegemonic project successfully united the dominant class fractions,
gained the consent of the dominated classes, and appealed to important
identity groups who had previously felt excluded.81 This political strategy
of expansive hegemony could unite the various fractions of the bourgeoisie,
including the Istanbul-based big bourgeoisie and small- and medium-scale
bourgeoisie, especially the Islamist sections of the latter. In fact, the transfor-
mation of political Islam was also consonant with the transformation of the
Islamist bourgeoisie, and the latter was very active in the foundation of the
AKP.82 Neoliberal economic policies, based on financial capital inflows and
a financial accumulation strategy, privatization, the reduction of real wages,
and the legalization and extensive use of subcontracting, structural reforms
of the International Monetary Fund and World Bank, and the technocratiza-
tion of economic decision making were prominent in unifying the different
fractions of the bourgeoisie.83 In addition, the AKP was also successful in
gaining the consent of the mostly unorganized and informal sections of the
working class, the rural and urban poor, mainly on the basis of a new social
policy program.84
Those social and political conditions under the AKP’s expansive hege-
mony are important in order to understand the dynamics of change concern-
ing the military’s position within the power structure. Since the military
and the secular state establishment has had strong suspicions about, if not
belief in, the party’s alleged hidden Islamic intentions, the AKP’s political
Islamist legacy has paradoxically forced it to engage in a more reformist
stance than its right-wing predecessors. AKP’s claim to political reformism
The Conglomerate of the Turkish Military (OYAK) 87
and democratization has been most clearly evidenced in its struggle against
the military and its civilianization reforms.85 The AKP’s understanding of
democracy has been based on the idea of representing “the national will,”
understood as the will of the electoral majority, against the state elite’s
tutelage, against the status quo that materialized in the apparatuses of the
so-called tutelary regime.
Hence, between 2002 and 2005, AKP engaged in a “war of position”
against the military, to use Gramsci’s term, especially by using Turkey’s
EU candidacy for leverage. This legitimated its curbs on the power of the
MGK and the Secretariat General. For example, the Seventh EU Harmoniza-
tion Package, passed on August 7, 2003, made significant amendments to
the composition, role, and functions of both the MGK and the Secretariat
General.86 During this period, in order to weaken the AKP government, the
military elites took several actions, ranging from coup attempts to the promo-
tion of anti-AKP public campaigns. Although there were signs that the AKP’s
leaders were aware of these attempted coups against their government back
in 2003 and 2004, given its limited capacity to penetrate some critical state
institutions, AKP did not feel strong enough to wage a war of maneuver, so
did not struggle against these attempts. In any event, the attempts of the hard-
liners within the military to unseat the government failed anyway because
they had a narrow social base and hardly any international support, of which
the coup planners were well aware.87
Unlike the previous military coups in Turkish history, these coup attempts
had neither the support of the Istanbul-based big bourgeoisie nor the market-
dependent new middle classes, who were very sensitive to economic stability.
Finally, again unlike the previous coups in Turkey, there was no external sup-
port, especially from the United States, for a coup. In sum, the potential social
basis of a possible coup was so narrow that it would have just mobilized the old
urban middle classes and small parts of the new middle classes, whose main
concern was their secularist, western lifestyles.88
Court ordered a retrial in a case in which 237 serving and retired military
personnel were convicted of plotting to stage a coup to overthrow the govern-
ment of the Justice and Development Party (AKP). With this, AKP had won
its political battle against the military for the moment.89
Yet civilianization still remains incomplete because there are still functions
that should fall under the purview of the civilian authorities but have not yet
achieved this, such as the military budget, internal security, and intelligence
gathering. In addition, the subject areas of National Security Council meet-
ings are still too broad, while the military retains an important role in internal
security through specific institutions, the Chief of General Staff still has
authority and prerogatives in areas other than strictly external security issues,
and parliamentary control over the military does not work effectively.90
During this period, the economic power of the military, which so far had
been neglected, entered the agenda of the European Union. In a report titled
“EUTurkey Relations with a View to the European Council of December
2004 Draft Opinion,” the Economic and Social Committee, which is com-
posed of 222 members representing different social groups (businessmen,
workers, farmers, cooperatives, etc.), problematicized and criticized the eco-
nomic power of the military through OYAK and military expenditures (its
actual preparation and its off-budget resources), and defined this economic
power as an area of reform for EU membership. However, following the
lobby pressures of OYAK and the head of the Istanbul Chamber of Industry
(Hüsamettin Kavi), who is also the copresident representing the Turkish part
of the Turkey–EU Economic and Social Committee (composed of eighteen
members from each part), the last draft left out the OYAK phenomenon by
deciding that “OYAK is a secondary social security institution similar to
those in the European Union; and besides forming its member base, OYAK
has no business relationship or financial transfer with the state or the military,
and it has no organic relationship with the military.”91
Later on, OYAK and the role of the military within the economy have also
been subject to an investigation by the parliamentary commission publicly
known as the Commission for Investigating the Military Interventions. The
report of the commission, published in 2012, has a special section titled “The
Economy and the Coups,” and OYAK is also covered.92 Yet no political or
legal action has been undertaken by the government in this aspect. It seems
that the function of the commission and the report were rather instrumental in
the political battle of the AKP against the military. Today, the military, which
lost its political power vis-à-vis the civilian government, still keeps important
prerogatives, the most important of which are related to the capitalist-mili-
tarist structure. The conglomerate of the military, OYAK, is still one of the
biggest corporations in the country; military expenditures have not yet been
brought under civilian scrutiny and competence but rather are controlled by
The Conglomerate of the Turkish Military (OYAK) 89
the military; and the war industry still continues to develop as a privileged
area of capital accumulation.93
There is no doubt that civilianization by itself is a necessary but insuffi-
cient condition for democratization. The AKP government, having begun the
process, did not go further to establish a democratic form of state, but instead
manufactured a civilian authoritarian state. The AKP’s main concern was
conquering the state apparatuses by a new conservative-neoliberal elite group
rather than reforming the authoritarian state. A new form of state emerged
during the AKP period, at the center of which the police and the judiciary
now stand in place of the military. After a subsequent series of social and
political developments in the last few years, this new authoritarian state form
has been strongly established and developed. Concerning these critical devel-
opments, we may cite the dividing effects of the economic crisis of 2008 on
the capitalist class and the deepening of particularistic relations between the
AKP and its organic bourgeoisie; the AKP’s Sunni-Islamist foreign policy in
the Middle East, especially in Egypt and Syria; the AKP’s Islamist-neoliberal
policies toward daily life, the women’s body, and the educational system,
which accelerated in the aftermath of the 2010 referendum of constitutional
changes through which the AKP secured its hegemony over the state; and the
rise of the Gezi Park movement as a mass popular protest movement against
the AKP’s neoliberal, Islamist, and authoritarian policies. In this process, the
AKP’s capacity for hegemony has been reduced, especially concerning the
mostly West-oriented big bourgeoisie, the international actors such as the
United States and the European Union, and the social base of the Gezi revolt.
The AKP has shifted its political strategy from an expansive to a limited strat-
egy of hegemony, and from a conservative to an Islamist neoliberal strategy
that aims to consolidate and mobilize its own mass of voters through Islamist
political discourse.94 All of these developments raise new research questions
concerning the political power structure of Turkey and the place of different
political actors within it, including the military.
Notes
By saying “holding company” I am not referring to its legal form, but rather to the
range and type of its economic ventures.
6. It should be underlined that these economic activities are totally profit ori-
ented, and also that OYAK’s assets are not invested in war industries.
7. OYAK, 2013 Annual Report, 27.
8. http://www.capital.com.tr/liderlik/buyumede-cift-haneli-hesaplar-haberde-
tay-7520, accessed on February 17, 2015. For some previous years see also Akça,
Military-Economic Structure in Turkey, 10.
9. OYAK is exempt from corporate tax, all of the revenues of the fund are
exempt from turnover tax (gider vergisi), the collection of the members’ fees is
exempt from income tax, all of the transactions of the fund are exempt from the state
stamp tax, all of the donations for the fund are exempt from income tax and from
inheritance and transition taxes, and disbursements to members are not taxed (article
35). It should be noted that all of OYAK’s affiliated companies pay their regular taxes,
whereas OYAK as “a holding company” is exempt from taxes.
10. See the table in Akça, Militarism Capitalism and the State in Turkey, 327. If
one remembers that in a dependent capitalist social structure, the lack of capital is
generally considered one of the most important characteristics, this financial source
from a big fund made possible a very high rate of liquidity. Such a cheap liquidity
becomes more important in economic crisis years in terms of both more easily over-
coming the crisis and making high profits by investing in financial markets.
11. For empirical evidences about all these privileges see Akça, Militarism Capi-
talism and the State in Turkey, 337–40; Akça, Military-Economic Structure in Turkey,
11–12.
12. For a more detailed analysis of this military intervention see Akça, “Ordu,
Devlet ve Sınıflar: 27 Mayıs 1960 Darbesi Örneği Üzerinden Alternatif Bir Okuma
Denemesi”; Akça, Militarism Capitalism and the State in Turkey, 259–314.
13. Parla, “Mercantile Militarism in Turkey, 1960–1998,” 37.
14. Milli Birlik Komitesi Genel Kurul Toplantısı (The National Unity Committee
General Assembly Records), Vol. 5 (B: 67–71).
15. Akça, Militarism Capitalism and the State in Turkey, 341–46.
16. See the figures in ibid., 336.
17. On import-substituting industrialization strategy see Keyder, State and Class
in Turkey, 141–96; Barkey, The State and the Industrialization Crisis in Turkey.
18. On the monopolization process and the emergence of big capitalist groups see
Buğra, State and Business in Modern Turkey, 171–224; Şen, “Türkiye Büyük Burju-
vazisinin Anatomisi,” 46–65; Tekeli, “Türkiye’deki Şirketlerin Gelişimi ve Kapitalin
Yoğunlaşma Süreci.”
19. See Akça, Militarism, Capitalism and the State in Turkey, 347–55.
20. OYAK, OYAK 15th Year (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1976), 1;
OYAK, OYAK Dergisi (OYAK Journal), 1971, 8.
21. On March 12, the military gave a memorandum to the government as a result
of which the prime minister had to resign. During the following two years, the parlia-
ment was open, but four technocratic governments were established. It was an interim
regime under the supervision and control of the military.
The Conglomerate of the Turkish Military (OYAK) 93
91. See “OYAK da AB Kriteri Sayıldı,” Referans, June 19, 2004; “Avrupa
OYAK’ta İkna Oldu,” Milliyet, August 9, 2004; OYAK, OYAK Dergisi, 2004, 78.
92. Ülkemizde Demokrasiye Müdahale Eden Tüm Darbe ve Muhtıralar ile
Demokrasiyi İşlevsiz Kılan Diğer Bütün Girşim ve Süreçlerin Tüm Boyutları ile
Araştırılarak Alınması Gereken Önlemlerin Belirlenmesi Amacıyla Kurulan Meclis
Araştırması Komisyonu Raporu, 2012. http://www.tbmm.gov.tr/arastirma_komisyon-
lari/darbe_muhtira/, accessed on March 5, 2014.
93. Akça, Military-Economic Structure in Turkey.
94. Akça, “Hegemonic Projects in Post-1980 Turkey and the Changing Forms of
Athoritarianism,” 37–44; Akça and Özden, “AKP ve Türkiye’de Neoliberal Otoriter-
izmin Sınıfsal Dinamikleri.”
95. For a critical evaluation of this literature see Akça, Militarism Capitalism and
the State in Turkey, 163–216; Yalman, “The Turkish State and Bourgeoisie in Histori-
cal Perspective”; Dinler, “Türkiye’de Güçlü Devlet Geleneği Tezinin Eleştirisi.”
96. For a critical evaluation of this literature see Akça, Militarism Capitalism and
the State in Turkey, 217–49.
97. Heper, The State Tradition in Turkey, 129.
98. For example see Özkök, “Homo Ekonomikus’un Kimyası”; Cansen, “Oyak
Kapatılmalıdır.”
99. İnsel, “Bir Toplumsal Sınıf Olarak Türk Silahlı Kuvvetleri.”
100. See for instance Waterbury, “Twilight of the State Bourgeoisie?” and for a
more critical approach see Dupuy and Truchil, “Problems in the Theory of State
Capitalism.”
Chapter 4
97
98 Kevan Harris
revolution and its achievements.”3 After the 1980s war, the IRGC remained
separate from the armed forces and retained a high degree of prestige and
institutional independence. As in many postwar societies, IRGC veterans
and officials soon entered into the country’s political, economic, and cultural
life. Penned in an incipient postrevolutionary order, Article 147 of the 1979
constitution arguably legitimated such roles: “In time of peace, the govern-
ment, in complete respect for the criteria of Islamic justice, must utilize the
army’s personnel and technical equipment for relief operations, educational,
and productive endeavors.”4 Though the article mentions only the army by
name, IRGC representatives subsequently claimed its economic activities
were covered.5 Cleavages within Iran’s post-1979 political elite are copious
and commonplace, but it was not until the late 1990s that stories about the
IRGC’s shadowy power began to multiply. During the presidency of Moham-
mad Khatami (1997–2005), a democratizing push by left-liberal “reformist”
movements began to encounter fierce resistance. In the 2004 parliamentary
elections, in which many left-liberal candidates were barred from competing,
IRGC veterans won at least 16 percent of the seats.6 With the 2005 presiden-
tial election of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, a veteran of the Iran-Iraq war who
brought IRGC allies into his ministerial cabinet, the organization’s political
and economic influence appeared to grow further. In the course of the 2009
postelection protests commonly known as the Green Movement, nearly all of
the 1990s “reformist” intelligentsia were purged from the state. During these
years one frequently heard that the IRGC ran the show in Iran—behind the
curtain, so to speak. As the 2013 presidential election approached, most Iran
analysts assumed only men deeply embedded in this power nexus would be
allowed to take office—via ballots or otherwise. So when the technocratic
center-left candidate Hassan Rouhani won the first-round ballot via a surpris-
ing coalition of oppositional elites and a mobilized electorate, a widely held
notion about Iran’s political economy came under challenge. It turned out that
the IRGC, segments of which supported three different candidates including
Rouhani, was as divided as the rest of the political elite. As a result, the orga-
nization’s place in Iran is due for a reexamination.
Let us inspect our opening scene with a different sort of lens. Khatam al-
Anbia, or “Last of the Prophets,” refers to Muhammad’s position as the final
recipient of divine prophetic knowledge. It is a strange name for a large engi-
neering contractor with a sizable revenue stream, an amalgamation of piety
and productivity. Tehran’s mayor, Mohammad Baqer Qalibaf, may have
IRGC credentials, but he cut the ribbon on the Martyr Sadr overpass wearing
a (tieless) suit, not fatigues or a uniform. Qalibaf ran for president in 2005
and 2013, each time presenting himself as a “jihadi manager” of state affairs
(he never won). Speaker of the parliament Ali Larijani did remark on the
project’s professional and speedy completion. Yet Larijani also energetically
All the Sepah’s Men 99
stated in 2011, “When companies that are not really private come onto the
market relying on enormous capital belonging to the government, they do
not give the private sector room to compete and we must prevent this trend.”7
Instead of Islamist zealots unhinged since 1979, these revolutionaries today
spout the pieties of management jargon. What accounts for such transforma-
tions in an organization such as the IRGC only a generation after the Iranian
revolution?
There are two prevailing theories of the IRGC’s role in Iran’s postrevolu-
tionary political economy. As I discuss below, one holds that the IRGC is an
ideologically driven praetorian monolith that slowly but surely has taken over
the economy’s commanding heights in order to consolidate power against
political competitors. The other argues the IRGC is a state bourgeoisie that
is driven less by ideology and more by greed, deforming Iran’s economy in
the process. There is an element of truth to both theories, but their analytical
application tends to generate more heat than light. Part of this is due to the
highly instrumental nature of the knowledge being produced about the IRGC
inside and outside Iran, but another part is due to conceptual confusion. Both
of these theories are Cold War products imported without much reflection on
the Iranian milieu. By focusing on the military as a powerful agent that auton-
omously distorts some preconceived ideal process of economic and politi-
cal modernization, we lose sight of the changes in Iran’s postrevolutionary
society that have actually taken place. Firms and investment conglomerates
affiliated with the IRGC and other military-linked parastatals do not signify a
creeping militarization or “revolutionary” ideological subordination of Iran’s
economy so much as they characterize the commodification of bureaucratic
privilege and status held by individuals in these organizations. Below, I
discuss the pedigrees of these two theories and place the IRGC’s “economic
empire” in context as one element of a larger mode of capital accumulation in
Iran. I end by discussing what a more useful political sociology of the IRGC
reveals about Iran’s postrevolutionary era—namely, the existence of military-
economic linkages has its institutional roots in state formation as opposed to
military consolidation.
The Social Security Organization, Iran’s main public social insurance insti-
tution, manages a set of investment funds that in turn oversee companies
that manufacture most of Iran’s pharmaceuticals and automobile tires.8 Few
Iranians are aware of the fact that their future pension earnings are bound
up with their own consumption of domestic goods. Tax-exempt endowed
foundations, many of which were created after the 1979 revolution and given
100 Kevan Harris
state assets, such as the Foundation for the Dispossessed, today operate Coca-
Cola plants, touristic resort hotels, and agro-industrial firms. The state-owned
Export Bank, which predates the 1979 revolution, runs a massive investment
conglomerate, Ghadir. In May 2014, it was the fifth largest company on Teh-
ran’s stock exchange with nearly $5 billion US dollars market capitalization
(between 1 and 2 percent of Iran’s 2013 GDP).9 The armed forces even has
its own banking and investment firms, wholly separate from the IRGC, one of
which manages Tehran’s International Expo Center, the main site for Iran’s
business fairs. In a June 2014 interview, former deputy Economic Minister
and reformist politician Mohsen Safaei Farahani stated that there are about
120 funds, foundations, and organizations in what Iranians refer to synony-
mously as the “quasi-governmental” or “pseudo-private” sector.
Safaei Farahani estimated that this sector altogether controlled around 50
percent of gross domestic product (GDP), which is as good a guess as any.10
There is no existing systematic study of this sector created in large part by the
transfer and sale of state assets. Yet by examining data for privatization of state-
owned enterprises over the past two decades, we at least know it is bigger than
ever and shot through with competing and contradictory interests. Table 4.1
shows the methods and amount of divestment of state-owned enterprises after
the end of the 1980s war over three consecutive presidential administrations.
As Table 4.1 shows, the vast majority of public sector divestment, over
90 percent of the total value of transferred shares, occurred under the Ahma-
dinejad administration. Yet the process began previous to his presidency.
From the beginning, divestment benefitted the parastatal sector far more
than the private sector. Shares of public entities were largely shifted to this
proliferating set of funds, foundations, banks, and holding companies. Many
companies were handed over to quasi-governmental organizations in lieu of
government debt, or sold in block shares to large institutional investment
companies under their management. There is no systematic data on the
recipients of company shares. The case of Iran’s auto industry, however, is
a useful example. Iran’s two largest state-linked auto manufacturers spent
more than US $3 billion at the end of the Ahmadinejad period on banking
stocks and investment assets, using various holding companies for specula-
tive activity unlinked to production of motor vehicles. As Behrouz Nemati,
a member of Parliament, griped, “An automaker should make cars instead of
becoming a banker.”11
As a result of this long-term process, the economy has not remained
under public command nor has it been transferred out of the state into the
hands of a single organization or social base.12 This is not a consolidation of
capital under a military organization. Rather, Iran’s parastatal economy is an
outcome of how mechanisms of capital accumulation and asset ownership
were structured and restructured over the past several decades. If it can be
compared to anything, patterns of corporate ownership in Iran have arguably
moved closer to the “networked” or “stakeholder models” of Germany and
Japan discussed most notably in the scholarship on “varieties of capitalism,”
in which large firms accrue extensive cross-shareholdings and heavily rely on
financing from banking capital.13
This systemic fact notwithstanding, the notion that the IRGC—often
referred to as Sepah-i Pasdaran (Guards Corps) or just Sepah—occupies
the commanding heights of the economy is commonly held in Iran. Ask an
average citizen about any major construction project over the past ten years
and one could often hear, “It’s in the hand of the Sepah.”14 In the 1990s, the
same question would have provoked alternative stories. So-called mafias run
by children of President Hashemi Rafsanjani (1989–1997) were the culprit
then, or a set of endowed revolutionary foundations (bunyadha) that plied
revolutionary rhetoric but operated as large business groups. Such stories fly
around for a good reason. As one magazine editor told me in Tehran: “The
less we know about something in Iranian politics, the more we talk about it.”
A fall 2013 issue of the business weekly Tomorrow’s Business featured a sec-
tion on the economic activities of Iranian military organizations under both
the IRGC and the armed forces. The magazine was sparse on the details, but
it included a menacing graphic listing a hundred recent projects conducted by
102 Kevan Harris
Our smuggling brothers . . . belong to such and such organization. They belong
to such and such foundation and institution. Everybody has made a hole some-
where and carries out imports and exports for his own benefit. If some goods
are for security, defense, or military purposes, there is nothing wrong with them
and they may be imported, but they should be imported through legal borders.17
close links between political elites and “speculators” and “smugglers” has
been constant in Iran ever since the 1980s war.18 Maybe Ahmadinejad knew
something; maybe he just repeated rumors that any cab driver can recount.
Less recounted was a statement made weeks later by the deputy official in the
government’s Central Anti-Smuggling Headquarters—the same organization
which hosted the 2011 conference—to the effect that there were no “illegal
docks and jetties” outside of the control of state customs. As the official
noted, the smuggling referred to by the president was due to the abuse of legal
import channels. Sailors, transit workers, and border residents in poorer areas
such as the southern province of Hurmuzgan or the northwestern province of
Kurdistan are allowed to bring in commodities under a given value, and this
system was being exploited by hundreds of smuggling operations. Provincial
governors and local MPs refused to enforce the custom laws, the deputy offi-
cial grumbled, and so a legal cover for illicit activity existed.19 There is no
reason to believe that military officials were immune from such affairs. The
overall process, however, implies the sort of fragmented informal economy
that accompanies most cross-border commerce. As Alejandro Portes has
pointed out, “The paradox of state control is that official efforts to obliterate
unregulated activities through the proliferation of rules and controls often
expand the very conditions that give rise to these activities.”20 Nevertheless,
rumors about the IRGC smuggling everything from cell phones to heroin can
be heard in any typical Tehran afternoon tea party.
Another example occurred when an investment consortium partially
owned by the IRGC Cooperative Foundation, a credit association linked to
the organization, bought a controlling share in Iran’s largest telecommunica-
tions company in 2009. As the rumor mill churned, Iranians began to joke
about their phones not just being in the Sepah’s hand, but in its ears as well.
Yet over the subsequent five years, Iran’s telecom sector became less concen-
trated, not more, as individuals bypassed their landlines for newly available
mobile phones. Once underdeveloped, Iran’s mobile cellular industry is now
a competitive sector wherein state-owned, parastatal, and private companies
vie for subscribers. This occurred because of state initiatives to open up the
telecom sector to new entrants.21 In terms of management priorities or rev-
enue streams, it is unclear what changes, if any, took place in the originally
state-owned telecom company after IRGC-linked capital entered the market.
The outcome was a whimper, not a bang; after the initial teasing of a scandal
in 2009, the story disappeared from Iran’s opposition media.
Truth be told, the more salient game of telephone with regard to the IRGC
occurs in the global circulation of opinion and analysis on Iran. European and
US-based think tanks periodically produce briefs and reports on the IRGC’s
amorphous power. Preordained for purposes of Western foreign policy, these
tend to be devoid of sober reflection on primary sources. These bombshell
104 Kevan Harris
briefs then circle back inside the Islamic Republic to become ammunition
for political claims by various elites and opposition figures.22 It is not hard to
grasp why sources originating in the West would so easily resonate within
Iran’s intellectual sphere. The gaudy agitprop emanating from Iran’s state-
supported media on the IRGC—a self-ordained pillar of the revolution—is
so bombastic that anything coming from the other side seems objective and
ideologically neutral. But given such a turbid and politicized environment
in Iran, speculative overreach by onlookers is the lazy norm. Back-of-the-
envelope estimates of the IRGC’s “economic empire” have ranged from
10 to 60 percent of Iran’s GDP, with almost no actual sourcing involved or
context provided by the overeager journalists, workaday analysts, or anony-
mous interns who produce them. Even if we did possess such a hard number,
though, what could we make of it? What does it mean when brigadier gener-
als put on business suits?
The basic theoretical implications of this assertion are rarely examined.
Does the presence of military actors in the economy signify a cohesive
organizational strategy? In China or Indonesia, militaries control numerous
businesses yet do not dictate high state policy. Does the accumulation of
capital entail an accumulation of centralized political power? Turkey’s mili-
tary owns a web of industrial conglomerates through its pension fund, yet it
was stunningly defanged by Erdogan’s AKP. Do military-linked profits fuel
the crushing of democratic movements? Pakistan’s “Military Inc.” grew in
tandem with the rocky resumption of democratic elections in the country. In
the case of Iran, the IRGC is discussed as if it were The Blob: once it touches
anything, it is in control. This is useful as political claims making—after all,
there are few defenders of the IRGC outside of Iran, Iraq, and Lebanon—but
it is not helpful as explication. To be fair, social scientific approaches have
not provided any more insight. It is thus worth briefly examining the two
main theoretical concepts used to characterize the IRGC’s role in Iran’s
political economy: praetorian monolith and state bourgeoisie.
was that the state had to be a major actor in the capital accumulation process.
State intervention in economic activities promised, as Huntington phrased
it, the “telescoping of modernization” for poorer nations.39 In postwar Third
World state-building, bureaucrats would do what businessmen could not. Of
course, as Immanuel Wallerstein pointed out for postcolonial Africa, newly
formed “administrative bourgeois often played these classic economic roles,
but when they did, they were not celebrated for it, but rather denounced for
‘corruption.’”40 The term’s valence, however, often spun positive. Fernando
Cardoso labeled the Brazilian managers of publicly owned enterprises as the
patriotic burguesia do estado, which could balance and transcend the pres-
sures of international capital, the domestic masses, and a comprador private
sector.41 To a degree, Peter Evans clothed this Latin American and Marxian
concept in a South Korean and Weberian regalia as “embedded autonomy,”
the theoretical standard bearer for explaining East Asian developmental suc-
cess.42 For regions with more dismal developmental outcomes, however,
the state bourgeoisie was accused of fostering rent seeking among erstwhile
entrepreneurs and fattening protected firms. The neoliberal view of state-led
development, spreading as prosperity gospel from the late 1970s onward,
appraised any government economic intervention as distortionary. Private
sectors were assumed to operate more efficiently and transparently no mat-
ter the sociopolitical or geopolitical context. Yet as with praetorianism, the
concept is largely used as a negative placeholder to describe the absence of
its opposite: state bourgeoisie implies a zero-sum relationship with a “real,”
that is, private, bourgeoisie.
Third, aside from their modernization telos, both concepts originally
attempted to account for the observed social trajectories of new political
actors. Praetorian cadres did not always have a negative connotation. Mem-
bers of a rising new middle class, the story went, entered military bureaucra-
cies, and carried out the forward-looking Middle East coups and putsches
of the 1960s. In the Egyptian case, “staffing the cabinet, ministries and state
machinery with military personnel was a constant practice for two reasons:
the military’s belief that it alone had the bureaucratic organizing skills to
run the affairs of the state and assure control over a traditionally indepen-
dent bureaucracy.”43 In this telling, the military sat at the vanguard of social
change, which it then commandeered and directed.44
The idea of state bourgeoisie was also associated with a new historical
moment. As Richard Waterbury noted, state elites in the postcolonial era
“believed firmly in the state itself, in its capacity to manage the economy bet-
ter than the private sector, and in its duty to mobilize resources in a planned,
rational, and socially responsible manner.” The task at hand was “engaging
in vast schemes of social engineering, altering the very structures of one’s
economy, and living well at the same time.”45 Yet over time, as Waterbury
108 Kevan Harris
In August 2013, Major General Hassan Firuzabadi, Chief of Staff for Iran’s
Armed Forces and sitting member of the National Security Council, stated,
“Whenever the government feels it has no need for the activities of military
institutions in the economic sphere, the military is ready to get out of eco-
nomic activities.”46 It is not much of a secret that Iran’s military institutions
are active in the economy. Yet labels of praetorianism or state bourgeoisie
hide more than they reveal. These terms imply that Iran’s postrevolutionary
history is a distorted trajectory from an ideal-type path of modernization.
Little effort is put into elucidating the process itself. A depiction of sociopo-
litical patterns is only satisfactory if it can explain what produced them. The
existence of military-economic linkages is better understood as one element
of a larger manner of capital accumulation in Iran that has institutional roots
in broad processes of state formation, not military consolidation. Thus we
need to briefly trace the process back to the beginning.
During the 1980s, the Iran-Iraq conflict placed Iran’s economy on a war
footing. State policy encouraged the nationalization of heavy industry,
manufacturing, mining, and foreign trade. The public sector expanded in
size. Concurrently, a host of new “revolutionary institutions” that emerged
out of the post-1979 struggle for state power took shape as auxiliary organi-
zations. This included a variety of endowed foundations that became wards
of assets and firms confiscated from the old pre-1979 Pahlavi monarchy and
its domestic elite allies. As a military auxiliary, the IRGC operated alongside
All the Sepah’s Men 109
the Ahmadinejad period. The report groups the main beneficiaries into four
categories:
The report does not provide the relative weight of each group’s share in
acquiring state assets, but the trend is clear. This is less of a militarist con-
solidation of power than the embourgeoisement of postrevolutionary elite and
middle strata. Market activities are not absent but embedded in these over-
lapping networks. Underneath it all are layers of smaller private contractors
that link to these economic clusters. In response to accusations of military
monopolization of the economy, Khatam al-Anbiya, for example, likes to
brag that it subcontracts out 60 to 70 percent of its own projects to the private
sector.61 What this likely entails, however, is the increasing fragmentation of
economic activities through subcontracting and personalized channels, be it
family networks, old professional ties, or other patronage networks.62
As military-economic linkages multiplied in this setting, the Ahmadinejad
government added new areas of opportunity by farming out projects for hous-
ing, infrastructure, and oil and gas development to nonpublic contractors.
A decade-long commodity boom fueled a huge expansion of liquid capital
in the domestic economy, mostly through thousands of new state projects.
The policy ideas behind these initiatives were generally designed to, once
again, shrink the government and yet provide public goods for Iran’s increas-
ingly integrated national economy. Under international sanctions, however,
private sector firms could not get sufficient credit to bid on projects, pay for
insurance, compensate for damages, or acquire foreign currency in order to
undertake the new state-created opportunities for capital accumulation.63 In
an internationally hostile climate, the institutional shift provided another
avenue for military contractors to fill these niches. As the conservative MP
Ahmad Tavakuli noted, “Our militaries entered the market with peace and
blessings and it will not be easy to remove them.”64 This did not produce a
military monolith, however, but a motley crew. Ignored by Western onlook-
ers was the fact that many other institutions also took part in the process.
In 2014, under the newly formed Rouhani government, Iran’s Central Bank
(CBI) forced commercial banks to report their balance sheets and asset hold-
ings. CBI deputy governor Hamid Tehranfar stated that about six hundred
All the Sepah’s Men 113
Conclusion
Today in the Islamic Republic current and former IRGC men populate vari-
ous companies, holding funds, and financial organizations. But these contend
with similar entities tied to other segments of the political elite as well as
different bureaucratic agencies. There is no single trajectory for military
entry into the economy, but the larger institutional shifts in Iran’s political
economy—a liberalization drive and subsequent commodity boom—created
pathways for the commodification of bureaucratic privilege, which IRGC
and military officials had garnered in the postrevolutionary era. Notions of a
114 Kevan Harris
Notes
14. For instance, in the northwestern city of Tabriz, municipal authorities were
building line one of the metro. But line two, locals complained to me in 2010, was
contracted to the Sepah. In 2014, it was reported that a Chinese construction firm
assumed the lagging operation.
15. “Sazandigi bih sabk-i nizami,” Tijarat-i Farda 53 (2013), 28–29.
16. Dunya-yi Iqtisad, December 16, 2014, 6, http://magiran.com/npview.asp?ID=
3078209, accessed September 29, 2015.
17. Dunya-yi Iqtisad, August 11, 2011, 5, http://magiran.com/npview.asp?ID=
2331660, accessed September 29, 2015.
18. The weekly satirical Gul Agha, for instance, frequently featured caricatures
and mockups of hoarders and speculators during the final years of the Iran-Iraq war.
19. Dunya-yi Iqtisad, August 11, 2011, 5, http://magiran.com/npview.asp?ID=
2331660, accessed September 29, 2015.
20. Portes and Haller, “The Informal Economy,” 409.
21. On how a similar change in state regulations changed the banking sector, see
Harris, “The Rise of the Subcontractor State.”
22. Blog posts on the Washington-based American Enterprise Institute’s website,
for instance, are sometimes translated into Persian by opposition websites, dissemi-
nated by diaspora crowd-sourcing, and then end up being published in Iran’s own
newspapers under various guises. The facts and numbers conveyed are not always
incorrect, but they are hardly fair and balanced. Claims about the IRGC’s supposed
control over the economy formed a key component of the case for expanding sanc-
tions during the Bush and Obama administrations, which incentivized the labeling of
any Iranian institution as IRGC-linked for punitive purposes. See Harris, “Review of
Iran Unveiled by Ali Alfoneh,” 163–65.
23. US State Department, “The Iranian Succession.”
24. Safshekan and Sabet, “The Ayatollah’s Praetorians,” 558.
25. Richards and Waterbury, A Political Economy of the Middle East, 202–4.
26. Waterbury, “Twilight of the State Bourgeoisie?” 2.
27. Arjomand, After Khomeini: Iran Under His Successors, 121.
28. Bronner, Socialism Unbound: Principles, Practices, and Prospects, 52.
29. Davies, “Gorbachev’s Socialism in Historical Perspective,” 5–27.
30. Seton-Watson, The Revolution of Our Time.
31. Burton and Bettelheim, China since Mao; Hodges, The Bureaucratization of
Socialism.
32. For instance Hussein, Class Conflict in Egypt: 1945–1970.
33. Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies, 5, 198.
34. The article is specifically written about the Middle East in Perlmutter’s, “The
Praetorian State and the Praetorian Army,” 382–404. As Gareth Stanfield noted, Perl-
mutter curiously exempts Israel from the praetorian cases of the Middle East.
35. O’Donnell, Modernization and Bureaucratic-Authoritarianism; Ayubi, Politics
and Society in the Middle East, 258; Hinnebusch, The International Politics of the
Middle East, 75.
36. Abrahamian, “The Politics of Uneven Development,” 419–49.
37. Tilly, “Does Modernization Breed Revolution?” 425–47.
116 Kevan Harris
Like many developing country militaries, the Jordanian Armed Forces’ origi-
nal role was to suppress potential rivals to the regime1 and (later) to provide
a source of employment.2 In the 1950s, the Jordanian military was the second
largest employer—after the agricultural sector—and between 1961 and 1975,
the number of those employed in the military increased threefold, account-
ing for one-fourth of the domestic labor force.3 But as global development
policies forced a shift away from state-led investment and industrialization,
maintaining the prestige of the military as an institution (and the loyalty of its
officers) required direct and sustained support from the government. The mil-
itary was one of the few groups to escape the ravages of Jordan’s structural
adjustment program; the armed forces’ subsidies, pensions, and employment
programs actually increased—as did the military’s overall budget—while
budgetary allocations for social services delivered to nonmilitary populations
decreased.4 This growth was enabled by a range of specific policies under-
taken in the early 1990s—including the granting of additional months salaries
to all employees in the defense and security establishment, annual increases
in pension expenditures, an increase in retiree benefits, and substantial hous-
ing subsidies, as well as the maintenance of existing benefits—such as public
health insurance, free higher education for family members,5 and subsidized
military co-ops.6
But this support has been costly—in both political and economic terms—to
the government, which must balance the demands of an influential military
constituency against those of other social groups, including the very large
Palestinian population, which is mostly shut out of the higher echelons of the
military and its robust welfare system. One approach to this challenge has
been to steer the military into commercial business operations, hoping that
these will generate revenue to help fund the military’s costly economic and
119
120 Shana Marshall
social programs, or (at the very least) will appear to generate such revenues
and divert public attention away from the continued use of state funds. Since
the Jordanian Armed Forces’ budgets are secret, a handful of highly visible
commercial enterprises and key export deals might help us determine whether
these business operations are a smokescreen for continued subsidies, and help
us understand how governments are reshaping their patronage policies in
response to budgetary pressures.
Ironically, economic liberalization has taught us a great deal about the
involvement of militaries in commercial activities, due to the proliferation of
new sources of information. These include literature from trade associations
representing sectors where the military has investments and joint operations;
press releases and annual reports issued by private firms and foreign con-
glomerates doing business with military subsidiaries; business intelligence
publications; reports by regional financial institutions; literature produced by
professional public relations firms; online employment history profiles from
services like LinkedIn; and even company listings on Alibaba, where I have
seen goods for sale produced in an industrial park owned by the Jordanian
Armed Forces (JAF).
This chapter will use these resources to explore how military economies
and military entrepreneurship operates in the new era of economic liberaliza-
tion. Subsequent sections will outline the scope of military entrepreneurial
activities in Jordan, examine how technology transfer and patterns of regional
conflict influence defense production, highlight channels through which the
state subsidizes this production, as well as how influential civilian business
elites come to be involved in these activities.
According to promotional literature, JAF have entered into joint venture
partnerships with at least twenty-six foreign defense companies to produce
everything from prepackaged field rations and boots to backpack-portable
drones, armored vehicles, and modified light gunships.7 These partnerships
are operated through the King Abdullah II Design and Development Bureau
(KADDB, or “kad-bee,” as it is commonly known)—the military-industrial
arm of the JAF. Information from the bureau’s website and press releases
issued with foreign partners show at least twenty distinct product lines
operating with defense firms from Australia, Austria, Belgium, Canada,
Germany, Great Britain, Italy, the Netherlands, Russia, Saudi Arabia, South
Africa, South Korea, Sweden, Switzerland, Turkey, the United States, and the
United Arab Emirates (UAE), as well as a commercial firm from Malaysia.
According to official promotional material, KADDB “aims to be the globally
preferred partner in designing and developing defense products and security
solutions in the region.”8
KADDB’s operations are divided into five business clusters, includ-
ing automotive and industrial (vehicle armoring and assembly, unmanned
Jordan’s Military-Industrial Sector 121
aircraft, patrol boats and robots designed to detect and dismantle bombs,
precision machining, metal fabrication); troop products (body armor, hel-
mets, tactical footwear, packaged field rations); electronics and electro optics
(night vision, thermal imaging systems, sensors, radar); arms and ammuni-
tion (antitank grenade launchers, side arms, small caliber ammunition); and
supplementary (mostly security-related service provision for the private
sector, including banks, critical infrastructure, VIP protection details).9 The
scope of KADDB’s activities has widened dramatically since it was launched
by royal decree in 1999—and increasingly resembles the sort of military-
industrial production programs present in other states in the Middle East.
KADDB operations now include a good number of exports as well; as of
2011, the KADDB subsidiary Jordan Light Vehicle Manufacturing (formed
with Britain’s Jankel Armouring) had shipped upgraded armored vehicles to
over twenty countries.
In addition to traditional military hardware, KADDB also produces
equipment designed for internal policing requirements such as riot control,
reconnaissance, and surveillance—all in particularly high demand in Jor-
dan’s neighboring states. Examples include the Stallion armored vehicle—
equipped with .50 caliber weapons stations—that KADDB advertises for use
in “peacekeeping, internal security and patrols”; SkyWatch, a drone marketed
for purposes such as dignitary protection and oversight of prisons and border
entries; as well as the “covert response unit”—a nondescript Ford F550 with
a box body mounted on the flatbed that pops open to reveal a swiveling gun
mount and complex surveillance platform.
Advocates of KADDB link its rapid growth to Jordan’s skilled labor force,
low production costs, and proximity to the world’s largest regional arms
market. But the bureau’s apparent commercial success has less to do with
principles of neoclassical economics than with an evolving system of incen-
tives from foreign defense firms seeking to entice countries like Jordan to
sign costly arms procurement deals. In industry parlance, these incentives are
known as “defense offsets”—designed to “offset” the cost of arms by direct-
ing investment dollars from the foreign defense firm back to the procuring
country through collaborative manufacturing projects. Although nearly every
country has established guidelines for defense offsets—for instance, the
precise percentage of the overall contract value that the foreign defense firm
must reinvest; 35 percent is typical—Jordanian officials deny the existence
of any such program.
122 Shana Marshall
Because Jordan gets much of its defense budget from US military aid,
demanding offsets from US defense firms would be the commercial equiva-
lent of double dipping—getting the arms for free and asking to be paid for
accepting them. Instead, Jordanian procurement decisions depend on the
individual firms’ willingness to include some form of joint production in the
contract—anything from limited assembly of components to full-scale copro-
duction. This requirement operates as a sort of quid pro quo that uses the Jor-
danian arms procurement budget as a carrot to lure foreign partners into joint
ventures with KADDB. This inducement—combined with proximate access
to wealthy Gulf customers and an array of preferential tax policies and indus-
trial subsidies provided by the Jordanian state—makes KADDB a highly
attractive business partner. The JAF recognize this comparative advantage,
and by requiring that firms enter into joint production agreements as a con-
dition of securing a sale to the Kingdom, the JAF have ensured a continued
supply of jobs, export earnings, and prestige for its members.
This informal arrangement is visible in numerous cases where firms that
sell off-the-shelf items to Jordan are engaged in coproduction with KADDB.
In early 2009, Jordan purchased surplus F-16 fighter jets from Belgium and
the Netherlands.10 That same year a logistics firm with offices in Belgium and
the Netherlands received a contract from the Dutch Agency for Economic
Development to conduct a feasibility study for an F-16 maintenance facility
in Jordan,11 which is being built by the Dutch company Daedalus Aviation.
Likewise, three years after Jordan purchased six Russian-made KA-226
helicopters in 2003, the manufacturer Oboronprom signed an agreement
with KADDB to establish an in-country production and maintenance facility
for the helicopters.12 Since 2013, Russia has had engineers and technicians
in Jordan working jointly on the development and production of a new gen-
eration RPG-32 grenade launcher under the auspices of the Jordan Russian
Electronic Systems Company, a KADDB subsidiary.13 The consortium of
Russian companies involved in the product’s design includes KBP Instru-
ment Design Bureau, which is the manufacturer of the 9M113 Kornet-E
antitank guided weapons purchased in 2008 for mounting on the JAF’s US-
built Humvees.
These joint ventures are possible, in part, because Jordan frequently pur-
chases old decommissioned hardware, or gets it free through the US Excess
Defense Articles program. The armor, mounted weapons systems, and elec-
tronics can be quite outdated, thus Jordan can focus on deals with small and
medium-sized contractors and suppliers to produce new and modernized
components that are then integrated into the finished products marketed by
the multinational, “tier one” defense firms. Many small and midlevel defense
manufacturers are eager to pursue joint ventures that offer such plums as
guaranteed future sales to the Jordanian government (KADDB’s primary
Jordan’s Military-Industrial Sector 123
War has of course been a boon for KADDB’s business. A significant share
of its exports has gone to Iraq, including during the period when the US-led
Coalition Provisional Authority was in charge. Documented exports to the
authority in 2004 included one hundred “modernized” tanks and an unspeci-
fied number of unmanned aerial vehicles (drones). Several big arms firms
sought to partner with KADDB in order to exploit Jordan’s proximity to Iraq.
One clear case is a KADDB collaboration with ITT Industries to refurbish
US military vehicles for sale to the Iraqi army—a project in which the French
defense giant Thales also expressed interest.17 KADDB partnerships can also
prompt follow-on sales with other regional governments. In 2009, one year
after the maritime firm Riverhawk set up a joint venture with KADDB18 to
build offshore support vessels, the Iraqi navy issued a US $70 million sole-
source contract to Riverhawk for the same ship model, and in 2011 the US
Naval Sea Systems Command in Washington, DC, awarded a noncompetitive
contract to Riverhawk for similar ships on behalf of the Lebanese navy.19 In
an interview given to an industry publication, an executive from Riverhawk
124 Shana Marshall
example. Not only has the firm agreed to several substantial partnerships
with KADDB, but it also “accidentally” shipped a demonstration model of
a decommissioned South African Ratel armored vehicle to Amman without
first disabling the radios or removing its classified encryption algorithms.27
Private Profit
Domestic Subsidies
In addition to direct government funding (of about US $12 million per year
as of the late 2000s),30 the Jordanian state has provided KADDB with many
of the same supplementary services and infrastructure granted to the military-
industrial complex in the United States and Europe. KADDB’s list of assets
includes a commercial investment division staffed with finance experts who
evaluate the viability of potential partnerships,31 as well as financial support
for SOFEX, a huge biannual defense exhibition held in Amman. SOFEX, or
the Special Operations Forces Exhibition and Conference, is unique in that it
focuses explicitly on equipment for commando raids and internal policing—
the same sectors in which much of KADDB’s manufacturing activity is con-
centrated. As an event space and conference center, it earns huge revenues,
including from the US military, which pays to lease space for exhibits and
classroom training.32 KADDB also displays its wares at arms shows outside
Jordan, including the 2011 Defense and Security Equipment International
Exhibition in London, where KADDB managers took pains to note that they
were the only Arab participants.33 KADDB has been active in forming stra-
tegic partnerships with trade publishers—notably IHS Global Insight, which
owns the preeminent Jane’s group of defense industry magazines,34 as well as
regional marketing companies, such as the Kuwaiti firm Al Majd, with which
KADDB signed an agreement in 2004 for marketing KADDB products both
inside Kuwait and throughout the Gulf Cooperation Council member states.35
Lastly, KADDB also benefits from the services of Jordanian defense attachés,
who promote the organization’s products and services overseas, while the
government ensures that visiting defense officials and corporate executives
get tours of the bureau’s facilities.36
In addition to these perks, KADDB enjoys a host of special economic
privileges through the KADDB Industrial Park—the first free zone in the
Middle East to specialize in military production. The bureau’s website boasts
of the park’s “reliable electricity and water” and “attractive landscaping,” as
well as its “ongoing support for issuance of documentation, invoice certifica-
tion, [and] transfer of ownership of goods and other paperwork required for
international trade.” The park’s amenities include a ballistic missile lab and
a “high-security environment.” Industrial security is probably provided by
KADDB subsidiary JoSecure, which also has contracts to provide security at
the Aqaba Special Economic Zone, Jordanian Customs, the Public Security
Directorate, the General Intelligence Directorate, Greater Amman Munici-
pality, and the Jordanian Petroleum Refinery Company.37 In 2009, JoSecure
launched a joint venture with the Swiss firm Securitas to lease armored
vehicles to private companies and provide armed protection for cash-in-
transit vehicles.
Jordan’s Military-Industrial Sector 127
the tender irregularity, Sahel quietly (and briefly) switched posts with then-
transportation minister Alaa Batayneh while the scandal died down.43
According to the NGO Committee to Protect Journalists, “A parliamentary
committee had received directives from the Royal Court to not refer [Maja-
li’s] case to trial.”44 Sahel’s father, Abdel Hadi al-Majali—who preceded
Sahel in the role of minister of Housing and Public Works—also held posts
as former Army Chief of Staff, ambassador to the United States (defense atta-
ché), and founded one of Jordan’s very first private security ventures in the
mid-1980s, the Middle East Defense & Security Agency (MEDSA).45 Sahel
himself is the head of MID Contracting—a major beneficiary of the postwar
reconstruction boom in Iraq, and his cousin Shadi Ramzi is the current head
of the KADDB Investment Group/KIG and former KADDB CEO.
The appearance of impropriety (real or not) permeates the JAF’s real estate
empire; the connections are labyrinthine in their complexity. For example,
Mawared was also linked to corruption in a large-scale development scheme
undertaken by the Abdali Investment & Development Company in which
Mawared owns a 44 percent share. The former mayor of Amman, Omar
Maani, was indicted on corruption charges related to his role in the plan; he
is married to Meisa Batayneh,46 a relative of Transportation Minister Alaa,
and Mohammed Batayneh, the head of investment at Mawared. Mohammed
is also a partner in Badr Investments, a boutique investment firm he runs with
Amin Badr al-Din, who designed the UAE’s defense offset program and for
many years served as the chairman of the UAE government agency (despite
his Jordanian nationality).47 Badr Investments and Maisam Architecture
(founded by Meisa Batayneh) were the two prime contractors on a US $425
million solar power project that was halted in 2011,48 just as the corruption
investigation began into Omar Maani and the Abdali Investment & Develop-
ment Company. The takeaway here is that the military controls enormous
financial assets across a broad range of sectors, and often uses these assets
and influence to steer contracts to family members and business associates.
This would help explain why financial support for the business operations of
the armed forces is so critical to the regime—because it represents benefits
and privileges for a vast network of civilian elites as well.
In addition to real estate management, the JAF are also involved in the
economy in other ways similar to what one would see in Egypt or Pakistan,
including as a contracting partner for projects funded through intergov-
ernmental organizations and other multilateral institutions. For example,
when Jordan signed onto the Montreal Protocol (the UN-administered treaty
phasing out ozone-depleting chemicals), various agencies of the military
were granted donor funds for the collection and disposal of ozone-depleting
chemicals. KADDB even created a company—National Halons Company
Ltd.—to collect, transport, and store unwanted CFC gases on behalf of the
130 Shana Marshall
Conclusion
Although the Jordanian Army does not release statistics on military budgets
or military production that would substantiate or refute claims of profitabil-
ity, it is clear that military-affiliated enterprises enjoy many advantages that
nonmilitary enterprises do not, including exemption from corporate taxation
and regulation and subsidized access to inputs and intermediate goods such
as land, raw materials, and foreign imports. Nevertheless, the benefits of
KADDB’s activities to the Jordanian regime are not primarily economic—
they are political. Because military service has traditionally been an avenue
of social mobility for East Bank Jordanians, making more high-skilled tech-
nical jobs available within the military is an absolute necessity in the face of
mounting demographic pressures. Resentment over the allocation of scarce
state resources to military pensions, health care, subsidized housing, and
other perquisites is also attenuated by the perception—valid or not—that the
Jordan’s Military-Industrial Sector 131
military is “earning its keep” through partnerships with foreign firms and
lucrative export contracts.
The additional investment in military enterprises generated by defense off-
sets also helps promote the false narrative that outfits like KADDB deserve
state support because they provide an engine for economic growth, employ-
ment, industrial modernization, and export earnings. But the consensus among
economists is that public investment is more productive when it is directed
toward civilian industry rather than defense-related production—and govern-
ment support for defense projects acts like a giant economic vortex, sucking
private funds and skilled labor away from civilian enterprise. Although these
principles are almost universally accepted among contemporary development
scholars, governments continue to subsidize the manufacture of weapons and
the provision of security-related services while slashing spending on public
infrastructure and social services.
Jordan’s military economy is an excellent example of how privileged state
institutions adapt their business strategies according to the strictures of eco-
nomic liberalism, which presents both opportunities (to partner with foreign
investors and exploit new export markets) and limits (the need to demon-
strate profits to justify expenditures). Unfortunately in Jordan, as indeed in
most states, these adaptations are designed to ensure that influential political
constituencies can continue to enjoy subsidies and privileges regardless of
the cost. The granting of contracts and the formation of partnerships remain,
as they were before, fundamentally political questions. The difference is that
they have acquired a veneer of economic utility in order to convince audi-
ences—both foreign and domestic—that officers are good managers and that
investing in the commercial enterprises of the armed forces is good policy.
Notes
1. Vatikiotis, Politics and the Military in Jordan: A Study of the Arab Legion,
1921–1957.
2. Author’s note: An earlier version of this article appeared in Middle East Report
267 (Summer 2013).
3. Baylouny, Privatizing Welfare in the Middle East, 53; Antoun, A Social Struc-
tural Transformation of a Trans-Jordanian Peasant Community.
4. Baylouny, Privatizing Welfare in the Middle East, 57–58.
5. In Privatizing Welfare in the Middle East, 57–58, Baylouny notes that this is
achieved through a quota system, meaning that even if the number of potential enroll-
ees increases and facilities remain static, the family members of army recruits are still
guaranteed a spot.
6. Ibid., 57–58.
7. Steityeh, “Out of the Dusty Labs.”
132 Shana Marshall
24. Iraq Development Program, “Investing in Iraq’s Industrial Sectors: Public and
Mixed,” 31.
25. According to a spokesman for Volvo, one of the major international firms
implicated in the scandal, “We found out that it was the agents, a Jordanian company
called International Engineering Group (IEG), that paid them [bribes]. We ceased
to work with them already [sic] in 2002 . . . We think a handful of people [within
Volvo] should have suspected that the agent might pay kickbacks.” See also Hen-
nigan, “Global Corruption Rampant; Corporate Entertainment the New Bribery in
Developed World.”
26. LinkedIn employment profile of project director at International Engineering
Group in Baghdad lists continuing employment dates. Cf. LinkedIn. https://www.
linkedin.com/pub/rodante-rodriguez/17/476/21.
27. Sole, “SA’s Weapons Laws Easy to Dodge.”
28. Steityeh, “Out of the Dusty Labs.”
29. “Coastal Protection Venture Tabled, Middle East/Africa,” Jane’s Defence
Weekly, October 12, 2002. The venture was cancelled when the BAE-Finmeccanica
partnership was dissolved in 2005.
30. Estimate as of 2008. Amara, “Military Industrialization and Economic Devel-
opment: Jordan’s Defense Industry,” 141.
31. This is the KADDB Investment Group/KIG.
32. Contracts for space for exhibits, conferences, and classroom training are paid
to the King Abdullah Special Operations Training Center (KASOTC), which was
built and funded by the United States. A quick web search will reveal numerous
contracts between the US Department of the Army and KASOTC, including one in
2013 for US $118,000 for the lease of “conference space and facilities.” See “Kasotc
Special Operations Training Center $118,800 Contract Issued by Department of the
Army, Procurement ID: W912D213P0024,” Government Contracts, n.d., Inside Gov,
http://government-contracts.insidegov.com/l/8900368/W912D213P0024.
33. King Abdullah Design and Development Bureau, “Investment Group Newslet-
ter” (Amman: KADDB, August–September 2011).
34. Ibid.
35. King Abdullah Design and Development Bureau, “KADDB Signed a Coop-
eration Agreement with Kuwait Al Majd Company,” press release, October 8,
2014, http://www.kaddb.com/ContentParts/Pages/LatestNews/wfrmViewLatestNews.
aspx?ID=45.
36. Steityeh, “Out of the Dusty Labs.” KADDB also recently played host to a
delegation of military representatives from Libya.
37. Collombier, “Private Security . . . Not a Business Like Any Other.”
38. Report to Congress, “Measuring Stability and Security in Iraq,” 67.
39. Steityeh, “Out of the Dusty Labs.”
40. IHS Jane’s 360, “KADDB Signs Contracts,” May 12, 2010, http://home.janes.
com/events/exhibitions/sofex2010/sections/daily/day3/kaddb-signs-contracts.shtml.
41. Coverage of SOFEX on army recognition.com, a defense and security industry
marketing website, May 12, 2014, http://www.armyrecognition.com/sofex_2014_
show_daily_news_coverage_report/index.php.
134 Shana Marshall
42. In addition to jail time, the penalty of hard labor is triggered when a violation
of duty occurs in addition to the charge of corruption. The sum was US $2 million.
43. The November 2009 switch was temporary; Batayneh resumed the post of
Minister of Transport in November 2010. US embassy officials were confused by the
switch; not only was Batayneh well respected and viewed as generally “clean,” but
both top officials and royal family members were “tight-lipped” about the move, lend-
ing credence to the idea that the switch was engineered to derail investigations into
Sahel al-Majali’s role in the affordable housing scandal. Cf. US State Department,
“Biographies for Jordan’s New Government.” Majali is estimated to have pocketed
over US $1.5 million while acting as project director for the housing program.
44. The Jordanian journalist reporting on Majali’s nontrial, Jamal al-Muhtaseb,
was ordered to pretrial detention by Jordan’s State Security Court. See: Committee
to Protect Journalists, “Jordanian Journalist Arrested over Critical Article,” April
25, 2012, http://cpj.org/2012/04/jordanian-journalist-arrested-over-critical-articl.
php#more.
45. According to the company, MEDSA was formed in response to increasing
demand from private banks for armed security. But it was in fact the Jordanian police
that pressured the banks to install complicated security systems and frameworks that
would require armed personnel (thus creating “demand” for the creation of MEDSA).
Cf. Collombier, “Private Security . . . Not a Business Like Any Other.”
46. Meisa runs a large architecture firm in Jordan that was awarded the contract
to design the new terminal at Queen Alia International Airport. The US $675 million
expansion was supported by funds from the governments of Canada, France, Japan,
Kuwait, the Netherlands, and the United States, as well as the Islamic Development
Bank and USAID.
47. UAE National Media Council, “New Identity Reflects Offset’s Core Focus,”
UAEinteract, April 24, 2007 (UAE government press release).
48. Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, Public-Private
Partnerships in the Middle East and North Africa: A Handbook for Policy Makers,
107.
49. “Jordan Reduces CFC Use in Chillers,” Construction Week Online, October
28, 2010, http://www.constructionweekonline.com/article-9948-jordan-reduces-cfc-
use-in-chillers/.
50. World Bank, “Implementation and Results Report on an Ozone Projects Trust
Fund Grant in an Amount Equivalent to US $6.0 Million to the Hashemite Kingdom
of Jordan for an Ozone-Depleting Substances Phase-Out 2 Project,” 30, 33. The halon
storage program entailed a grant of US $382,250.
Chapter 6
135
136 Atta El-Battahani
the region since 2011, there is a pressing need to examine the impact of the
“Arab Spring” on the SAF.
The overwhelming role of SAF in politics and socioeconomic and eco-
nomic realities has not been matched by adequate research. Even though a
number of studies exist,2 except for Hardallo and Ali,3 none of these studies
considered the role of the military within the context of political contest
among parties or factions of ruling classes. Moreover, none considered the
SAF in relation to the extended hegemonic crisis during which alterna-
tive hegemonic projects collided more than once, although the SAF was
instrumental in these collisions. The increasingly dominant role of the army
in politics prompted some authors to depict the system as “parto-parasitic
capitalism,”4 “militarized bureaucracy,”5 and the SAF as part of the “bureau-
cratic bourgeoisie”6 or “elite of bureaucratic bourgeoisie.”7 However, no
in-depth research has been carried out into the origins of army officers in
terms of social class and political affiliation in recent years.8 Equally, the
issue of economic activities of the SAF, which began during the days of
Numeiri in the 1970s, has not attracted serious academic research.9 This
chapter attempts to fill gaps in research on the SAF’s role in politics and
the economy.
The wind of change brought by the “Arab Spring” has been felt in the rank-
and-file of the SAF. This chapter argues that siding with “change agents” at a
critical moment of transition, as the SAF had done in 1964 and 1985, is less
likely to be an option of response to recurring protest movements after 2011.
In order to protect its interests, SAF may decide to support change agents,
and some Islamist officers may be swayed to support the call for change.10
The chapter begins with tracing the history of class affiliations of army
officers and organizational changes in the SAF, placing a special emphasis
on the business activities of military officers during the decades since the
1980s. It gives a special consideration to the Sudanese oil decade 2000 to
2011, by addressing the question of what impact the oil economy has had on
the SAF, and how its rivalry with other agencies such as the National Intel-
ligence Service of Sudan (NISS) and the Rapid Support Forces (RSF)11 has
shaped Sudan’s economy. Then the chapter compares the military-Islamist
regime and in particular, the SAF in Sudan, with other cases, discussing
Bellin’s thesis that the survival of autocracy would deal a blow to military
business.12 It investigates the extent to which changes in the activities of
the military have impacted on the SAF’s stance toward emerging transition
scenarios after the “Arab Spring.” Finally, the chapter attempts to explore
how the SAF might position itself vis-à-vis change agents: whether to take
the side of autocracy or side with people calling for change. The conclusion
shows scenarios of the SAF’s response to social and political demands raised
in Sudan in 2014.
Civil-Military Relations in Sudan 137
Literature on Sudan features the military under different aspects. One stream
analyzes the military with a focus on the role of individuals and key actors in
their personal capacity as charismatic leaders in control of state institutions or
influencing those around them.13 Another line of analysis locates the military
as part of the state’s coercive apparatus with privileges entrenched in the state
bureaucracy and considers different layers at upper, middle, and lower levels.
These layers became polarized between upper-level conservative officers
and radical middle-ranking and young officers.14 From this perspective, the
majority of Sudanese officers belonged to educated groups with whom they
constituted a social elite identified as part of the middle class or petty bour-
geoisie. The soldiers and noncommissioned officers originated in the peas-
antry and working class and mainly came from peripheral regions of Sudan.
Once the recruits joined the service, they were bound to serve the interest
of the ruling propertied classes, regardless of social origin. A third stream
of studies analyzed the role played by the military as part of in-fighting of
ruling classes to establish a hegemonic power bloc,15 or blending class with
ethnic-national affiliation.16
This chapter attempts a synthesis of the military being seen as containing
social class differences and being entangled in the crisis of hegemony of the
ruling classes. It addresses the framework of social and political dynamics
of peripheral capitalism in conflict-ridden, underdeveloped Sudan from a
historical perspective with a focus on the military’s economic role. Peripheral
capitalism in Sudan precipitated violent conflicts, competition for resources,
population displacement, and encroachment of rural livelihoods, ideological
polarization, Islamic fundamentalist movements, and militarism. Accord-
ingly, Sudan shows features of a peripheral/dependent capitalist militarism,
which is not marked by capitalist-militarist structures.17 Notwithstanding
military involvement in military industry and business, a merchant-rentier
logic dominates over industrial, productive logic.
Drawing from Gramsci’s work on hegemony,18 this chapter sheds light
on the military involvement in the long, drawn-out struggle and contest in
and between factions/sections of the ruling class to tip the balance of power
in favor of this or that political party or political movement. In tracing the
motives behind military involvement, it does seem that political interests are
just as important as economic interests are. Moreover, from Gramsci’s work,
this chapter considers the failure of the ruling class to establish effective or
integral hegemony through military interventions in politics (for example,
series of coups d’état) and in the economy. Accordingly, in the context of
the “Arab Spring,” the army’s position toward a popular drive for change is
138 Atta El-Battahani
The Sudan was under British colonial rule and Egyptian control from 1896
to 1956. In 1925, the Sudan Defence Force was established, with British offi-
cers at the top, followed by Egyptians, then native officers from the central
and northern parts of Sudan, and middle and junior recruits from the less
developed regions of the Nuba Mountains, Darfur, and southern Sudan. With
independence of Sudan and the Sudanization of the officers’ corps, Sudan
emerged as “the one African country south of the Sahara . . . with a modern
Civil-Military Relations in Sudan 139
so that they could dissolve the Communist Party. This led to intensified
opposition by the communists and their allies in the trade unions, professional
middle-class groups, workers, and farmers. The free officers, led by Colonel
Jaafar al-Numeiri, jumped into the fray, staging a successful coup in May
1969, putting an end to the fragile multiparty government. At the beginning,
the free officers seemed to have the support of all democratic forces of the
opposition—both inside and outside the army—for a program they had been
struggling to implement since independence. Yet soon frictions and dispute
erupted between an Arab socialist/Nasserite faction on one hand and the com-
munist faction, on the other hand, on issues pertaining to the ideology of the
emerging regime.
In July 1971, a group of procommunist army officers mounted a blood-
less coup and declared their intention to reverse the pro-Western policies
of Numeiri and to fight neocolonialism. The events that followed revealed
the connections between the capitalists and their alliance with international
capital. The procommunist regime lasted only three days and was crushed
by direct foreign intervention, in which Lonrho28 played an instrumental role
in coordination with Egypt under President Anwar al-Sadat and Libya under
Colonel Muammar Qaddafi in a countercoup. Khalil Osman, a Sudanese mil-
lionaire with close links to army officers, also played a role in toppling the
procommunist regime in 1971. After the abortive coup by communist offi-
cers, Numeiri emerged victorious. To compensate for the loss of the support
of the leftists and to enhance legitimacy of rule, Numeiri moved closer to the
southern Sudanese rebels, who had been fighting in a civil war against the
governments of Sudan since independence, and signed a peace agreement in
Addis Ababa in 1972. He also reconciled with the northern Sudanese tradi-
tional parties in 1977.
Numeiri soon changed the security doctrine. Army officers had to take an
oath of allegiance to defend the regime, and not, as before, the nation. He
adopted an open-door economic policy with Western assistance. Western coun-
tries and oil-rich Arab countries provided military aid and economic support.
In 1982, Numeiri issued a Government Decree on the Formation of Military
Economic Corporations (MEC) as an economic arm of the Sudanese Armed
Forces. According to the decree, the objectives of MEC were defined as:
• Using excess resources of the armed forces to support the national economy
• Improving living conditions (economic and social conditions) of members
of the armed forces
• Provision of all needs of the army (ammunitions, tools, weapons, etc.) and
facilitating economic activities of the SAF
• Upgrading technical administrative capacities of members of the armed
forces29
Civil-Military Relations in Sudan 141
The overthrow of the Numeiri regime paved the way for a shift in the
power balance in favor of the Islamists. Sudan thus stands as a paradigmatic
case for evolving trends in the politics of the region, which, however, has
been neglected in both Arab and African research.
In an article on military professionalism in the Middle East, Kamrava
(2000) pointed out that professionalization enhances the military’s corpo-
rate identity. Knowing that this might also enhance political aspirations of
the military and to avoid a possible military takeover, rulers tend to adopt
countermeasures to ensure the loyalty of the army. In the course of this, they
undermined the institutional autonomy and professionalism of the military. In
Sudan, measures like these took a dramatic turn with the Islamists’ takeover
in 1989.
Within the regime alliance between the military and the Muslim Brother-
hood between 1989 and 1999, Hassan al-Turabi, the founder of the Muslim
Brotherhood in Sudan, introduced an Islamist notion of modern armies,
insisting that the army was a relic of colonialism. Al-Turabi did not conceal
his distaste of the army.34 Once they had assumed power, the Islamists imple-
mented a combination of measures: (1) outright purging of opponents, (2)
pensioning with rewards for officers who moved to set up their own business,
(3) co-opting and accommodating officers in crony-capitalist networks.
The Islamist-military coup was designed, planned, and executed by forces
outside the army, though also using some army officers. Central to the success
of the Islamist military takeover of power was the role played by al-Nẓām
al-Khāṣ (Special Organization), which had its roots in the days of Hassan al-
Banna, the founder of the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt. In Sudan, al-Nẓām
al-Khāṣ dates back to the period following the 1969 Numeiri-led coup d’état
and the aborted communist coup of 1971, and the idea was to protect the
Islamic movement from secular and communist counterattack.35 From 1971
up to the military takeover in 1989, al-Nẓām al-Khāṣ supervised and managed
military training of civilians among the ikhwan (Muslim Brothers) in schools,
universities, and neighborhoods. The infiltration into the army was boosted
by the NIF after the overthrow of Numeiri,36 focusing then in particular on
attracting graduates of engineering and technical departments.37
The new radical, military-Islamist rulers embarked on unprecedented
changes in the organization and military doctrine of the SAF. They subordi-
nated the mission of the SAF to defend the nation to defending the creed and
hence, the Islamic state. In addition to doing away with professional ethos,
Islamization materialized in laying off hundreds of top- and middle-ranking
officers. Attempts of counter military takeovers were ruthlessly repressed and
leaders executed in 1990.
The regime introduced a concept of al-sha‘b al-muqātil (fighting people),
and jihad became the game of the day. Paramilitary People Defense Forces
Civil-Military Relations in Sudan 143
(PDFs) were set up to join jihad campaigns and also to act as a reliable force
to provide security for the new regime since leaders at the top did not have
full trust in the SAF. Tribal forces (marahil), which later developed to janja-
weed, were fighting parallel to the SAF against rebels in western Sudan. The
mistrust of the regime against the SAF eventually led to the consolidation of
the power of the NISS, which stands rival to the SAF, and in many respects,
became more powerful than the military.38
Disregard of chains of command as well as rules and procedures of
promotion was a further structural change imposed on the SAF. The
existing rules and procedures were thought to be Western and in need
to be Islamized and hence, the benchmarks and criteria were changed
accordingly. As a result, some groups and identities were privileged at
the expense of others. Entitlements and rewards families of soldiers and
officers who had died in combat used to receive were now denied for non-
Muslim soldiers and officers, describing them not as martyrs but as just
“dead.”39 The munaẓamat al-shahiyd (Martyrs’ Organization) took care
of the families of the martyrs, and the imposed restrictions led to serious
frictions among soldiers and officers. On the other hand, the Islamist
leadership was driven by an operational-pragmatic logic. Abandoning high-
handed principles of jihad, the regime cooperated with whomever assisted
in taking sides against opponents. This happened in the civil war in southern
Sudan, in reported cases of cooperation between the Khartoum government
and the janjaweed in Darfur,40 and with the Ugandan Lord Resistance
Army.41
All these changes indicate fear of the regime from the army’s reaction to
ideological indoctrination. They rendered the SAF less institutionalized, less
professional, and, ironically, starved the military of resources despite huge
budgetary allocations.42 There are indicators that members of the SAF and
other security-related agencies engaged in illicit economic activities in order
to alleviate the fiscal crisis of the state. The changes weakened the combat
readiness of the SAF and made it incapable of responding to rebel threats to
central authorities in Darfur, the Nuba Mountains, and Blue Nile regions. In
this way, the safety and security agenda of the leadership relegated the role
of the army to a toothless watchdog.43
The 1998 constitution finally brought the SAF under control of civilian
leadership of the single ruling party, the National Congress Party (NCP),
which was then chaired by al-Turabi, who was also the Speaker of the Par-
liament. This move did not go well with top-ranking military officers who
adhered to Islamism—that is, Omar al-Bashir and his associates. This group
around the president toppled al-Turabi, the iconic leader of the Muslim
Brotherhood, in 1999. The split ended civilian control of al-Nẓām al-Khāṣ,
after the military fully took power over it.
144 Atta El-Battahani
To fund the jihad hoping to eventually defeat the SPLM/A, the Inqādh
(salvation) regime overtaxed the population and embarked on privatization by
selling state-owned assets and forming joint ventures with Islamist and Asian
companies to develop the arms industry in Sudan. Parallel to this and in order
to circumvent Western economic sanctions, Sudan invited China to commer-
cially exploit oil that Chevron had explored in the late 1970s and early 1980s.
By 1999 to 2000, Sudan started to export oil, a development that increased
the stakes and aggravated the armed conflict with the SPLM/A.
The removal of al-Turabi from the regime provided the NCP, dominated
by Islamists under the leadership of President al-Bashir, with a greater margin
of manoeuver to strike a power-sharing agreement with the SPLM concluded
in 2005. As rent-seeking groups, both the NCP and SPLM had no political
and economic development vision other than channeling oil-generated rents
to their clients and constituencies.44
The oil boom 2000 to 2011 had a dramatic impact on Sudan’s economy. It
increased its growth rate, boosted the value of the Sudanese currency, and
provided the government with high liquidity.45 The share of government allo-
cation for the SAF and the NISS increased considerably, and this widened
the networks of business circles (both inside and outside the country) with
whom the military was dealing. As a net result, the oil boom enhanced the
rentier nature of the economy and the SAF’s inability to initiate and develop
a military capitalist industry à la Turkey, Pakistan, or Egypt.
Neoliberal policies were aggressively adopted, and power sharing between
rent-seeking elites bent on maximizing their short-term interests promoted a
strong social bias in reaping the benefits of the oil economy. The oil wealth
fueled the appetite of crony capitalists and rebel groups and provided the
military industry with resources. However, the meager data available shows
that the military’s contribution to the industrial sector of the economy has not
been a success.46
With the radical tone of the military-Islamist regime in 1989 and the war
against the SPLA taking a religious turn with calls for jihad, fears arose that
Western countries might stop supplying the necessary arms and even lead a
boycott. These concerns gave rise to efforts that led to the establishment of a
military industry to secure the provision of military hardware and ammuni-
tion in line with market-friendly policies—and independent of the army.47
In 1993, the Military Industry Corporation (MIC) was established through a
presidential decree, with a board of directors led by a military officer and a
civilian as executive officer. Funding was secured as follows:
Civil-Military Relations in Sudan 145
1. The initial capital layout was facilitated by relations with the international
Islamic movement via al-Turabi links, Osama bin Laden, and rich Islamist
circles from Gulf countries.
2. Funds were (taxes, oil rent) from government, ministry of finance, and the
national economy.
3. Some jibayat (levies) were allocated to the MIC.
The idea of establishing the MIC was first nurtured by the NISS, whose
long-standing Islamist engineers (the graduates of the Faculty of Engineering
in the early 1980s) were the first recruits to support both security and military
industrialization with their professional training and background. The MIC’s
relationship with the army was purely commercial, and it seems that the SAF
had no direct control over the MIC.48 Different from other countries, the
military business in Sudan involved intricate and complex relations between
various networks of the Islamic regime where business was intertwined and
firmly bound together with ideological and political ties.
The MIC products are mostly reassembled military armory, including
trucks, naval boats, rocket launchers, communication and optical equip-
ment, an electronic firing range simulator, and ammunition, in addition to
light manufactured goods for civilian consumption such as cars.49 Some of
Sudan’s manufactured military weapons and ammunition has found its way to
neighboring countries. The contribution of the MIC to the national economy
was minimal. According to an official report, it contributed between 10 and
15 percent to the gross national product.50 Even though the SAF receives the
major share of the state budget (60 to 70 percent), there is no trace of added-
value activities by SAF through the MIC. In this regard, military spending is
a drain on the economy.
The MIC also owns a quarter of the government’s GIAD Industrial City,
where a number of factories produce manufactured goods, and which is
located 50 kilometers south of Khartoum. GIAD’s founding stone was laid in
March 1997, in accordance with a partnership between SMT Engineering Co.
Ltd. (76 percent) and the MIC (24 percent). After establishing civil construc-
tions, factories, and workshops, the GIAD City was officially inaugurated on
October 26, 2000. It has an industrial and a residential part. The industrial
part encompasses the GIAD Automotive Industry Holding Group with seven
subsidiary groups,51 besides smaller companies such as the GIAD Company
for Steel Manufactures and Pipes, the Copper Factory, GIAD–Elsewey
Cables Company, Electrical Wires and Cables production plant, GIAD Ser-
vices Company Ltd., and Bouruj Engineering Company—all of them being
part of GIAD’s Industrial Group. There are other military manufacturing sites
around Khartoum such as the one alleged to have been destroyed by Israeli
rockets in 2012. Safat Aviation Group is another military manufacturing
146 Atta El-Battahani
enterprise, products of which found their way to the International Fair at Abu
Dhabi.52
Construction projects and multistory buildings in urban Khartoum such
as the SAF headquarters, hospitals, and residential quarters provided room
for business contracts with both internal and external circles. A number of
reports alleged close links between officials and their relatives at the top-level
leadership of the state, with circles of business and finance inside and outside
the country.53 Abdel-Rahman al-Amin provided figures on deals, revolving
financing, networks with rich shaykhs (patriarchs) in the Gulf, and regional
and international banks, as well as on business cycles for the benefit of those
at the top.54 Links between Islamic business in Sudan and Gulf financial
and commercial circles predated the Inqādh regime,55 but these circles have
received a tremendous boost during the Islamist reign, and many Sudanese
Islamist businessmen including retired army officers have established trade
links with the Gulf financial and commercial elite.
Oil rents, expansion of manufacturing ventures run by the army, and the
mushrooming of business networks all added to a momentum of expansion of
the SAF (and the NISS and other organized forces such as the PDF) toward
establishing upper-level army offices as part of the wealthy strata. Being part
of a broader new middle class, the strength of this momentum was such that
it survived policy measures and attempts to create a professional army. One
serious attempt of this sort came on the heels of signing the Comprehensive
Peace Agreement between the NCP and the SPLM/A in 2005. To build a
professional, united army out of Joint Integrated Units (JIUs) composed of
troops from the SAF and the SPLA was considered as a panacea for keeping
the country (North and South) together. The JIUs were meant to form the
core of the restructured armed forces to protect a united, democratic Sudan
and to bring the army under civilian control. However, underlying interests
of rent-seeking elites in the NCP and SPLM militated against the formation
of a professional army and civilian control and instead opted for power shar-
ing. As a result, JIUs never took off as a real prototype for a national army.
During the oil decade, the SAF had become the third largest African army
in terms of military spending.56 Once South Sudan seceded in 2011, the mili-
tary was the first to feel the crunch, evidenced by unfinished huge multistory
buildings at the headquarters of the SAF. Salaries and provisions were also
affected, which resulted in many soldiers deserting or leaving their jobs. SAF
advertisements for lower-ranking jobs that were not responded to prompted
the leadership to ask retired army officers to rejoin the service. Yet this pic-
ture contrasts sharply with the fact that spending on the army, security, and
police amounts to almost 70 percent of the government budget.57
Notwithstanding Islamist rhetoric to safeguard national independence, in
effect Sudan was reduced to a weak state seeking support from either “strong”
Civil-Military Relations in Sudan 147
loss of oil revenues and Sudan’s economic and financial crisis, it was the sup-
port from Qatar that bailed out the Sudanese government.81 However, Qatar’s
role is not confined to financial and economic assistance,82 but there are signs
of an emerging political tutelage of grand design as regards the support of
radical Islamic movements in the region in which Sudan is seen as a pawn.
During its first decade in power (in the 1990s), the radical Islamic regime in
Sudan had made systematic efforts to expand and destabilize neighboring
countries as well as other Islamic countries in North Africa and the Middle
East.83 The “Arab Spring” and the subsequent rise of Islamic movements,
with which Khartoum has ideological affinity if not organizational links,
cast anew Sudan’s role under the coaching of Qatar’s supporting and aiding
allies. Evidence and reports of the Khartoum government facilitating logis-
tics and delivery of arms, money, and safe shelter to Hamas and Islamists in
Libya abound, with the potential threat they pose to the new anti-Islamist
regime in Egypt.84 In countering diplomatic and political measures taken by
Western countries, the Khartoum government relies on support from China
and Russia, among others.
Generally, the institutionalized, meritocratic nature of the Sudanese army
eroded over time and was completely undermined by the Islamist rule since
1989.85 One of the most disturbing signs in this regard is the increasingly
leading role played by the NISS vis-à-vis the SAF, and within the NISS
itself, the prominent role given to the RSF. While it is difficult to verify,
there are visible signs that NISS inner circles are dominated by elements from
the northern region whose loyalty to the presidency and NCP leadership is
beyond question. Intense power struggles at the center among the Khartoum
ruling elites have always drawn in, as allies or opponents, elites from periph-
eral regions, and this also has been the case during the Islamists’ reign. At the
same time, the rulers in Khartoum deliberately fueled fears of ethnic incur-
sions and persecution by the RSF if and when nonstate armed groups would
march into the northern regions.
In the past (1964, 1985), military intervention in Sudan used to take the
side of the people who protested against autocracy, thus sealing the fate of the
incumbent regimes and leading to the success of intifada. Since the secession
of South Sudan, the situation has been different; popular mobilization has
been moderate. Such moderate mobilization may be easily repressed with-
out too many consequences, whereas the violent repression of a large-scale
mobilization would be costly in terms of institutional integrity of the security
apparatus, international support, and domestic legitimacy. For the military,
institutional survival is an existential interest that it will most likely prioritize
over its other corporate interests.86 Hence, in the case of popular uprisings,
parallel military apparatuses, and the distribution of material incentives within
Sudan’s neopatrimonial regime, the military may withdraw its loyalty.87
Civil-Military Relations in Sudan 151
Conclusion
The Sudanese military’s engagement in politics goes back to the early post-
colonial period in the 1950s. It started its economic activities in the 1980s,
which continued under a military-Islamist regime that has lasted since 1989.
The above analysis shows that the economic activities of the SAF have been
peripheral to its military and political functions. The reason for this has been
particular to the Sudanese context: a peripheral country with an underdevel-
oped, dependent economy, an overdeveloped state apparatus, and expand-
ing armed groups. Due to these characteristics, the military has not become
involved in all fields of the economy, nor has it established links with the
war industry and formed a capitalist military-industrial complex. Instead, in
Sudan the military has acted more like a merchant, a rentier, or a bureaucrat
living on government spoils and spin-off.
The impact of the military manufacturing industry on the national economy
of Sudan and the involvement of the SAF in civilian economic activities has
been low when compared to Egypt. The focus of military production has been
on internal war supplies and export. However, the SAF is not less influential
in shaping the future political course of events than the military elsewhere.
Different from the cases of Tunisia, Egypt, or Algeria, in Sudan, the military
is being pulled in three different directions by a transition dilemma: Is it to
stick to its historic character and side with change agents, is it to defend the
Islamist agenda, or is it to stay neutral in order to protect its upper echelons’
expanding corporate business interests? A further twist in this dilemma is
that the alliance between the military and Islamists renders these options not
necessarily mutually exclusive.
A number of crucial points follow from this. First, in a way, the combined
effect of secession of South Sudan and the events of the “Arab Spring” have
added to the urgency for change, yet calls for change have been dashed by
Islamic autocracy in Sudan whose survival is gaining and attracting the sup-
port of groups and states in the region.
Second, the experience of Islamism in Sudan has a devastating impact on
SAF’s professionalism. A radical Islamic elite has adopted aggressive neo-
liberal policies, made structural changes in the SAF, and acquired windfall
oil rents (2000–2011). Yet presiding over failing state institutions, the Inqādh
regime has succeeded in instrumentalizing protracted violent conflict and
expanding rentier networks to involve upper-level ranks of the SAF in busi-
ness, although without adding real economic value to the national economy.
The SAF business has been geared more toward regime survival than toward
a positive impact on the national economy.
Third, one lesson from Sudan’s recent political history is that civilian
politicians cannot do without some sort of symbiotic relationship with the
152 Atta El-Battahani
military, and equally, the military cannot go alone, they need to work with
civilians. However, the structural changes wrought by the Inqādh regime has
had a mixed impact on the SAF: it has weakened it by boosting potential
rivals but at the same time has nurtured economic corporatism of at least the
upper ranks of the SAF.
Fourth, it is doubtful whether the business interests of the upper echelons
of the SAF would tip the balance of power inside the army for joining pos-
sible protests for change. Depending on the turn of events, a palace coup is
more likely to preserve the interests of the Islamic movement and its allied
cronies and nouveaux riches.
Fifth, it is an open question whether the resilience shown by the broad
mass of Sudanese society in not totally succumbing to the dictates of the
regime has had an impact on the military. It remains to be seen whether
the SAF might recall its historic role in standing up to rival institutions
formed during the last three decades and side with the people in an event
of intifada or whether the structural changes in SAF will make such a reac-
tion unlikely. Only history can tell. However, what this chapter underscores
is that the dynamics of the country’s complex and protracted conflicts and
turbulent economy assure a “central” role for SAF, at least for the foresee-
able future, in tipping the balance of power in the contest for state power
in Sudan.
Notes
70. United Nations Data, “Sudan. World Statistics Pocketbook,” 2014, http://data.
un.org/CountryProfile.aspx?crName=Sudan, accessed August 31, 2015.
71. According to Mohamed Kabaj, economic researcher and advisor to wealth-
sharing talks in the Darfur Document on Peace in Sudan, and Ahmed El-Majzoub,
former state minister at the Ministry of Finance, Khartoum 2014.
72. Altageer Daily, July 8, 2014.
73. Al-Arab newspaper, July 23, 2015, and alrakouba.net.
74. Dr. Ali Suliman, former dean of the faculty of law, University of Khartoum,
said that he is now receiving a salary equal to that received by the soldiers in the SAF.
75. Ibid.
76. For example, the alleged coup attempt by Brigadier General Wad Ibrahim in
November 2012; cf. El Gizouli, “Wad Ibrahim: The Mopes of Retirement.”
77. There are conflicting reports on the nature and role of these forces: for the
government RSF are disciplined forces acting within the boundaries of law; for
the opposition and civil society organizations, RSF are paramilitary forces used by
the security to silence critics and opposition leaders. Recent events tend to give cred-
ibility to the government account.
78. In the past, Military Acts were issued in 1958, September 1983, and September
1986.
79. Oil from South Sudan is pumped for a fee through a pipeline through Sudan
up to Port Sudan at the Red Sea.
80. Sidahmed, The Oil Years in Sudan.
81. Oxford Analytica. “Qatar-Sudan Ties Are Laced with Doha Pragmatism.”
82. Ismail, “The Many Faces of al-Bashir: Sudan’s Persian Gulf Power Games.”
83. Ibrahim, “Economic Liberalization and the New Economic Elites in Sudan:
1992–2006”; El-Daw, Al-Khandaq: Asrar Dawlat al-Fasad wa-l-Istibdad.
84. El-Daw, Al-Khandaq: Asrar Dawlat al-Fasad wa-l-Istibdad; Ismail, “The
Many Faces of al-Bashir: Sudan’s Persian Gulf Power Games.”
85. Saeed, Al-Sayf wa-l-Tughah: Al-Quwwat al-Musallaha al-Suwdaniyya—
Dirasa Tahliyliyya 1971–1995; Mirghani, “Al-Jaish al-Soudani wa al-Siyasa”; Idris,
Al-Islamiyyoun: Azmar al-Royaa wa al-Giyada. In this regard, the Sudanese Army is
different from both Tunisian and Egyptian armies, which are highly institutionalized,
meritocratic, with well-established paths of career advancement and recruitment,
cf. Saeed, Al-Sayf wa-l-Tughah: Al-Quwwat al-Musallaha al-Suwdaniyya—Dirasa
Tahliyliyya 1971–1995.
86. Kårtveit and Gabrielsen Jumbert, Civil-Military Relations in the Middle East.
87. This explains the contrast between military responses to popular uprisings in
Tunisia and Egypt, and other countries in the region such as Libya, Syria, and Sudan.
In Tunisia and Egypt the army enjoyed a high degree of professionalism and insti-
tutionalization and, most importantly, military commanders saw that their corporate-
institutional interests did not depend on the political survival of their former rulers
(similar as in Sudan in 1964 and 1985).
Chapter 7
The 2011 “Arab Spring” provoked a range of responses from the armed
forces of regimes across the Middle East and North Africa. Unlike a number
of other Arab militaries confronted by political dissent in 2011, the Yemeni
military was divided in their response, with some commanders rallying
around the regime and others stepping out in opposition to long-standing
president Ali Abdullah Saleh. The reaction of the Yemeni Armed Forces to
widespread antigovernment protests and continued factionalization can be
explained, in large part, by changes in ruling bargains and patronage politics
over the decade preceding the uprisings that challenged the economic and
political interests of the Yemeni officer corps in particular. This chapter
examines Yemeni civil-military relations before and after the 2011 uprisings,
arguing that the Yemeni military gained special access to and opportunities
within the state apparatus and the private economic sector under the Saleh
regime as a result of its central role in patronage politics and regime security.
Saleh’s narrowing of the patronage network in a way that threatened the eco-
nomic and political interests of the officer corps and existing patron-client
relations contributed to individual commanders’ decisions to either join pro-
testors calling for the ouster of then-president Saleh or side with him. Such
factors continue to contribute to the decision making of individual members
of the armed forces, as well as those seeking a new ruling bargain with the
transitional government led by President Abd Rabbuh Mansour Hadi, elected
in early 2012.
The military’s response to the 2011 uprisings highlighted the fact that
the duties of the Yemeni military are indeed not restricted to regime and
national security matters, but rather are inherently tied to Yemen’s social,
economic, and political networks through its tribal composition and patron-
age relations. Examining the evolution of Yemeni civil-military relations
157
158 Adam C. Seitz
and the reaction of the armed forces to the uprisings sheds light on how the
military elite benefited from their service and patronage politics, giving them
special access to the Yemeni economy and “sources of wealth” under former
President Saleh. Ahmed Saif highlights three sources of wealth for the ruling
establishment: a bloated military budget that does not correspond to the real
size of the army and security forces; control over import licenses, real estate,
and other industries through the Military Economic Corporation (MECO);
and finally, involvement in smuggling activities of all forms.2 Key elites
within the officer corps increasingly gained privileged access to the sources
of wealth when the military transitioned from a mercenary army under the
Imamate to what has been widely referred to as a “praetorian” force under
the Saleh regime.3
This chapter begins with a brief review of the history of civil-military
regime relations and the expansion of the military’s economic and political
interests in the northern Yemen Arab Republic before 2011. Through this
historical background, it underscores the tribal composition of the armed
forces and its central role in the patronage system, which contributed to the
development of what has been referred to as the “tribal-military-commercial
complex” in Yemen in the 1980s. I then move on to discuss three areas that
challenged existing ruling bargains between the regime, the Yemeni Armed
Forces, and their patrons starting in the early 2000s, which highlights the
influence that corporate and political interests play in the decision making of
the Yemeni officer corps. Based on an analysis of various media sources and
interviews with current and former Yemeni government officials and busi-
nessmen, the chapter concludes with an examination of developments since
the signing of the Gulf Cooperation Council Initiative in November 201l and
the resignation of the transitional government in January 2015.
politics and tribalism, and, in the case of Saleh, facilitated the expansion of
the military’s role in the economy in the 1980s.
Prior to the 1962 revolution, the standing army of the Imamate state was
small, unprofessional, and ill equipped, forcing the Imam to instead rely on
tribal mercenaries for defense. The “support” of the paramount sheikhs of the
dominant Hashid and Bakil tribal confederations was given to the Imam in
exchange for a great deal of local autonomy, and over time were maintained
through a combination of savvy political maneuvering, factional manipula-
tion, gifts, and subsidies.4 Although the officers who led the 1962 revolution
set out to create a professional officer corps loyal to the state, the result was
anything but that—with tribal objections serving as the primary obstacle to
reform efforts. Instead, tribal influence continued to dominate the armed
forces into the 1970s. The armed forces inherited by al-Hamdi in 1974 were
described as consisting “of a large number of relatively self-contained fight-
ing units, little armies within the army,” with some units continuing to have
“parochial loyalties and to serve as power centers for contending factions
within and without the officers’ corps.”5 Al-Hamdi attempted to build a pro-
fessional military and thereby limit tribal influence over the armed forces, and
by extension, Yemeni politics, but his efforts were met with great resistance.
His reign ended with his assassination in 1977.
The pervasiveness of tribal influence over Yemeni society, politics, and
the armed forces was not lost on Saleh when he assumed the presidency in
1978. Saleh initially avoided military reforms like those that contributed to
al-Hamid’s downfall, and instead chose the path of least resistance, using
patron-client relations to build a praetorian army.6 Like his predecessors,
Saleh’s own rise through the military ranks and to the presidency is not only
reflective of the deep tribal penetration of Yemeni state institutions but also
the significance of patron-client relationships within the Yemeni military.
Saleh’s selection for the presidency came in large part as a result of his role
in the two preceding coups and the patronage relationship developed between
Saleh and al-Ghashmi and key tribal, military, and commercial elites. During
his military service, Saleh benefited not only politically but also economically
through the military’s role in smuggling activities. Following Saleh’s gradua-
tion from the officer’s training school in Sanaʿa, his first posting was at a mili-
tary base along a main road that served as a smuggling route between the port
city of Mocha and Taiz. According to Steven Day, during this posting Saleh
prospered in his work, not only through the bribes he received from whiskey
smugglers but also through the development of “important friendships with
merchants in Taiz.”7 Day’s observations underscore two things that are of
particular importance here: first, the special access that officers gained to
what was and remains an important source of wealth in Yemen—smug-
gling—and second, the important role that personal patronage relationships
160 Adam C. Seitz
played not only in Saleh’s commission in the army and later in building a
political powerbase but also in contributing to an increased involvement of
the military in the economy under his presidency.
The governments that rose from the ashes of the Imamate and nearly a
decade of civil war in the 1960s were increasingly reliant upon the military
for regime security and political support, with officers and their tribal patrons
gaining greater access to both the formal and informal Yemeni economy in
return for their support of the regime. This was especially true given the tribal
composition of the armed forces and the military’s central role in the Saleh
regime’s patronage system, which have been described as having “blurred
the social lines between historically distinct groups,”8 making it difficult to
distinguish between the state and civil society. The patronage relationships
Saleh forged with key tribal and commercial elites during his own military
service and the continued tribal influence over the armed forces aided in the
development of the tribal-military-commercial complex that emerged in the
1980s. They also contributed to the praetorian character of the Yemeni mili-
tary, with the armed forces being seen by a number of analysts and scholars
as “more willing to be assigned a role in maintaining internal order on behalf
of the incumbent regime.”9 Such a characterization was due, in part, to the
corporate interests in maintaining such a role, and benefits received from the
rent-based patronage networks under the Saleh regime.
While “social codes” prevented what was essentially a mercenary army from
participating in trade and commerce under the Imamate,10 the military’s role
in Yemeni politics and the economy grew under President Ali Abdullah
Saleh. The development of what has been described as a “tribal-military-
commercial complex” in the 1980s, in which “high-ranking officers and a
few great merchants’ families all had their hands in each other’s pockets,”11
turned the military into a significant economic player in its own right.
The International Crisis Group notes that changes in the Yemeni political
economy contributed greatly to a “convergence of military and commercial
interests in the 1980s,” asserting:
In the 1970s, the country was awash with lucrative remittances from Yemenis
working in Gulf states. At the same time, the central government benefited from
aid and loan packages from a variety of sources including the US, Soviet Union
and Gulf states. In the early 1980s, aid dried up and remittances levelled off.
Following the crash of oil prices in the mid-1980s, the government stabilized
foreign reserves by banning private imports.12
Patronage Politics in Transition 161
regime with political and military appointments, which in turn gave them
privileged access to the aforementioned sources of wealth. When aid, remit-
tances, and oil revenues began to taper off in the mid-1980s, new coalitions
were required to avoid economic collapse. The crash and resulting govern-
ment ban on private imports in the mid-1980s resulted in a convergence of
interests for a number of elite groups. Saleh was able to bring together a
number of influential and disparate groups by linking their economic and
political interests to one another and the regime, resulting in the formation
of a tribal-military-commercial complex in Yemen. The military, through
MECO, served as an essential link in this chain, making it an important eco-
nomic actor in its own right.
fitting for explaining the supremacy of the old guard of the north and Saleh’s
brand of patronage politics in shaping civil-military-regime dynamics in the
newly “unified” Republic of Yemen. Saleh’s early moves to consolidate
power, sideline the Yemeni Socialist Party, and disarm southern security
forces between 1990 and 1993 were solidified with the victory of the north
over the southern separatists in a brief civil war in 1994.
In addition to the military and civil service purge of the early 1990s, the
Saleh regime responded to recommendations made by international lend-
ing institutions and privatization efforts by implementing a number of eco-
nomic reforms, which included some structural adjustments to MECO. This
included changing the name of the military-run conglomerate from MECO
to the Yemeni Economic Corporation (YECO)22 and changing a number of
its leadership posts to nonmilitary personnel—many of whom were related
to Saleh. Such a move unwittingly institutionalized the tribal-military-com-
mercial complex within the context of privatization and liberalization efforts,
allowing the military to greatly expand its influence over the Yemeni econ-
omy into the private sector by giving officers and their tribal patrons access
to import licenses, real estate, and other businesses. Adding to the portfolio
of YECO, many of the assets seized and property occupied by northern forces
following their victory over southern separatists in 1994 came to be held by
the military-run conglomerate. YECO and the Yemeni Armed Forces came
to benefit greatly from the civil war and postunification privatization efforts,
absorbing a number of former southern state-owned enterprises and the two
largest privatized companies in the north.23 According to its own advertis-
ing, YECO has oversight over “the development of every industry including
pharmaceuticals, agriculture, and construction.”24
Since the early 2000s, however, the tribal-military-commercial complex
and praetorian role of the Yemeni Armed Forces has been under increasing
pressure. This was a result of the regime’s attempts at security sector and
economic reform, the Saleh regime’s role in the US-led global War on Ter-
ror, and the dynastic aspirations of the former president. Such factors brought
pressure on existing ruling bargains and increasingly challenged patronage
relations, threatening the political and economic interests of a number of
important stakeholders—especially members of the officer corps and their
patrons.
Sanaʿa to pursue the war in Saʿda, as well as reports that the Salehs were
actively plotting his demise.39
Not only were General Ali Mohsen’s political ambitions challenged by
Saleh’s exclusionary policies and the war in the Saʿda, but perhaps more
important were the impacts on his access to the sources of wealth, which
he had benefited greatly from over the past thirty-three years. The growing
rivalry between the Salehs and Ali Mohsen, led Saleh—in his capacity as the
supreme commander of the armed forces—to call for an audit of units under
General Ali Mohsen’s command in the mid-2000s, in what was described
as an effort to stem corruption and government waste.40 Although the audit
never took place, it was yet another attempt by the Salehs to not only publicly
discredit Ali Mohsen as corrupt but also to cut him off from a significant
source of wealth, personal power, and patronage through the elimination of
his access to “ghost soldiers” to line his pocket and those of his own tribal,
military, and political patrons.
The case of General Ali Mohsen stands as an important example of the
influence that patronage politics and corporate interests play in military deci-
sion making, and in shaping Yemeni civil-military relations in general. The
use of the al-Houthi insurgency to sideline General Ali Mohsen, as well as
economic and military reforms throughout the 2000s, challenged existing rul-
ing bargains, not only between Saleh and Ali Mohsen but also a number of
key elites who benefited from existing patronage relations and the access they
had gained through their clients within the armed forces. When commanders
were faced with the decision to either support the Saleh regime or back those
calling for the president’s ouster, the praetorian relationship between the
military and regime was put to the test. The decisions of individual officers
were ultimately influenced by their own economic and political interests and
those of their tribal patrons.
from the subsidies and their role in smuggling subsidized diesel. The lifting of
the subsidies contributed, in part, to a number of units’ decisions to surrender
to the Houthis as they descended on the capital, demanding that the subsidies
were to be put back in place.
In addition to their calls to reinstate the subsidies, following their occupa-
tion of Sanaʿa and an agreement with the Hadi government, the Houthi lead-
ership demanded that the roughly twenty thousand Houthi militiamen that
now occupied the capital be incorporated into the Yemeni army and police.
Ali al-Bikhiti, a spokesman for the Houthis, asserted that the group be treated
like the Islah Party, whose loyalists had been recruited into the armed forces
following the formation of Yemen’s “unity” government in 2012.45 The
Houthis reiterated this demand in January 2015 as a precondition for talks
on releasing President Hadi and several of his cabinet members from house
arrest.46 The statement by al-Bikhiti and the repeated demands by the Houthis
to be incorporated into the armed forces underscore the continued signifi-
cance of the armed forces in patronage politics in Yemen. Hadi’s recruitment
of Islah party members and their patrons was merely a realignment of patron-
age politics, and the Houthi’s demand to incorporate their own patrons was
an attempt by the group to do the same.
Conclusion
Through its role in patronage politics under the Saleh regime, the Yemeni
Armed Forces, and the officer corps in particular, gained privileged access
to the country’s sources of wealth. Saleh-style patronage politics contributed
to the development of the tribal-military-commercial complex in Yemen,
which further cemented the military’s role in the Yemeni economy. Their role
in YECO in particular gave select members of the military elite privileged
access to the sources of wealth, not least of which in its role as a conduit
for international development aid. In the context of a lack of employment
opportunities and a seemingly endless cycle of insecurity, the military has
been transformed into an important source of wealth in its own right. As
the Yemeni officer corps has been transformed into an elite class of its own,
members of this elite group have increasingly sought to protect their own
access to the sources of wealth, which at times has put officers at odds with
clients and patrons alike.
At the time of this writing, Yemen’s political and security crisis had
devolved into civil war between competing elite factions, and regional mili-
tary intervention led by Saudi Arabia. Elite competition for political influ-
ence and access to the sources of wealth amid military factionalization has
contributed greatly to the current conflict. Although much remains uncertain
Patronage Politics in Transition 171
as Yemen enters a new stage of political violence, if history can provide any
insights, the armed forces seem likely to retain a central role in linking a num-
ber of disparate groups to the government, as tribal and political elites seek
to renegotiate ruling bargains within an environment dominated by persistent
security threats, elite competition, weak institutions, and political patronage,
in which loyalty can be bought but never truly owned.
Notes
1. This chapter draws on the author’s previously published work (cf. Seitz, “The
‘Arab Spring’ and Yemeni Civil-Military Relations,” 49–66.
2. Saif, Complex Power Relations in Yemen Provide Opportunities for al-Qaeda,
3; Robinson, Wilcox, Carpenter, and Al-Iryani, Yemen Corruption Assessment, 3–4.
3. The term praetorian or praetorianism has been used by number of scholars to
describe civil-military relations in Yemen. See Droz-Vincent, “From Fighting Wars
to Maintaining Civil Peace?” 394; Droz-Vincent, A Return of Armies to the Forefront
of Arab Politics?; Knights, “The Military Role in Yemen’s Protests,” 261; Barany,
“Comparing the Arab Revolts: The Role of the Military,” 28–39.
4. Burrowes, The Yemen Arab Republic, 18–19.
5. Ibid., 64.
6. The tribal composition of the Yemeni Armed Forces and the significance of
patron-client relations have recently been discussed by a number of regional scholars.
Barany points out that unlike many of the other Arab states faced with the challenges
of widespread public unrest, “[t]ribal affiliations . . . are of the foremost importance in
Yemen” where appointments to positions of trust, including key military posts, were
based upon tribal and kinship ties. Droz-Vincent seconds this observation, describing
the Yemeni military as being characterized “by deep penetration of tribal relations.”
Furthermore, the tribal composition of the military and its role in Saleh’s system of
patronage have made it all the more difficult to rally the military behind a central
ideology, undercutting any efforts to transcend Yemen’s tribal sociopolitical system.
As Fattah argues, “The feeling of tribal allegiance inside Yemen’s military is, at least,
as equal to military allegiance.” (Barany, “Comparing the Arab Revolts,” 33; Droz-
Vincent, “From Fighting Wars,” 392–94; Fattah, “A Political History of Civil-Military
Relations in Yemen,” 25–47.
7. Day, Regionalism and Rebellion in Yemen, 90–91.
8. Barrett, Yemen: A Different Political Paradigm in Context, 70.
9. Droz-Vincent, “From Fighting Wars,” 394; Droz-Vincent, A Return of Armies
to the Forefront of Arab Politics?; Barany, “Comparing the Arab Revolts,” 28–39.
10. Chaudhry, The Price of Wealth: Economies and Institutions in the Middle
East, 111.
11. Blumi, Chaos in Yemen: Societal Collapse and the New Authoritarianism, 176.
12. International Crisis Group, “Yemen’s Military-Security Reform,” 3–4. See
also Chaudhry, The Price of Wealth, 193–225, 269–77; Dresch, A History of Modern
Yemen, 156–59.
172 Adam C. Seitz
13. Dresch, A History of Modern Yemen, 163. See also International Crisis Group,
“Yemen’s Military-Security Reform,” 3.
14. International Crisis Group, “Yemen’s Military-Security Reform,” 3–4.
15. Salisbury, Yemen’s Economy: Oil, Imports and Elites, 10–11.
16. Dresch, A History of Modern Yemen, 159.
17. Peter Salisbury noted of YECO (formerly MECO) and the military’s role
therein that “discussions with Yemeni businessmen, diplomats, officials at interna-
tional institutions and other sources have all yielded a similar result. Yeco is a ‘big’
and ‘important’ player in the economy, but to what extent remains unknown.” (Salis-
bury, Yemen’s Economy: Oil, Imports and Elites, 12). Similar views were expressed
in the author’s own discussions and interviews with Yemeni businessmen and former
government officials in the summer of 2014.
18. Collins, Dancing on the Heads of Snakes, 122–23.
19. Carapico, The Political Economy of Activism in Modern Arabia, 55.
20. Dahlgren, “The Snake with a Thousand Heads: The Southern Cause in
Yemen.”
21. Blumi, Chaos in Yemen, 139, 175–76; Day, Regionalism and Rebellion in
Yemen, 137–38.
22. YECO—Yemeni Economical Corporation website: http://yeco.biz/yecoeng/.
23. Phillips, “Al-Qaeda and the Struggle for Yemen,” 110.
24. Summit Communications, “Fighting for Fair Trade”; YECO website at http://
yeco.biz/yecoeng/.
25. United States Agency for International Development, Yemen Corruption
Assessment, 4; Cordesman and Wilner, The Gulf Military Balance in 2012, 20–24.
26. Phillips, Yemen and the Politics of Permanent Crisis.
27. United States Agency for International Development, Yemen Corruption
Assessment, 4.
28. International Crisis Group, “Yemen’s Military-Security Reform,” 4.
29. Sultan, The Bane of Privatization and Liberalization.
30. Phillips, “Al-Qaeda and the Struggle for Yemen,” 108; Hassan, “Details of
Daily Draining That Befalls Yemen.”
31. Blumi, Chaos in Yemen, 154.
32. Prados and Sharp, “Yemen: Current Conditions and U.S. Relations,” 4, 6.
33. Harris, “The Role of Tribes in the Stabilisation of Yemen,” 270.
34. Ibid., 264.
35. Day, Regionalism and Rebellion in Yemen, 211–13.
36. Barrett, Yemen: A Different Political Paradigm in Context, 71.
37. Ali Abdullah Saleh owed his presidency, in large part, to a 1978 “covenant”
reached between prominent Hashid Sheikh Hamid Abdullah al-Ahmar, then-Briga-
dier General Ali Mohsen and then-Major Saleh. According to Phillips, the “covenant”
contained an understanding that the Sanhan tribe would stand together under Saleh’s
leadership and that Ali Mohsen would be next in line to succeed Saleh as president
(Phillips, “Who Tried to Kill Ali Abdullah Saleh?”)
38. Barrett, Yemen: A Different Political Paradigm in Context, 71; Phillips, Yemen
and the Politics of Permanent Crisis, 93–95.
Patronage Politics in Transition 173
39. Citing a source close to the former president, Phillips writes that Saleh had
informed General Ali Mohsen that he would not receive new hardware to combat the
growing insurgency and was also refused requests for support from the country’s best
equipped and most highly trained units, the Republican Guard and Central Security
Forces. Adding to such speculation are reports implicating President Saleh in elabo-
rate plots to kill General Ali Mohsen, in one instance with the assistance of a Saudi
airstrike, unbeknownst to Riyadh (Phillips, Yemen and the Politics of Permanent
Crisis, 94; Day, Regionalism and Rebellion in Yemen, 218).
40. Author’s interview with former Yemeni government official, London, January
2013.
41. “Yemen Soldiers Mutiny over Restructuring: Army Source,” Agence France
Press, August 9, 2012, http://english.ahram.org.eg/NewsContent/2/8/49993/World/
Region/Yemen-soldiers-mutiny-over-restructuring-army-sour.aspx.
42. “Ousted Director Attacks YECO with 100 Gunmen.” Yemen Fox, April 9,
2012, http://www.yemenfox.net/news_details.php?sid=2659.
43. Ibid.
44. According to Phillips, Saleh used to be the head of YECO, and the uncle of one
of Saleh’s wives headed the corporation until 2010 (Phillips, Yemen and the Politics
of Permanent Crisis, 71). In 2014, the military continued to serve important manage-
rial roles in YECO with some serving as branch directors, as highlighted in a list of
assassinations targeting security and military personnel published by the Yemen Times
(Al-Khameri, “Assassinations Targeting Security and Military Personnel in 2014”).
45. Al-Batati, “Yemen’s Al Houthis Demand Recruitment in Army.”
46. Al-Haj, “Yemen’s Shiite Houthi Rebels Demand Their Militia Join Army,
Police.”
Chapter 8
Libya displays a very different model when compared with other cases of
Arab armies that have strongly invested in economic activities. A basic prem-
ise for the military’s economic role is that there is a weighty military corps
with some sense of itself and of its interests, at least among its high officers,
in close relation to the executive. Such symbiotic relations include the army’s
bargaining for economic privileges in return for “political quietism,” with the
executive keeping the exclusive upper hand on the day-to-day management
of the polity and the military having some agency to preserve its prerogatives,
as exemplified by Egypt, Yemen, Syria, and Iraq under Saddam Hussein. This
was not the case in Libya under Qaddafi: there was no similar military corps
or at least no huge military apparatus. Through a coup in 1969, Muammar
Qaddafi came to power from the ranks of the military. However, as he was
suspicious of other officers’ potential coup d’états against him, Qaddafi kept
the Libyan military weak and divided, with an estimated number of between
twenty-five thousand and forty-five thousand troops.1 Instead of a strong
military institution and in full contradiction with the basic requirements for
his ideological ambitions to build Libya as an Arab power or as an African
heavyweight, Qaddafi ideologically favored a nebulous concept: “the people
in arms (al-Shaʿb al-Musallaḥ).” Thus, he marginalized the regular army
and even attempted to dissolve it several times, in 1977, 1983, and 1993, but
without any actual effect—as usual in Qaddafi’s Libya, decisions were made
from above but often not applied. The military institution was, nevertheless,
severely weakened and neglected.
Qaddafi’s security and praetorian forces were far more crucial to the
regime and stronger than the army, and they were mainly dominated by
family members, his tribe, and allied tribes: within these two groups of
forces, tribes such as al-Qadhadhfa, al-Magharha, Awlad Suleiman, and
175
176 Philippe Droz-Vincent
legitimacy and local enclaves of power, along with their forceful grip on the
country’s economic resources, until a breakdown occurred mid-2014.
This chapter is based on a systematic reading of the Libyan press as
referred to in the footnotes, as well as interviews and off-the-record meetings
mainly with Libyan activists in various European capitals.
Libya singles itself out among other “Arab Spring” states with a very specific
transitional trajectory. Two elements are specific to the Libyan political con-
ditions. First, the end of Qaddafi’s regime was not only a product of social
mobilization against authoritarianism but also of a full-scale nine-month
civil war, social mobilization turned into insurrection, and internal fight-
ing. Second, external Arab and Western intervention, especially NATO’s
rapid involvement, decisively tilted the balance of power toward rebellion.
The external support played a definitive role in helping some defectors
to form the National Transitional Council (NTC) and rally others behind
them. Then, the international cover, with a Franco-British initiative for UN
Security Council Resolution 1973 demanding a ceasefire and the imposi-
tion of a no-fly zone over Libya, succeeded in obtaining the “leading from
behind” support of President Obama. This Western move obtained an Arab
cover with the support of Qatar, which actively secured the Arab League’s
approval that enabled the Security Council to adopt Resolution 1973, and
the Western-led coalition financed, armed, and trained Libyan rebel fighters
to topple Qaddafi.
The Libyan military (and its huge equipment) did in fact play a major,
albeit indirect, role in taking down Qaddafi when the uprisings erupted.
Qaddafi deliberately chose to keep the military weak and dysfunctional. But
he amassed huge weapons depots, supposedly useful in case of war, that were
not under the control of the military, but of the revolutionary committees
(al-lijan al-thawriyyah). They were ransacked during the revolution, and their
access passed, according to their various locations, to a specific militia that
jealously guarded its privileged access to “its” storage site. The small Libyan
military, or what remained of it, imploded and lost its organizational capaci-
ties, with some units siding with protesters. Many officers, frustrated by their
having been sidelined during Qaddafi’s years of rule, joined the uprising and
helped build armed units in the east.
In parallel and with foreign prodding, military defectors and civilian politi-
cians formed the NTC.2 Although the political organ and the “external arm”
of the February 2011 revolution organized with expatriates’ support, the NTC
178 Philippe Droz-Vincent
never led the uprising militarily. Its authority in the east, in Cyrenaica, was
disputed by local councils and their military structures, and, supported only
by the small rebel national army, it could not establish effective authority in
much of the country—especially the western part. Although the NTC quickly
transferred its office from Benghazi to Tripoli—the symbolic center of power
in Libya—after the “liberation” of the capital in August 2011, it did not suc-
ceed in establishing political and military control over the postrevolutionary
state.3
The most important factor of the Libyan uprising was not the NTC, but
the return of the “local” to the fore of military operations and politics.4 Since
the uprisings and the fall of Qaddafi, militias, called brigades (katāʾib) by
Libyans, have acted as standing armies in defined territorial areas, with each
brigade developing its own chain of command and narrative of the revolu-
tion. There are hundreds of them, consisting of an estimate of 150,000 armed
men in 2012, likely inflated to around 250,000 in 2013.5 These militias
are a product of the liberation of the country in a piecemeal fashion with
local rebellions and ad hoc military councils (al-majalis al-ʿaskariyyah)
protecting cities and villages. They sprang up spontaneously and locally in
defense of a city, with some being more ideologically tainted, such as the
Salafists, the Muslim Brotherhood, and other kinds of Islamists (jihadists).
Militias and local councils have proliferated in various locations of the
country, based on solidarity networks stemming from locality, tribe, city,
neighborhood, region, or ideology, or a mixture of all. Examples include,
for instance, the Western Military Council, a rather disciplined coalition
formed with the help of army officers from Zintan, a city of thirty thousand
inhabitants; the powerful coalition of brigades from Misrata, a city of three
hundred thousand inhabitants, with more than two hundred armed groups
and thirty thousand to forty thousand fighters; the militias of Berbers (the
rivals of Misratans) in the Nafusa Mountains; the rival Tubu and Zway tribes
in Kufra; Islamist or jihadist militias located in hubs of Islamism such as
Derna, Bayda, and Benghazi’s poor neighborhoods such as Hayy al-Laythi,
and more. At the same time, several local councils in the East fused and
formed the NTC on February 27, 2011, in order to secure international rec-
ognition, but they failed to build any hegemonic status—even in the eastern
region itself.
Evidently, foreign funds played a crucial role in shaping this stateless and
fragmented political situation. Hundreds of millions of dollars were funneled
to the opposition by Qatar in particular, especially through Abdel Hakim Bel-
hadj, a former high-ranking member of the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group
and leader of the Islamist-tainted Tripoli Military Council, who was turned
into an international media figure with Qatar’s help. Qatari funds were also
transferred through Ali al-Sullabi, a well-known Islamic scholar. And the
Libya’s Tentative State Rebuilding 179
international supply of arms also provided help. For instance, Zintanis, from
the city itself and also the surrounding villages, first fought with old Italian
rifles from their grandfathers, but then received a massive French airdrop
of weapons in the summer of 2011, and NATO strikes destroyed Qaddafi’s
heavy weapons in their path. Consequently, the war was waged by a multi-
tude of militias operating across the country outside the reach of the NTC
rather than a unified rebel army.6
After the fall of Qaddafi, militias have refused to lay down their weapons and
have entrenched themselves in the social landscape. Most importantly, they
control economic resources and engage in revenue-generating activities of
various kinds.
Firstly, amid institutional turmoil in the process of rebuilding the Libyan
state, militias have connected themselves to state sources of income. At
the beginning, especially in the situation of a nonfunctioning governmental
administration, militias did not demand salaries from the state apparatus, but
they asked the NTC for medical treatment abroad for wounded revolutionar-
ies and compensation for dead fighters. Later on, the abyssal task of restoring
security, the rivalry/power struggle between the two legitimacies of the NTC
and the revolutionaries, and the rumors of return of Qaddafi’s loyalists all
led to the formation of new economic relations between the rebuilt skeletal
center and militias.
The NTC tried to buy revolutionaries’ loyalty with a one-off handout,
which the latter saw as derisory. The revolutionaries questioned the very
legitimacy of the NTC and criticized its corruption, and set up demonstra-
tions and even armed resistance against it.7 In a concerted response, a process
of registration of fighters was undertaken with the help of the UN Support
Mission in Libya, following models of Disarmament, Demobilization, and
Reintegration in postconflict settings. Rebels in the civil war against Qad-
dafi numbered twenty thousand, no more than forty thousand, in all parts of
Libya.8 But when the Warrior’s Affairs Commission for Rehabilitation and
Development—created at the end of 2011 as a nongovernmental body, then
transformed into an interministerial body under the prime minister’s author-
ity—sought to register fighters and to place them under the Ministries of
Defense or Interior, it received an overwhelming number of applications.9
Around 230,000 to 250,000 applied, which was called “the offensive of
papers,” as the credentials of alleged revolutionaries were difficult to verify.
To simply come from a town that resisted Qaddafi’s forces was seen as a
180 Philippe Droz-Vincent
the SSCs under the Ministry of the Interior in April 2012, not only enforces
Salafist strict “moral codes” (prohibition of alcohol, strict veiling of women)
in the city of Derna but also controls the lucrative black market in the city.
The situation is even more unregulated among brigades in the South, with
the additional complexity that brigades from the coastal cities also come
to rescue and “police” some southern areas on behalf of the GNC and then
participate in smuggling. Libya, with 4,300 kilometers of borders, has a high
degree of border porosity. It is a key trafficking hub into Europe—particu-
larly Malta and Italy—with Lampedusa lying 600 kilometers from Libya’s
shores, and located on some of the oldest trans-Saharan trade routes. In the
first half of 2012, clashes in Kufra and Sabha killed hundreds over the control
of the smuggling routes between Chad, Sudan, and Egypt. Clashes between
the Tubu, an African black minority, and the Zway that were “wrapped”14 in
arguments presenting their grievances as a response to Qaddafi’s discrimi-
natory policies in fact started over the control of smuggling (for cigarettes,
narcotics, gasoline, etc.), as the NTC’s endorsement of the Zway militia
to monitor borders is equated by others as a near monopoly over the illicit
economy in the center of Libya. Some brigades subcontracted by the NTC
to provide security in the South have even openly asked European diplomats
for payments in order to stop the flow of Sub-Saharan African migrants, as
additional lucrative income,15 and the mere control of the routes, is a profit-
able commodity.
Fourthly, illegal activities have in numerous cases autonomized themselves
from the constraints of the weakly institutionalized networks of militias and
local councils—localism can be a way to “police” social relations through
“contained” violence in the absence of a state monopoly on force (see below
on the “moral economy” of militias). These activities have shifted from
smuggling on a small scale—quite natural in the absence of a state—to pure
banditry on a larger scale. The weapons market, flourishing because of the
large availability of the Libyan arsenal, has far-reaching consequences, as
exemplified by the case of Tuareg rebels in Mali,16 and also by Libyan smug-
glers presumably providing civilians in Cairo and in al-Ṣaʿid in Upper Egypt
and in Southern Egypt with heavy weapons, which were then used in bloody
“tribal” clashes in Aswan in April 2014.17 Libyan arms are largely available
across the Middle East. Since 2012, the number of abductions at random
checkpoints has been on the rise, mostly of Libyans with links to the former
regime and increasingly also Libyans without such links, for no apparent rea-
son but a ransom. Furthermore, bank robberies by masked, armed men have
been on the rise since 2012, and copper theft has accelerated, as an incident
in December 2013 revealed that thieves set a military base on fire in order to
steal the copper from burnt ammunitions. A parallel economy of banditry has
thrived in such a decentralized and armed milieu.
Libya’s Tentative State Rebuilding 183
economy benefits numerous young males who have experienced the power
of the gun since 2011.
militias with legal means to bar the only skilled individuals who had been
working under Qaddafi, including the too many officers (numerous colonels)
of the fragile Libyan Army, from positions of power in the security forces. It
institutionalizes the militias’ control over the Ministries of Defense and Inte-
rior through the Libyan Shield Forces or the Supreme Security Committees.
At an individual level, numerous Salafi and Muslim Brotherhood militiamen,
barred from university education or unemployed under the Qaddafi regime,
now have increased chances to move upward along the social ladder, as the
already educated officers are now deemed ineligible by the isolation law. Fur-
thermore, in a more straightforward way, many police officers, army officers,
judges, and bureaucrats have been threatened, or even assassinated, by armed
brigades to exclude them from public positions and as a way to perpetuate the
void militias benefit from.
Facing such powerful stakeholders, the GNC, the central authority in Libya,
has remained a very weak and timorous government albeit ruling a wealthy
oil-rich country, when oil flows and is not blockaded by any militia. It has
been unable to use its money to build its power. This is quite different from
classic “rentier economies” such as those in the Gulf. In post-2011 Libya, the
state has been a patronage machine in the hands of its clients—armed stake-
holders, rather than being a centralized state coopting clients by hand-out of
money or favors. Militias have valued the state as such, almost as a kind of
open prey or golden goose, and the central authority has remained very shy,38
acting as a kind of technocratic government with no sense of the state. The
central government has not seriously attempted to become a real state: it has
not fought for its own differentiation against rival centers of power to build its
own monopoly over the means of force.39 A specific model of centralization/
state building and of return of the local has been characteristic of the Libyan
political trajectory since 2011: all Libyans are nationalists and they have
fought hard to liberate the whole country, not just al-Barqah (Cyrenaica) or
other localized or regional places. The ultimate aim of the revolution was the
capture of Tripoli and Sirte, as symbols of the Qaddafi regime through a con-
catenation of localized and autonomous rebellions rather than a unified rebel
army. However, until mid-2014, the return of localism did not mean that the
country would drive toward partition.
Two legitimacies are colliding: on the one hand that of external representa-
tion (NTC) then followed by that of elections (GNC), and on the other hand,
that of revolutionary war. The NTC—with initially nine, then eighty-six
members who were mostly unknown and appointed without any clear pro-
cedure—feared being seen as too despotic and failed to act boldly as “state
builder,” perhaps not according to models of state building as displayed in
international organizations’ jargon, but at least with some sense of the state,
even a decentralized one. The NTC’s elected successor, the GNC, did not
Libya’s Tentative State Rebuilding 189
and symbolic asset in their own hands (not in the governmental prisons).
Misratans claim they sacrificed thousands in one of the deadliest battles of
the nine-month civil war and captured Qaddafi. Regionalists like Ibrahim
al-Jathran play on regional resentment in Cyrenaica. Furthermore, militias
control their own media outlets, as the private media are booming in Libya
on the local level, financed by local businessmen. These media serve as
platforms for local/tribal self-advancement and often, as provocation against
others,43 hence weakening the building of the legitimacy of a prospective
center.
The delayed and prolonged process of political change, often plagued by
violence, was not taken into account by most external observers from 2011
to 2013, and even until the first months of 2014. Firstly, the paradoxical
nature of the Libyan transition was the surprising successes and rapid post-
revolutionary accomplishments of the NTC, with the smooth handover of
power from this entity to an elected General National Congress (GNC) in
August 2012, the reemergence of political parties, and the proliferation of
civil society organizations.44 The country was not doomed a priori for a bleak
future as numerous other postconflict cases after regime change. However
and secondly, at the same time, it has been a murky and chaotic transition, as
violence has instilled itself in political processes, not in the form of a gener-
alized civil war, but under the guise of militianized violence, and displaying
the complex prominence of violence as a social phenomenon “embedded”
in Libyan society after the end of the civil war and as a “moral economy”
of militias. Afterward, as of June 2012, several attacks took place, target-
ing public buildings in Tripoli and Benghazi, and the British ambassador
narrowly escaped death in Benghazi. Then came the 2012 tragic attacks on
the US consulate in Benghazi on September 11, which resulted in the death
of the US ambassador. The incident signaled open outbreaks of violence
that marred the previously virtuous process of rebuilding Libya, opened up
by the elections of the GNC and the selection of a legitimate government.
Conversely and thirdly, stability has prevailed at the local level. In fact,
symptomatically, pacification in post-Qaddafi’s Libya, effective from 2011 to
2014, has been less the product of centralized state building, with the return
of the monopoly on force to a central executive, than being the result of the
continuous action of local mediators—especially tribal notables (wujahāʾ),
Sufi clerics, and religious authorities such as the Grand Mufti of Libya, who
have continuously defused violence in local contexts by negotiating truces
(lajnat al-sulh).45 Local actors, elders, reputation, family links, neighborhood
belonging, tribal mediations, and more have helped in regulating militias.
As a corollary, violence was limited to particular cities and specific targeted
actors, especially to the fierce competition between militias to stay relevant
in the “moral economy” of militias.
Libya’s Tentative State Rebuilding 191
In today’s Libya, control over the country’s economic resources has been
an essential part of ongoing disputes among militias and other formal or
informal political actors in the post-2011 revolution state-rebuilding process.
Deinstitutionalized economic relations in Libyan society were the byproduct
of proliferating and socially embedded militias and a weak government in
a country endowed with a huge amount of resources. With the absence of
a strong security sector under the control of the Ministries of Interior and
Defense, militias kept their predatory roles and suffocated state-building
processes around the center. The Libyan model of “weak” government, along
with militias retaining some legitimacy, economic resources, a political role,
and the control of arms is a very unstable equilibrium that has ruled the coun-
try since 2011.
This was the direct product of an un-(or under-)defined project among Lib-
yans for post-2011 Libya. Libyans had suffered from years of social neglect
by a patronizing state pillaged by Qaddafi and his familial or allied cliques,
against the backdrop of subsidized, but rather low levels, of life, in a country
weakened by years of embargo. That does not mean that Libyan society and
elites are incapable of agency and government: they fought hard to get rid
of this system in 2011. Yet the ensuing emerging decentralized system with
the forceful return of localism lacks executive capabilities of whatever type.
Nearly four years after the victory of the “revolution,” the crux of the problem
remains how to build a new political system from a setting characterized by
contradictory dimensions: flourishing elected local councils, local initiatives,
civil society activism, blocked central institutions, and powerful militias. Per-
haps it would not be a brand new democracy, something a bit far-fetched so
shortly after decades of destructive Qaddafi rule, but at least a polity in a pro-
cess of transition whose processes will be rooted in the emerging pluralism
from below that is characteristic of Libya.46 The relative success the country
experienced in 2011 to 2012 was followed by several setbacks in 2012 to
2013, signaled early by small but highly symptomatic features, such as the
low turnout of popular registrations for the Constitution Drafting Assembly
and the growing apathy toward the GNC and its complex proceedings.47 And
this was also reflected in the gradual changing face of militias toward unre-
strained violence, with the ensuing stalemate in the political process.
Militias can be understood as predatory actors looking for resources, but at
the same time, they act as providers of local governance with a high degree
of local legitimacy, displaying their own “moral economy.” The fact that
Libya’s militias have not experienced an excruciatingly cruel and violent
enduring civil war of the kind seen in Sierra Leone or Somalia should have
Libya’s Tentative State Rebuilding 193
Notes
Ready for Business,” Libya Herald, December 17, 2012; “Abdelkarim Decrees: Inte-
gration of SSC Members in the Ministry of Interior,” Quryna Newspaper, December
17, 2012.
10. Cf. Warriors Affairs Commission homepage: http://wac.gov.ly/armod/; Wehrey
and Cole, Building Libya’s Security Sector.
11. “Five Tripoli Brigade Bases Handed Over to the Army,” Libya Herald, Novem-
ber 21, 2013; “Military Source: Revolutionaries Take 20 Tanks to Zintan,” Quryna
Newspaper, May 28, 2012.
12. “Oil Pipeline Blocked at Nalut by Protesting Guards,” Libya Herald, January
4, 2014.
13. UN Panel of Experts, “Final Report of the Panel of Experts Established
Pursuant to Resolution 1973 (2011) Concerning Libya”; Shaw and Mangan, “Illicit
Trafficking and Libya’s Transition: Profits and Losses.”
14. Tubu complained having been discriminated against because they were not
Arabs, as the Zway.
15. Author’s interviews, Brussels, October 2013; even the Minister of Interior
caused an uproar with declarations threatening Europeans to facilitate the pas-
sage of illegal immigrants if “they do not shoulder the responsibility” with Libya
(“Minister of Interior’s Accusations Surprise Europeans,” Quryna Newspaper, May
12, 2014.)
16. The open flow of Libyan arms and the return (with whole arsenals) of Tuaregs
formerly incorporated in some way into Gaddafi’s armed forces/militias were
instrumental in the offensive of the Tuareg “Mouvement National de Libération de
l’Azawad” against the Malian government, which triggered the French intervention
in January 2013 (Lacher, “Fractious South and Regional Instability”).
17. Author’s interviews with two researchers specialized in disarmament, Geneva,
June 2014, and Al-Masry Al-Youm, August 6, 2014.
18. Collier and Hoeffler, “On Economic Causes of Civil War,” 563–73.
19. Author’s interview with foreign diplomats, Paris, January 2014.
20. United Nations Development Programme, Libya—National Report on Human
Development.
21. Libyans did not need visas to enter Malta before its joining the European
Union in May 2001.
22. In 2012, some were arrested for crimes, but they were then freed by their
brigades that stormed police stations.
23. A new law regulating gun ownership effective in March 2014 has not been fol-
lowed by the reality on the ground. See: “Gun Ownership Law Passed by Congress,”
Libya Herald, December 16, 2013.
24. They also control makeshift prisons with some of the “wanted” (maṭlūbīn) in
application of what they call “the victors’ justice”—for instance, “private”/“clandestine”
prisons in villas once owned by Gaddafi-era officials in the Gharghour neighborhood
in Tripoli along the airport road.
25. See the survey of 1,200 Libyans by NDI and JMW Consulting: “Seeking
Security: Public Opinion Survey in Libya,” with some results published by Benstead,
Kjaerum, Lust, and Wichmann in “Libya’s Security Dilemma.”
Libya’s Tentative State Rebuilding 195
26. Ibrahim al-Jathran is a former rebel commander who secured control of the
eastern ports and oil terminals in Sidra, Ras Lanuf, and Zueitina with his “Cyrenaica
Self-Defense Forces,” and who was rewarded with the command of the Petroleum
Facilities Guards in Cyrenaica.
27. “Oil Rich Eastern Libya Push Away from Central Government, Declares
Semiautonomous State,” Associated Press, March 6, 2012; “Jathran Swears in
His New Cyrenaican Cabinet,” Libya Herald, November 3, 2013; “Misratans Pull
Out of Sirte and Oilfields Ahead of Possible Jathran Deal,” Libya Herald, March 17,
2014.
28. Transitions to democracy require the emergence of a broadly trusting public
that is made possible by “trust networks” integrated into political regimes through
historical processes (Tilly, Trust and Rule); in Libya, militias have “hijacked” such
processes.
29. Mampilly, Rebel Rulers.
30. Pelham, “Libya in the Shadow of Iraq,” 539–48.
31. Marten, Warlords.
32. Tilly, Coercion, Capital and European States.
33. Thompson, “The Moral Economy of the English Crowd in the Eighteenth
Century,” 76–136; Scott, The Moral Economy of the Peasant.
34. Lubeck, “Islamic Protest under Semi-Industrial Capitalism,” 377; see also
Lonsdale, “The Moral Economy of Mau Mau.”
35. McQuinn, “In Libya, Will Misrata Be the Kingmaker?”
36. And for a given militia, such abuses are “moral,” or “legitimate,” because,
according to their rationale, if they do not act in the context of the absence of a state,
“others,” namely other communities, groups, villages, or towns, will do the same and
weaken their position. Author’s interview with a Libyan young civil activist and blog-
ger, Brussels, October 2012.
37. “Controversy over Law on Political Exclusion,” Al-Jazeera.net, August 17,
2012, quoted in Lacher, Fault Lines of the Revolution: Political Actors, Camps and
Conflicts in the New Libya; “GNC Is Coerced and Law Passed Are Legally Unsound,”
Libya Herald, January 18, 2014.
38. Discussions with two members of the GNC, Paris, March 2014.
39. See the process in European state building as described by Tilly, Coercion,
Capital and European States.
40. Zaptia, “Budget to Be Delayed—Finance Minister Kilani”; Zaptia, “2014 Bud-
get Expected to Be LD 68.59—Salaries and Subsidies Shoot Up.”
41. Tilly, “War Making and State Making as Organized Crime,” 169–91.
42. “Inside the Commission for Patriotism and Integrity,” Libya Herald, April 11,
2013.
43. El-Issawi, Transitional Libyan Media.
44. Vandewalle, “After Qaddafi,” 131–35.
45. “Libya, Security Organs, Elders, Notables in Benghazi Issue a Document
Asking for the Deployment of Government Forces and the End of Attacks,” Al-Quds
al-Arabi, May 2, 2012; “Opinion: The Councils of Elders, a Stereotype Scenario,”
Tripoli Post, May 12, 2012.
196 Philippe Droz-Vincent
46. Many studies assert that a basic required condition for democratic transition
is the existence of a state (cf. Linz and Stepan, Problems of Democratic Transition
and Consolidation). Evidently, this precondition is currently difficult for Libya (cf.
Anderson, The State and Social Transformation in Tunisia and Libya).
47. Vandewalle, “Beyond the Civil War in Libya,” 437–58.
48. For instance, with a militia in Jufra, one of the central garrison towns in central
Libya, claiming to have six hundred tanks, and another militia in Sabha fielding fifty
tanks and scores of Grad rockets launchers, Libyan society could have slipped into
the fate of the above three states.
Chapter 9
In March 2011, with nonviolent protests throughout the country, the Syr-
ian revolution broke out in defiance of the regime’s harsh punishment of
civilians, especially children. Armed groups soon organized an estimated
1,500 groups, ostensibly to defend civilians, many of them having adopted
a jihadist ideology. Other fighters reject jihad, but realize the only hope for
the establishment of a Free Syria is to defeat Assad’s forces. The seeds of the
revolution had been planted with Bashar al-Assad’s suppression of the 2000
to 2001 “Damascus Spring” and were watered by the example of Tunisia’s
and Egypt’s revolutions.1 The death by torture of a thirteen-year-old child
galvanized the southern Syrian city of Daraʿa in the spring of 2011 and trig-
gered the Syrian version of the “Arab Spring.”2 Considering the participation
of rural areas in the uprising, Bouthaina Shaʿban, advisor to Bashar al-Assad,
called for the alleviation of rural misery. The people of Daraʿa responded
angrily, yelling, “Yā Buthayna yā Shaʿban, shaʿb Darʿa mu jūʿān.” (Oh,
Bouthaina Shaʿban, the people of Daraʿa are not hungry.)3 Calls for freedom
resonated after decades of suppression of civil society and physical torture,
disappearances, and a persistent emergency status since 1963.4 Protest chants
included: “silmiyyah, mu ṭāʾifiyyah” (peacefully, no sectarianism). The revo-
lution was for “dignity,” not simply bread.
The Syrian Armed Forces and loyalist militias attacked civilian demon-
strators and their homes viciously, causing mass flight. In the early summer
of 2011, armed groups formed to protect civilians and oust the government.
Many army officers also defected and joined the Free Syrian Army.5 As
groups of the Islamic Front (initially organized as the Syrian Islamic Front)
were engaged, tensions arose between jihadists and the Nonviolence Move-
ment (NVM). The NVM trained and expected to exert civilian rule over
freed areas, receiving some economic support, mostly via the Syrian political
197
198 Sherifa Zuhur
Before the uprisings, and for decades after the 1967 war and the Israeli
occupation of the Golan Heights, the Syrian military’s buildup of weaponry
Syria’s Army, Militias, and Nonstate Armed Groups 199
Syria’s economic changes meant that gains accrued to a small core of about
one hundred individuals, political leadership, entrepreneurs, senior army and
intelligence officers (or retirees); a second strata of their sons and relatives;
and a third strata of business tycoons and other politicians.15 These circles and
loyalist senior military stand to lose should Assad fall.
After the eruption of the uprisings, defections among Syrian Army troops
and officers began in June of 2011. Once the revolution altered expectations
of the future, the regime could not purchase the loyalty of the Syrian army
because of the high levels of political repression wielded against so many.
As reserve troops fled, many were jailed or forced to serve unless they could
arrange for their families’ flights. By March of 2012, men between eighteen
and forty-two years old were forbidden to travel. Up to thirty officers per
day defected in the summer of 2012. There are disputes about how many
former officers versus ordinary civilians formed the nebulous Free Syrian
Army.16 But the effect on the regular military was profound—experts spoke
of two armies: one of all religious sects, and the other, primarily ʿAlawites
and Shiites in the Republican Guard, the 4th Division, and the Special
Forces unit.17
To enlarge its force beyond the military to crush the rebels, the Assad
regime employed the shabbiha, gangs armed and funded by the state. Shab-
biha means both “a ghost” and the Mercedes S600 model (shabaḥ), which
militia gangs drove to smuggle cigarettes and food from Syria into Lebanon
and hashish and weapons into Syria in the 1980s. These initial shabbiha ran
protection rackets established by Rifaat al-Assad, President Hafez al-Assad’s
brother, and his cousin, in Latakia, Baniyas, and Tartus. A second generation
of shabbiha emerged by 2011, funded by Bashar’s brother Maher al-Assad
and his cousin Rami Makhlouf and others.18 ʿAlawite prisoners were released
specifically for this purpose. They carried out several massacres, marauding
and burning Sunni civilian areas at al-Houla, al-Qubair, Baniyas, Bayda, and
Thiyabiyya, and operated their own detention/torture centers.19 They were
receiving US $130 a day in June of 2012, from private funds. The shabbiha
looted the museum in Palmyra, and stole Roman antiquities, selling them on
the black market in Lebanon and Syria. It must be added that rebels as well
as regime forces deal in artifacts to obtain money for arms.20
The regime formed further paramilitary forces, for example, the al-Jaysh
al-Shaʿbi (People’s Army). Some were trained and supported by Iran’s
Islamic Revolutionary Guards and Lebanon’s Hezbollah.21 Various popular
forces, committees, and shabbiha were integrated into the National Defense
Forces, civilian militias, which supplemented the regular forces bled by
defections, rebel attacks, or imprisoned (for not firing on civilians) or con-
fined to their barracks.22 Syria has 200,000 security personnel in addition to
the armed forces, which had dropped to 178,000 in 2013.23
Syria’s Army, Militias, and Nonstate Armed Groups 201
Not all regime loyalist paramilitaries are Alawi. The Sunni Berri clan of
Aleppo and some Sunnis in Deir az-Zor and Daraʿa are Assad loyalists, and
loyal Druze and Christian groups also formed.24 The Shiʿa Liwaʾ Abu al-Fadl
al-Abbas are a section of the National Defense Forces in Sayyidah Zaynab
in Damascus. These Syrian paramilitaries may number more than sixty thou-
sand. Women are members, as in the Alawi Lioness Brigade, which labeled
all who wear the hijab as “al-Qaeda.”25 Sectarianism is part of the militias’
raison d’être; they believe that Islamism in Syria threatens their survival.
In this context, support by foreign troops and arms supply to the regime
is significant. Hezbollah’s estimated five thousand troops, the Iranian Revo-
lutionary Guard and thousands of militia volunteers from at least fourteen
factions of Iraqi fighting groups, also fight in Syria.26 Fighters from ʿAsaʾib
Ahl al-Haqq, Iraq’s Kataʾib Hezbollah, the Badr Organization, Harakat
Hizballah al-Nujabaʾ, Kataʾib Sayyid al-Shuhada, and Muqtada al-Sadr’s
Liwaʾ al-Youm al-Mawʿud are defending Assad and use sectarian, apoca-
lyptic narratives.27 At least ten thousand foreign Shiʿi fighters are engaged
in Syria.
Russia, which cancelled 73 percent of Syria’s debt in the 1990s, held
contracts with Syria worth US $1.5 billion by 2012, and has supplied gun-
ships, Yak-130s, air defense and coastal missile defense, and antiship mis-
siles designed to thwart invasion efforts, and delivered arms at its naval port
at Tartus.28 Moreover, Russia has airbase facilities in Tadmor (Palmyra) and
electronic surveillance facilities in Latakia and near Damascus. Russia, on
the United Nations Security Council, has blocked efforts to require Assad to
step down.
Iran strongly supports the Assad government, too. The relationship, which
developed to counter Saddam Hussein’s Iraq, is managed by Iran’s Islamic
Revolutionary Guard Corps.29 An Iranian official, Hojjat al-Islam Mehdi
Taeb, declared Syria the thirty-fifth province of Iran.30 Iran announced a
credit facility agreement with Syria of US $1 billion in January 2013, and
then offered US $3.6 billion in credit later that year.31
Assad’s assaults on Syrian Sunnis but also because they believe the ʿAlawis
are false Muslims (munāfiqīn) or infidels (kāffar).
weapons instead. US and European backers may have wanted the FSA and
the jihadists to demonstrate just sufficient strength to pressure a diplomatic
solution at the Geneva II Middle East Peace Conference in early 2014.43
However, the talks were postponed, and then failed. In agreement with Assad,
a process of shipping out the Syrian chemical stockpile for destruction started
under the supervision of the United Nations and the Organization for the Pro-
hibition of Chemical Weapons, and was completed in August 2014.
Parallel to this, a counter-council of Salafi-jihadist groups formed to reject
solutions forged in the SMC with Assad, and denounced the Geneva II talks.
Due to struggles within the FSA, Idris was relieved of his command in Febru-
ary 2014 and replaced by Brigadier General Abdul-Ilah al-Bashir al-Noeimi,
a former career officer in the Syrian army.44
The FSA does not only consist of former officers and soldiers of the Syr-
ian army pursuing purely military aims. There are also Islamists fighting in
the FSA.45 Many of them were part of the Syria Islamic Liberation Front
(SILF), which emerged in September 2013 and was an umbrella organiza-
tion of nineteen ideologically varied groups.46 Suqur al-Sham, led by Shaykh
Ahmad Abu ʿIssa, was more hardline. Abu ʿIssa, called Ahmad al-Jarba, was
president of the Syrian National Council (SNC)47 “of the munāfiqīn (hypo-
crites).” Earlier examples of Islamist FSA elements were the Farouq Battal-
ions, famous for their defense of Baba Amr in Homs, which also defended
al-Qusayr against the Syrian Armed Forces and Hezbollah in April to May
2013. After the discrediting of its leader, Abdul Razaq Tlass, a former Syrian
army lieutenant,48 two other leaders were expelled. They formed the Farouq
Islamic Battalion. The Farouq Battalion diminished, and members joined
the Muslim Brotherhood–dominated49 Hazzm Movement with five thousand
members and twelve affiliate brigades. The Hazzm Movement disbanded
itself after fighting Jabhat al-Nusra and joined the Levant Force, an alliance
of Aleppo-based Islamist rebels.
Salafi-Jihadist Groups
Salafi-jihadist entities evolved in the 1990s, along with the Gulf State funding
of religious entities.50 The Muslim Brotherhood are technically Salafis and, in
exile, played a strong role in the SNC. The Salafi-jihadists arose due to three
main causes. The first was the crushing of Islamist resistance in 1982; the sec-
ond was to support fighters in transit from Iraq and Jordan following the 2003
US-led invasion of Iraq; and the third was their connections and affiliations
to other regional and international movements of Salafi-jihadists.51 There are
also nonjihadist, non-Salafi Islamic movements, such as the Zayd Sufi move-
ment, which supports the revolution, as does the mosque orator Shaykh Dr
Muhammad Ratib al-Nabulsi and his students, and foreign-led Sufi militias.52
204 Sherifa Zuhur
Aleppo province since January 2014.61 The United States then declared a
counterterrorist campaign against ISIS, primarily in Iraq, but also in Syria,
and launched air attacks, as a sustained battle raged in Kobane in October
2014.
Jabhat al-Nusra shares ISIS’s goal of establishing an Islamic state, consid-
ers the Druze, ʿAlawis, and Ismaiʿilis to be derelict in their Islamic faith, and
opposes democracy. It has used suicide bombers and vehicle-mounted bombs
and has assassinated members of government and the state media. Al-Nusra
spoke of “bringing the law of Allah back to his land.”62 Al-Nusra and FSA
fighters cooperated in an effort to capture the major highway through the
Aleppo-Hassakeh road in the fall of 2013, and the FSA strongly opposed US
airstrikes on al-Nusra and ISIS. It is obvious that the factionalization of the
rebels has damaged their war against Assad, yet his forces have not prevailed.
In order to sustain the jihadist movements financially, al-Nusra members
have depended on external funds. They have also kidnapped or acquired
hostages for profit and obtained income from the tribes’ takeover of Syria’s
oil fields. From early 2014, journalists claimed that ISIS and al-Nusra were
controlling the oil and gas trade, although wells are on tribal lands. The tribes
smuggled oil to Turkey; they control at least one oil well or more on each of
their lands, sometimes using home refineries.63 Oil is also transported to Iraq
for refining. Some gas is provided to a gas plant controlled by al-Nusra, while
the rest is sold on the market. Gas was sold to the Assad government in Deir
az-Zor as it lost control of the facilities.64 The conflict has on the one hand
erased Syria’s official oil exports, causing losses of US $20 billion, and on
the other established oil as a side market for smugglers, tribes, and combat-
ants. The Assad regime obtains some oil from tribes and ISIS in order to keep
producing electricity.65 However, strikes on an electricity grid, or deprivation
of oil profits are not, sui generis, an attack on a strategic center of gravity,
because in rural Syria, many citizens never had been receiving electricity
continuously.66
ISIS and others also smuggle out diesel fuel. The Western media criticized
Turkey’s “allowing” of such smuggling, arguing that Turkey should stand
by other NATO nations against ISIS. Turkey is, however, supportive of the
rebels, and not likely to control the smuggling, which benefits those in its
border towns.67
and towns in the fall of 2012, and border crossings and the oil fields in 2013.
Kurdish forces clashed with FSA-allied forces within Aleppo and near the
Turkish border, and battled al-Nusra and ISIS in the eastern provinces for
months at Kobane.
Located in northeastern Syria (Rojava, western Kurdistan) are the 1,332
oil wells and 25 gas wells of Rmeilan oil field, which the YPG won in battles
following an agreement with al-Nusra, and which were administered by the
Democratic Union Party. The Supreme Kurdish Committee, the Kurdish Dis-
tributing al-Jazeera’s Fuel, has replaced the former Syrian company, Sadcop.
As Homs’s and Baniyas’s oil refineries are closed, similarly haphazard and
dangerous refining methods (to those in non-Kurdish areas) have sprung up
in this region.68
The YPG oppose al-Nusra and ISIS. One in every five YPG fighters is
female, and Salafi-jihadist fighters detest them and the Kurds’ nationalism.69
A woman fighter of the YPG explained that her movement wants a unified
Arab and Kurdish Syria.70 The YPG are part of the revolution, as the two
Assad governments strongly suppressed Kurds.
Since Salafists believe that active jihad is required, the promotion of ongoing
jihad in Syria inspires foreign recruitment. Syria became a jihadist magnet
more powerful than Afghanistan, as terrible civilian casualties and Baathist
anti-Islamism provided the cause.80 An important jihadi theorist, Abu Muʿsab
al-Suri, wrote about Assad’s near-eradication of the Islamists in 1982 and
recommended attacks on ʿAlawites, Christians, and Westerners in Syria.81
The total number of foreign jihadists is unknown, but it is essential to
predictions for the fate of Syria and the jihadist movements. The largest
group of Salafi-jihadists who traveled to Syria consisted of 2,400 to 3,000
Tunisians and Iraqi fighters. In addition, there were seven hundred to eight
hundred Jordanians.82 Perhaps one thousand Turks fight for ISIS and one hun-
dred Chechen fighters were in Syria.83 One hundred US-American Muslims,
possibly 412 French jihadists, and 50 to 95 Spanish fighters are in Syria. As
many as 366 UK nationals may be involved.84 Up to 152 Dutch fighters and
87 Swedes traveled to Syria to fight, and as many as 205 Australians were
in Syria. Some forty Tehrik-i-Taliban fought among one hundred Pakistani
fighters in Syria, some under Abu Jaʿfar al-Libi.85 Up to fifty Indonesians are
possibly in Syria. The CIA’s estimate of foreign jihadists with ISIS is fifteen
thousand, which was a quite high number when issued. In fact, many govern-
ments now arrest those traveling for jihad, or returning from it. Some 1,200
Saudi jihadists had traveled to Syria by 2013, and now probably number
1,500 to 2,500, although the Mufti of Saudi Arabia issued a statement to dis-
courage jihadists in October 2013, and Saudi authorities arrest them. Libyan
jihadists either arrived in Syria or ran training camps back home in Libya.
Jihadists are either self-funded or salaried. For the salaried elements, more
than seventy foreign partners have sent funds to opposition fighters. Jihadist
208 Sherifa Zuhur
networks adeptly use Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, e-mail, and text mes-
saging to disseminate fund-raising appeals. Jihadists also use social media
to enlarge their presence; for example, ISIS used bots to promote certain
hashtags on Twitter to give the impression of more users.
Propaganda campaigns have raised funds, too. In Kuwait, one campaign
equipped twelve thousand fighters at US $2,500 each; another campaign
“Wage Jihad with Your Money” offered “gold (donor) status” for US $350
(cost of eight mortar rounds) and silver status at US $175 (fifty sniper bul-
lets).86 Donors in countries with restrictions could transfer funds to Kuwait
that help run operation rooms, equip fighters, or provide salaries. Following
the Houla massacre (summary executions of 108 by progovernment shabbiha
north of Homs on May 25, 2012), a former Kuwaiti soldier said he collected
US $14 million in just five days. Couriers brought arms to Turkey, and then
he carried them across the border.87 Weapons have arrived in this way from
other sources.88 Saudi Arabia had previously allowed donations to be col-
lected by private citizens.89 It has since disallowed this activity, yet fund-
raising continues privately. Assets (funding) are not a center of gravity, but
they impact “the endurance and staying in power of the sides in a protracted
war of attrition.”90
Fighters raised some funds through kidnapping, smuggling, and oil sales.
Syrians were kidnapped, often by local paramilitaries, and paid modest ran-
soms, but Qatar paid US $20 million in ransom for Fijian UN peacekeepers,
and millions to the kidnappers of thirteen nuns from Maʿloula. There is a
market in cars and parts smuggling and drug smuggling, a trade that long
preceded the conflict.91 Captagon, a Syrian-made amphetamine, is used by
fighters on both sides, and is sold and smuggled out, allegedly to fund rebels.
Twelve million capsules were confiscated in 2013.92 Due to violence in east-
ern Lebanon, the government suspended raids on hashish producers. Much of
this product is sold in Syria, or trafficked by Syrians elsewhere.93 A marriage
and sex market for very young women resembling prostitution is another dark
side of Syria and its refugee camps.94
Some claimed that economic activities such as oil sales and smuggling
replaced donor contributions to jihadist groups, but donor funding obviously
continues.95 For instance, for training a new force of “moderates” against
ISIS, the United States has promised up to US $4 billion in aid.
The concept of “markets of violence” suggests that fighters’ organiza-
tional salaries or stipends prolong conflicts.96 Conversely, it is argued that
better stipends to jihadist militias led to stronger performance against the
SAA and enlarging support first to Jabhat al-Nusra, and later to ISIS. How-
ever, private money flows are nearly impossible to track or stem. Regard-
ing foreign assistance, the United States and Gulf States have offered cash
assistance and relief aid to the Syrians and rebels, but were prevented from
Syria’s Army, Militias, and Nonstate Armed Groups 209
expatriates since 2011. Social media is also essential to the FSA from its
commanders’ account, which provides independent coverage of battles to
identification of the dead provided via Local Coordination Committees to the
Syrian Observatory for Human Rights based in London.
The Syrian revolution rapidly spilled over and has impacted neighboring
states, particularly Turkey and Lebanon. Most dramatic were ISIS’s and
al-Nusra’s seizure of hostages from Lebanon’s army, clashes in Tripoli and
bombings in Beirut, including the one that killed the former finance minis-
ter Mohamed Chatah—all between supporters of Hezbollah and the jihadi
groups. ISIS’s significant expansion in Iraq during 2014 has resulted in a
US-led campaign against it since September 2014, including bombings in
Syria. Support promised for “moderate” rebels planned over the next eighteen
months suggests a US expectation of a continuing conflict and shows that
spillover has in turn impacted funds to be expended on the conflict.
Conclusion
traumatized must be considered, but not with the thought that they had any
choice other than to defend themselves against the intense air attacks of the
SAA and house-by-house demolitions. And unfortunately, it would be purely
speculative to imagine a funding shut-off given the refusal of Assad’s back-
ers, the ease of international monetary exchanges, and the internal “markets
of violence” sources of income.
Assad’s dilemma, in Clausewitzian terms, is the diffusion of the conflict’s
center of gravity throughout the country, and his inability to extinguish the
popular will for revolution. This, along with rebel strength, meant they could
defend fixed lines and move to larger formations, since the regime could not
continue to maintain its defenses or counterattack in all areas.104 Considering
the fracturing of forces and Assad’s defensive stance, the only salvation for
battered Syrians lies in a political deal leading to a transitional post-Assad
structure. This might require military intervention via a ground invasion.
(A Turkish intervention, or a Jordanian or a coalition having a temporary
mandate over Syria, have been suggested.) Otherwise, the disastrous fight-
ing, expansion of international jihad, and markets of violence will likely
continue.
Notes
over time. These are disseminated by the Syrian Organisation for Human Rights.
They are not always immediately or completely accurate, and may be amended with
additional information; al-Shami, “Syria’s Grass Roots Civil Opposition.”
7. Tilly, Social Movements 1768–2004, 3.
8. Elwert, “Markets of Violence,” 221.
9. Hinnebusch, “The Foreign Policy of Syria,” 150.
10. Some 1,200 of these tanks were not in use. Cordesmann, Nerguizian, and
Popescu, Israel and Syria: The Military Balance and Prospects of War, 166.
11. International Institute for Strategic Studies, The Military Balance 2011, 330.
12. For example, electric power was cut off for as long as ten hours a day for
months at a time.
13. Sukkar, “The Crisis of 1986 and Syria’s Plan for Reform”; Pölling, “Invest-
ment Law No. 10: Which Future for the Private Sector?”; Zuhur, “Syria: From Arab
Nationalists to a Security Services State,” 125–27.
14. In 2006, Syria also had a drought, an occurrence so frequent as to belie the
thesis of this article. Hammer, “Is a Lack of Water to Blame for the Conflict in Syria?”
15. Haddad, Business Networks in Syria, 64, 86; Makinson, Martin, “Syria’s Very
Private Schools of Shame,” Wordpress.com blog, December 8, http://sherifazuhur.
wordpress.com/2012/12/08/bashars-syria/.
16. “Q & A: Nir Rosen on Syria’s Armed Opposition,” Al Jazeera, February
13, 2012, http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/features/2012/02/201221315020166516.
html.
17. Giglio, “Inside Bashar al-Assad’s Army,” October 12, 2012, http://www.
thedailybeast.com/articles/2012/12/10/inside-bashar-al-assad-s-army.html.
18. Amor and Sherlock, “How Bashar al-Assad Created the Feared Shabiha
Militia: An Insider Speaks,” Telegraph, March 23, 2014, http://www.telegraph.
co.uk/news/worldnews/middleeast/syria/10716289/How-Bashar-al-Assad-created-
the-feared-shabiha-militia-an-insider-speaks.html.
19. Carter Center, “Syria: Pro-Government Paramilitary Forces.”
20. Baker, “How Ancient Artifacts Are Being Traded for Guns.”
21. Lucas, “The Real Story of ‘Syria’s Iran-Hezbollah 50,000-Man Militia’”;
Holliday, “The Assad Regime,” 30–31.
22. Holliday, “The Assad Regime,” 27–28.
23. International Institute for Strategic Studies, The Military Balance 2014, 344.
24. Holliday, “The Assad Regime,” 18.
25. Sly and Ramadan, “The All Female Militias of Syria.”
26. Smyth, “From Karbala to Sayyida Zaynab: Iraqi Fighters in Syria’s Shia
Militias.”
27. Wicken, “New War Old Faces”; Smyth, “From Karbala to Sayyida Zaynab.”
28. Galpin, “Russian Arms Shipments Bolster Syria’s Embattled Assad.”
29. This became evident when operatives of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard
were seized as hostages in Syria in August of 2012.
30. Sadeghi-Boroujerdi, “Syria Is Iran’s 35th Province.”
31. “Syria and Iran Ink Credit Deals,” al-Bawaba, January 17, 2013; “Iran Grants
Syria $3.6 Billion Credit to Buy Oil Products,” Reuters, July 31, 2013.
Syria’s Army, Militias, and Nonstate Armed Groups 213
32. Schmitt and Mazzetti, “U.S. Intelligence Official Says Syrian War Could Last
for Years.”
33. Another person in the Supreme Military Command (SMC) claimed to com-
mand 320,000. Mohammad al-Mustafa in a personal [Skype] interview with journalist
Liz Sly.
34. Lister, “Syria’s Insurgency”; Kechichian, “Free Syrian Army.”
35. In order to receive funding via the Friends of Syria (also known as the Friends
of Democratic Syria), a group of Syrian opposition leaders and international partici-
pants met in London and issued a communiqué on October 23, 2013. See: “London 11
Friends of Syria Final Communiqué.” http://www.voltairenet.org/article180671.html.
36. Also known as Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIL), in the following
referred to as ISIS.
37. O’Bagy, The Free Syrian Army, 33.
38. Abboud, “Syria’s War Economy.”
39. Sayigh, “Is Armed Rebellion on the Wane in Syria?”
40. And earlier, the Syrian National Council. Lund, “The Non-State Militant
Landscape in Syria”; Lavoix, “Strategic Intelligences Assessment for Syria (4)”; Sly,
“Defector Syrian General Will Be Conduit for U.S. Aid to Rebels.”
41. Sofer and Shafroth, “The Structure and Organization of the Syrian Opposition.”
42. “Foreign Smuggled Weapons Spread North into Syria,” Brown Moses Blog,
February 2, 2013, 2.
43. Geneva II was intended as follow-up on the first international meeting in
Geneva on June 30, 2012, which had resulted in a “Final Communiqué” of the Action
Group for Syria. http://www.un.org/News/dh/infocus/Syria/FinalCommuniqueAc-
tionGroupforSyria.pdf. See also Besheer, “Geneva Communique: Road Map for Syria
Political Transition.”
44. Lund, “A Coup in the Supreme Military Council.”
45. Lister, “Syria’s Insurgency.”
46. These included the Kataʾib al-Farouq Islami (Islamic Farouq Battalions,
established in Homs/Hama), the Kataʾib al-Faruq (al-Faruq Battalions, established in
Homs), Liwaʾ al-Islam (Islam Brigade, established in Damascus), Suqur al-Sham (in
Idlib and Aleppo with eight thousand to nine thousand fighters), the Liwaʾ al-Tawhid
(Tawhid Brigade, mainly in Aleppo), the Fath Brigade, also in Aleppo, and the Deir
ez-Zor Revolutionaries’ Council.
47. The SNC stands for the Syrian National Coalition, and its full name is the
National Coalition for Syrian Revolution and Opposition Forces. Jarba was elected
president on July 6, 2013. There has been a good deal of factionalism and disputes
within this opposition group, which was formed in Qatar in November 2012.
48. Abdul Razaq Tlass appeared in a YouTube video engaged in Skype/phone
sex reportedly with a Turkish journalist in August of 2012 presumably due to spy-
ware. Cf. “The Abdulrazaq Tlass Affair and the Naked Truth,” Syria in Transition.
Malik Al-Abdeh’s Blog, September 24, 2012. http://syriaintransition.com/2012/09/24/
the-abdulrazaq-tlass-affair-and-the-naked-truth/.
49. For background on the Muslim Brotherhood in Syria, see Rabil, “The Syrian
Muslim Brotherhood,” 73–88.
214 Sherifa Zuhur
50. For earlier sources of Salafism, see Commins, Islamic Reform: Politics and
Social Change in Late Ottoman Syria, 34–88.
51. The main rationale: repelling attacks on Muslim lives and property by enemy
forces (based on Surah 2:190). Salafi-jihadists also claim to be fighting for Islam
(Surah 2:193) against the disbelief (polytheism) of Assad’s ʿAlawi grouping. Zuhur,
“Syria: A Haven for Terrorists.”
52. Rumman, “Syrian Sufis Divided as Salafist Influence Grows.”
53. Roggio, “Al Nusra Front Denies Emir Killed by Syrian Troops.”
54. The Shammar are one of the largest Arab tribes, extending to Iraq, Saudi
Arabia, Jordan, and Syria. Cf. Heras, “The Battle for Syria’s Al-Hasakah Province.”
55. Some fifteen thousand according to “Syria’s Islamist Fighters: Competition
among Islamists,” Economist, July 20, 2013. The lower estimate is from Jenkins, “The
Dynamics of Syria’s Civil War.”
56. Roggio, “On the CIA Estimate of Number of Fighters of Islamic State,”
Threat Matrix, a blog of the Long War Journal, September 13, 2014, http://www.
longwarjournal.org/archives/2014/09/on_the_cia_estimate_of_number.php.
57. Kayed, “Meeting Syria’s Mujahedeen.”
58. Zelin, Al-Qaeda in Syria.
59. Ibid.
60. AbdelAziz, “Death and Desecration in Syria.”
61. Quickly resulting in 500 casualties (240 fighters from FSA or the Islamic
Front, 157 ISIS fighters, and 85 civilians). Cf. Simon and Dumalaon, “Almost 500
Reported Killed in Syria.”
62. Benotman and Blake, “Jabhat al-Nusra: A Strategic Briefing,” 3.
63. Karouny, “In Eastern Syria, Oil Smugglers Benefit from Chaos.”
64. Abdul-Ahad, “Syria’s Oilfields Create Surreal Battle Lines Amid Chaos and
Tribal Loyalties.”
65. Hubbard, Krauss, and Schmitt, “Rebels in Syria Claim Control of Resources.”
66. Tira, The Nature of War, 57.
67. Seibert, “NATO Ally Tacitly Fueling the ISIS War Machine.”
68. Hamo, “Syria’s Kurds Struggle with Islamists for Control of Oil.”
69. The world media only began to cover the Kurdish-ISIS struggle intensively in
Kobane in 2014, but it was a feature of the revolution dating back several years when
I began to cover these groups. Cf. Beals, “Syria’s Sisters of War”; Johnson, “Meet the
Kurdish Female Freedom Fighters of Syria.”
70. Beals, “Syria’s Sisters of War.”
71. “The ‘Radical Islamists’ of Ahrar al-Sham,” Free Halab webblog circa May
30, 2013, http://freehalab.wordpress.com/2013/05/30/the-radical-islamists-of-ahrar-
al-sham/.
72. Roggio, “Muhajireen Army Uses BP to Launch Suicide Attack on Aleppo
Airport.”
73. See Lavoix’s discussion of Abdelrahman al-Hajj’s approach in “Strategic
Analysis Assessment for Syria (4.),” and see http://i0.wp.com/www.redanalysis.org/
wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Nationalist-and-Salafis-in-Syria.jpg.
74. Lund, “The Non-State Militant Landscape in Syria.”
Syria’s Army, Militias, and Nonstate Armed Groups 215
75. Daloglu, “Salafists Vow to Fight until There Is Islamic State of Syria.”
76. Malone, “All Female Group Fights in Aleppo”; Heffez, “When Women
Joined the Jihad in Syria.”
77. Labousse, “The New Face of the Syrian Revolution”; Sinjab, “Guide to
Armed and Political Opposition.”
78. Black, “Saudi Arabia to Spend Millions to Train New Force.”
79. Labousse, “The New Face of the Syrian Revolution.”
80. Wong, “Foreign Fighters Surpass Afghan-Soviet War.”
81. Al-Suri, “Ahl al-sunna fi al-Sham mawajahat al-nusayriyyah wa-l-saliybiyyah
wa-l-yahud. Pt. 1.”
82. Ma’ayeh, “Jordanian Jihadists Active in Syria”; “Ministry: Around
2,400 Tunisians Fighting in Syria,” AFP in Al Arabiyya, June 23, 2014, http://
english.alarabiya.net/en/News/2014/06/24/Ministry-around-2-400-Tunisians-fight-
ing-in-Syria.html; Lederer, “More than 12,000 Fighters from 74 Countries Went
to Syria.”
83. Yeginsu, “Turkey Is a Steady Source of ISIS Recruits.”
84. Safi and Evershed, “Australians Fighting in Syria.”
85. Ur Rahman, “Pakistani Fighters Joining the War in Syria”; Mujeeb, “Pakistan
Taliban ‘Sets Up a Base in Syria’”; Golovnina and Ahmad, “Pakistan Taliban Set Up
Camps in Syria.”
86. Hubbard, “Private Donors’ Fund Adds Wild Card to War in Syria.”
87. Ibid.
88. Abouzeid, “Opening the Weapons Tap: Syria’s Rebels Await Fresh and Free
Ammo.”
89. Torchia, and Klapper, “Friends of Syria Conference: US Among Countries to
Fund Syrian Opposition.”
90. Tira, The Nature of War, 7.
91. Ali, “Syria ‘War Merchants’ Crush 2011 Opposition.”
92. Henley, “Captagon: The Amphetamine Fueling Syria’s Civil War.”
93. Moussaoui, “In Lebanon, Marijuana Trade Thrives from Chaos of Civil War.”
94. “Report: Saudi Men Exploiting Syrian Refugees,” Saudi Gazette, May
10, 2014, http://www.saudigazette.com.sa/index.cfm?method=home.regcon&cont
entid=20140510204632; Long, “Rape and Sham Marriages: The Fears of Syria’s
Women Refugees.”
95. Dilanian, “Islamic State Group’s War Chest Is Growing Daily.”
96. Elwert, “Intervention in Markets of Violence.”
97. Author’s personal interviews with members of Hezbollah, al-Aqsa Brigades,
Shi`a militias in Iraq, and Hamas military and al-Ghad political wing, al-Qaeda fi
Jazirat al-ʿArabiyya dating from 1999 to 2011.
98. “Shami Witness Unmasked: I Will Not Resist Arrest.” Channel 4 News,
December 12, 2014, http://www.channel4.com/news/police-bangalore-islamic-
state-twitter-shami-witness.
99. Hubbard, “Private Donors’ Fund Adds Wild Card.”
100. Barnard, “Syrian Rebels Say Saudi Arabia Is Stepping Up Weapons
Deliveries.”
216 Sherifa Zuhur
101. Starr, “Official Says CIA-Funded Weapons Have Reached Rebels”; “US
‘Funded Syrian Opposition Groups,’” Al Jazeera, April 18, 2011. http://www.
aljazeera.com/news/middleeast/2011/04/2011418114117731717.html; AlHamadee
and Gutman, “Rebels in Syria say US Has Stopped Paying Them.”
102. Leading to assessments such as by Schmitt and Mazetti, “US Intelligence
Official Says Syrian War Could Last for Years.”
103. The original version of this chapter showed how this pattern—replicated in
Libya, Yemen, and areas of Pakistan and Afghanistan—is now an essential feature of
civil wars and the struggles against Islamists and reflects some dynamics discussed
by Ahram, Proxy Warriors.
104. Sayigh, “Is Armed Rebellion on the Wane in Syria?”
Conclusion and Outlook
Elke Grawert
This book takes the events following the “Arab Spring” as a cause for a
renewed examination of the economic and political role of the military in the
MENA region. Moreover, the authors studied the resource base and economic
activities of paramilitary forces and nonstate armed groups (NSAGs), which
form a significant part of armed organizations in the region. The findings
reveal that the military, paramilitary groups, militias, and NSAGs pursue
activities that are embedded in the larger national, and even global, economy.
In addition, several armed organizations, state and nonstate, combine eco-
nomic with political power.
Building on early academic accounts of the role the armed forces play
in modernization and development and on scarce contemporary studies on
the military as an economic actor, the authors’ findings from nine countries
confirm a continuity of the economic dimension of the military. In fact, the
military successfully adapted to the grand shift in the international economic
context, from a framework favoring state-led developmentalism from the
1950s to the 1970s to a liberalized, and increasingly globalized, market
economy from the 1980s to the 2010s. However, adaptation strategies range
from maintaining a protectionist sector dominated by the military (while
private sector companies have to compete in a liberalized framework), to out-
right participation of military foundations and holdings in the global finance
market. The first part of the conclusion presents this transformation process
and compares the country cases with regard to the bargains through which
the military gained and maintained a degree of autonomy toward the govern-
ment. It also assesses the effects of the acquisition of privileged contracts and
privatized businesses by military and paramilitary officers on state-society
relations, and it finally looks into the influence of the military on the regimes
in the MENA region.
217
218 Conclusion and Outlook
In the second part, the conclusion turns to the “Arab Spring”1 to discuss its
results along four dimensions: the challenges the militaries faced during the
mass protests and their responses, the factionalization of armed organizations,
the relevance of organized Islamism, and the ensuing changes of the politi-
cal economy of armed organizations. The “Arab Spring” has fundamentally
affected state-society relations or the “ruling bargain”2 between citizens and
government, which, in the MENA region, materialized as a relatively stable
compromise between largely quiescent citizens tolerating authoritarian rulers
who distributed socioeconomic benefits, mostly through patron-client rela-
tionships. The conclusion shows the different ways by which the military and
armed organizations tried to (re-)establish legitimacy and how the erosion of
the ruling bargain boosted the proliferation of armed groups.
Finally, the conclusion highlights the authors’ findings about the increas-
ingly blurred boundaries between militaries, militias, and nonstate armed
groups in the field of economic involvement. It characterizes in particular
the economies of NSAGs as they developed in Libya, Syria, and Yemen,
and considers the interlinkages of militias and NSAGs with the state. It
also assesses the formation of distinct local orders, governed by militias, as
a result of access to economic resources that enable armed groups to gain
popular support and legitimacy.
The conclusion ends with an outlook on the potentials and threats caused
by armed organizations’ economic engagement. It considers the impact
of regional and international factors and the potential future political
implications.
To protect the nation was the main task of the military after independence
in the Middle East, in interstate wars during the 1960s and 1970s and the
Iraq–Iran war in the 1980s, and this justified a high defense budget. Lasting
tensions between countries that emerged after secessions, like Pakistan and
India after 1947, the separation of Pakistan and Bangladesh in 1971, and the
Yemen Arab Republic and the People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen in
1968, had the same effect. The result typically was a huge army (with ratios
between soldiers and civilians of 1:64 in Jordan, 1:198 in Egypt, and 1:304
in Pakistan3), an elevated military budget, and continuous purchases of arms
from major military powers, combined with political dependence on the main
supplier. Egypt has steadily relied on US military assistance since 1979, and
Jordan since 1957, whereas Syria has received military supplies from the
Soviet Union and later, Russia, since 1955. Pakistan, Iran, and Sudan had
fluctuating relations with the United States and other major arms exporters.
Conclusion and Outlook 219
under control of the military regime after the coup of 1977. Siddiqa points
out that at that time, the military established welfare trusts and holdings for
further military companies, similar to OYAK in Turkey, taking on business in
agriculture and milling, in fertilizer, oil and gas industries, security services,
infrastructure, and transport. Different branches of the military engaged
in different economic fields, crowding out civilian entrepreneurs. Military
projects in infrastructure and education favored military staff and family
members while demanding fees from civilian users. In Turkey, a strong
interest alliance of military and capitalist private entrepreneurs successfully
compelled the government to extend protectionist policies, notwithstanding
the crisis of the import-substitution strategy.
Sudan and the northern Yemen Arab Republic were also facing a debt
crisis and economic stagnation in the late 1970s. As a condition for loans,
the International Monetary Fund (IMF) demanded austerity measures and
economic liberalization. While, on the one hand, the two governments began
with a tentative and limited privatization of state companies, they established
military economic corporations in the context of structural adjustment on the
other. The aims of these military institutions were to use excess resources of
the armed forces to support the ailing national economy and to provide the
members of the military with social welfare assistance. Moreover, due to a
lack of foreign currency, the military corporations were set up to provide
the army with ammunition, tools, and weapons and to upgrade the technical
administrative capacities of members of the armed forces. El-Battahani char-
acterizes the Sudanese military economic corporation as a military merchant-
capitalist organization engaging mainly in import-export trade and marketing,
predominantly with the private sector. Seitz ascribes a tribal-military-com-
mercial character to the Yemeni complement. The latter was, from the outset,
part of the president’s patronage network providing officers with access to
various economic sources of wealth, including land for oil exploration and
government positions. The Yemeni officer corps had links with tribal patrons,
who benefited from this special avenue to tap into the economic resources of
the country and build political power. In addition, individual military officers
took over control of import businesses, received subsidized credits for irri-
gated cash crop farming, and engaged in currency transactions as means of
personal enrichment.
In Iran, the Islamic revolution in 1979, the subsequent Iraq-Iran war, and
related international economic sanctions shaped the economic role of the
country’s armed organizations. During the early 1980s, the regime national-
ized heavy industry, manufacturing, mining, and foreign trade. It founded
the paramilitary Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) and new insti-
tutions, among them endowed foundations that seized assets and firms of
the previous monarchy. Harris presents the IRGC as an organization that,
222 Conclusion and Outlook
alongside with the military, operated through its economic foundations, pro-
duced military technology, performed relief operations, and was engaged in
education and in commodity production. After the end of war in 1988, the
IRGC took the lead in national development based on its engineering skills.
Through a cooperative foundation, it provided housing loans and other ben-
efits to war veterans. Through a contracting branch, it engaged in construction
and development projects, competing with similar economic activities run by
the ministry of defense.
According to the country analyses in this volume, import-substituting
industrialization as a development strategy pursued by state companies and
the military as a “vanguard of modernization” came to an end during the
1980s. What remained as a legacy from this era was a powerful economic
elite consisting of active and retired military officers, entrepreneurs con-
nected to the military through family and patronage relations, as well as crony
capitalists linked to the military elite.
The neoliberal turn in the international economy, following the end of the
Cold War in 1989, changed the type of economic activities of the mili-
tary—as the authors show in this volume. It enhanced export orientation and
engagement in the service and finance market. The era of nationalist devel-
opmentalism was over. Instead, the leaders of transitioning regimes adopted
mottos such as fostering technical expertise, increasing economic efficiency,
and a culture of entrepreneurship and innovation during the 1990s. During the
same decade, a general trend in the MENA region was the formation of busi-
ness ties between the military and large local and foreign investors, which in
the Arab states were primarily with the Gulf Cooperation Council.
Engagement in the tourism business and the administration of the Suez
Canal and Red Sea ports by the Egyptian military indicate that the military
took advantage of the semirentier economy, which shaped the regime’s
patronage system. The main repercussion was growing social inequality due
to the biased redistribution of wealth within clientelist relationships. Accord-
ing to Abul-Magd, this surfaced, among other things, in the fact that a grow-
ing number of military officers were appointed as governors, which indicated
a strong corporate identity and self-confidence of the military as well as close
links with the executive. In both Egypt and Pakistan, military companies
increased land seizures for commercial agricultural production and expanded
into chemical industries, mining, gas and oil industries, besides continu-
ous involvement in construction and infrastructure. Siddiqa shows that the
Conclusion and Outlook 223
Pakistani military expanded its four welfare foundations into banking, finance
and insurance, real estate, travel, IT, energy, and education—fields promis-
ing benefits for officers after retirement, and drawing from the capital accu-
mulated in the military pension funds. In Turkey, the military coup of 1980
paved the way toward a fundamentally restructured economy, characterized
by export-oriented industrialization, a privatization of state companies, and
financial accumulation. Akça reveals that this was accompanied by a deep
transformation of society and politics through a combination of market econ-
omy and repression against oppositional movements, which persisted under
the subsequent civilian authoritarian regimes.
In Iran, the Islamic government used the ideology of self-sufficiency to
disguise liberalization and privatization measures for parastatal companies.
The government also demanded from the security and military forces that
they obtain revenue sources independent from the state. As Harris points
out, international sanctions contributed to a development, where former state
managers as well as foundations and cooperatives of the IRGC competed
with military economic organizations for contracts in the private sector,
while retired military and IRGC officers started individual businesses. The
result was a huge parastatal sector consisting of social welfare fund institu-
tions, foundations, banks, and holding companies that produced about half of
the national income. The Iranian business of armed organizations split into
parastatal companies run by the military and economic privileges for retired
officers, converging with the development of military business elsewhere in
the region.
In countries where military business was less dominant, as in Jordan,
Sudan, Syria, and Yemen, neoliberalism materialized mainly for retired mili-
tary officers, through privileged access to land, business licenses, and man-
agement or board positions in the private sector in the context of privatization
of state companies and assets. The military officers thus maintained their
status of the economic elite in these countries. Previously established con-
nections with cronies contributed to their growing prosperity in the neoliberal
economic environment. In Yemen, foreign aid, remittances from the Gulf,
and oil revenues declined, and after a brief civil war, the country reunited
in the mid-1990s, forcing the government to forge a new social alliance to
secure support. Seitz’s analysis reveals that in the context of privatization and
liberalization efforts, the regime included civilian managers in the Yemeni
military economic corporation, among them many relatives of the president,
and it used this institution to expand military influence into the private sector.
Under the shadow of an alliance with the United States in the “war on terror,”
the Yemeni government could delay privatization efforts and other measures
of liberalization that were conditions for loans from the IMF and the World
Bank. The military corporation became an institution that absorbed former
224 Conclusion and Outlook
All the country cases in this book witnessed political mass protests during
the past decades, to which the authors refer in their analyses of class relations
and social dynamics of change. In Turkey, the Gezi Park protest in 2013 was
the most recent incidence, in Iran the Green Movement of 2009, and in Paki-
stan protests of small peasants and landless laborers against measures of the
military sprang up repeatedly in 2014. In the cases of Egypt, Yemen, Libya,
and Syria, the authors focus on the “Arab Spring,” stressing the following
aspects: (1) mass uprising against the incumbent regime, (2) intervention of
the military, (3) rise of Islamism, and (4) proliferation of armed organiza-
tions. Most of the authors in this volume use widening class differences as
a starting point to analyze the strategies by which the military legitimized
political interventions and, more or less openly, its continuous economic
activities. For Egypt, Turkey, Iran, and Sudan, the authors use the Gramscian
concept of hegemonic faction of the bourgeoisie—in this book also called
Conclusion and Outlook 227
economic elite—and argue that the ranks of the military and officers of para-
military forces have become part of this faction. They consider struggles for
predominance in this hegemonic section of society as crucial for the changes
triggered by earlier protest movements, in particular in tipping the balance
of power in Turkey, Pakistan, and Sudan. The motives for military interven-
tions were a mixture of political and economic interests, often guided by the
interest to protect autocratic regimes and their patronage networks in which
the protagonists of the military and paramilitary organizations had a stake.
In Sudan, all the four above aspects of the “Arab Spring” surfaced in com-
bination. The country’s history shows military factions siding with protesters
during mass uprisings leading to regime changes. The last such occurrence
was in 1985. The fall of the military regime was followed by a military-led
transition and short democratic rule with the Muslim Brotherhood as a viable
opposition party. The result was a long-lasting military-Islamist regime, a
cowed population, protracted civil war with jihadist legitimization on the
part of the regime, the secession of South Sudan, and the generation of a
range of paramilitary forces. El-Battahani shows how the upper echelons of
the military and the National Intelligence Service of Sudan (NISS) became
a hegemonic faction of the Sudanese economic elite and part of crony-capi-
talist networks. They combined arms control with increasing economic and
political autonomy, and the regime relied on buying the loyalty of the two
powerful forces. The security sector received the bulk of the state budget,
feeding on state revenues that had become scarce after the end of the oil
boom. El-Battahani examines the resulting societal tensions, repressive state
action against demonstrations, attacks of the military and paramilitary forces
against armed resistance movements fighting in western and southern Sudan,
and growing competition between the hegemonic class factions. Based on the
historical role of military factions in supporting uprisings and regime change,
El-Battahani suggests a deeper split in the military paralleling the increased
class gap between soldiers and officers as one future scenario. As a second
scenario, he assumes struggles between hegemonic elite factions, where the
dominance of the NISS may be attacked. These scenarios are also relevant for
MENA countries that faced the “Arab Spring” of 2011 to 2012.
In Egypt, the military used the “Arab Spring” to consolidate its political
power and ensure its hegemonic economic position. In 2011, it sided with
the protest movement and thus helped to oust the president along with his
attempt to make his son his successor. The temporary alliance with the Mus-
lim Brotherhood in 2012 to 2013 did not lead to a military Islamist regime as
in Sudan, but ended with a return to a military regime that criminalized the
Muslim Brotherhood heavily, causing a deep divide in the Egyptian society.
The military used the institutional track to confirm its power above checks
and balances in the constitution, the political track to extend ruling positions
228 Conclusion and Outlook
for military officers, and the publicity track to gloss over its claim to be
the guardian of the nation in patriotic songs that were broadly popularized.
According to the analysis by Abul-Magd, the military regime in power since
mid-2013 has been undecided in its economic stance, fluctuating between
supporting the interests of the lower and middle classes, those of the national
capitalists, or those capitalists inclined to integrate fully in the globalized
economy. In any case, as an outcome of the “Arab Spring,” the military has
established itself more firmly than ever before in leading sectors of the Egyp-
tian economy and thus has secured for itself a greatly advantageous position
in the competition with entrepreneurs of the private sector.
In 2011 and 2012, Jordan witnessed a few antiregime protests that were
contained by riot police. After that, developments in neighboring Syria
deterred Jordanians from protesting. The comparatively stable Jordanian
regime used its military to protect the borders and to cooperate with the UN
high commissioner for refugees (UNHCR) in implementing refugee pro-
grams. Moreover, as Marshall indicates, it trained the armed forces of other
countries, built infrastructure and transport facilities, and exported military
industry products and services into the MENA region. To justify state sup-
port, KADDB legitimized its economic endeavors in an effort to link the
public and private sectors of the Jordanian economy, create employment, and
upgrade technical skills. The “Arab Spring” hence increased legitimacy of the
Jordanian military as general protector of the nation, which included provid-
ing job opportunities for skilled labor.
In Yemen, the military was divided in its response to the “Arab Spring”
protest movement. According to the analysis of Seitz, the divide was the
result of previous presidential attempts to downsize the tribal-based patron-
age network and rather to mainly rely on the funds and protection of the
United States—a move that threatened the economic and political interests of
the officer corps. The abolishment of conscription and the exclusion of most
of the southern Yemeni officers from the ranks from about the year 2000
onward led to a rise in the unemployment rate, a collapse of parts of the tribal
patronage system, and growing unrest among tribes. The reintroduction of
compulsory military service in 2007 inflated the military budget, of which a
large share served to fund patronage networks required to secure the regime.
Military officers used this source of wealth to build up positions as powerful
commanders connected to tribal patrons, and to safeguard the loyalty of their
soldiers by paying them properly. As in Egypt, attempts of the incumbent
president to install his son as successor caused resentment in the military
ranks. Fearing for their economic and political interests, during the “Arab
Spring” uprisings military commanders chose different sides, hoping to get
to the winner’s edge and renegotiate the ruling bargain to their advantage.
The expulsion of President Saleh in 2012 weakened his patronage network
Conclusion and Outlook 229
and increased competition among the key figures of power in Yemen. After
forming a unity government that included former oppositional party followers
in the army, the new president started to build his own patronage network and
included former outsiders such as southern Yemeni tribal militias, while he
maintained the military economic corporation as a crucial source of wealth
for officers. Fierce competition over control of the corporation and over
access to privileges and the related patronage networks escalated when the
government implemented gasoline subsidy cuts in order to solicit IMF loans
in 2014. According to Seitz, the threat of losing privileged access to sources
of wealth triggered the uprising of the northern Houthi, who occupied the
capital and demanded for their followers to be included in the military as a
condition for the return to peace. The “Arab Spring” in Yemen thus boosted
the role of the military as the main avenue to economic and political power,
over access to which armed tribal groups turned to violence that subsequently
escalated into civil war with the involvement of regional powers.
In Syria, the military regime had clamped down on civil unrest led by the
Muslim Brotherhood in 1982, seeking to extirpate that organization. Accord-
ing to the analysis of Zuhur, this was one root cause of the emergence of
Salafi-jihadist groups including ISIS. The second root cause was the long-
established connection between Syrian local groups and Iraqi fighters against
the US-led invasion of 2003, who had taken refuge in Syria. The third cause
was the mobilization of further jihadist groups in the Middle East that the
Gulf States had supported since the 1990s. During the “Arab Spring,” the
Syrian regime retaliated against the unarmed protest movement with mili-
tary power and paramilitary groups, eventually causing it to escalate into a
regionalized civil war between the regime forces and a broad range of—
disunited—NSAGs. The military split into regime-loyal core divisions, the
ordinary army, and deserted officers forming the Free Syrian Army (FSA)
fighting against the regime. For its own protection, the regime employed
paramilitary gangs to carry out massacres and atrocities among civilians and
to destroy places inhabited by Sunni Muslims. Some of these militias were
funded by family members of the president, others by the Iranian IRGC and
Lebanese Hezbollah. They followed the sectarian ideology instigated by
the regime and attacked certain Sunni groups and predominantly the Mus-
lim Brotherhood and other Salafi groups. The privileged regime circle of
high-ranking officers of the military and the intelligence service, politicians,
and big businesspeople around the president and his family lost much of its
previous economic power during the civil war. Since late 2012, units of the
Hezbollah, Iranian IRGC, and Iraqi militias support the regime, train its mili-
tias, supply them with arms, and join the fighting, whereas Russia continues
its military assistance to the government. The Syrian opposition, on the other
hand, has formed an exile coalition, which until early 2013 received support
230 Conclusion and Outlook
from a broad range of Western states as well as Turkey, Egypt, Jordan, Saudi
Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, and Qatar.
According to Zuhur, Syria’s oppositional groups run local councils and
keep up a rudimentary administration in parts of the country over which the
regime has lost control. In reaction to this, in late 2013 Salafi-jihadist groups
formed a counter-council, thus cementing the split of the opposition which,
faced with continuous bomb attacks on residential areas by the regime forces,
increasingly organized in NSAGs. As Zuhur reveals, there were cross-cutting
connections and coordination attempts within the armed opposition, even
between the Free Syrian Army and Islamist groups. The most powerful
jihadist groups, the al-Nusra Front and ISIS, benefited from their massive
ideological mobilization, sophisticated propaganda in the social media, the
political split in Iraq, extended fund-raising, and recruitment of foreign fight-
ers. The two jihadist groups fought each other and allied with Syrian tribes.
The armed struggle of FSA groups, Kurdish groups, and US and French air
strikes launched on positions of ISIS in Iraq since 2014 failed to defeat ISIS,
which conquered large territories in Syria and Iraq and established branches
in Sinai, Libya, Afghanistan, and other countries in the region. The Syrian
“Arab Spring” thus resulted in a deep division of the society, mass flight, a
deep Shia-Sunni divide in the region, and a regional war with international
involvement. The regime it had aimed to topple remains in place, although
with a limited range of rule. Zuhur adds that for both the proponents of the
regime and the dominant Salafi-jihadist NSAGs, no alternative than to con-
tinue on the path of violence appears to be viable, because on each side, defeat
would lead to their extinction. Zuhur claims that the Syrian “Arab Spring”
ran into an ideologically driven war, which brought the warring parties into
an existential dilemma from which the only way out will be a political deal.
Given the complexity of the war, with its range of proxy wars between dif-
ferent actors from the region (Turkish-Kurdish dispute, Iran–Saudi Arabia
power struggle, Sunnite-Shiite battles, moderate versus fundamentalist Islam,
among others) and international powers (US-led Western coalition versus
Russia), this will take time.
In Libya, the uprisings of the “Arab Spring” took the shape of a general
insurrection, with fighters capturing arms from the regime’s scattered arsenal.
Heavy armed response of the combined forces of the military and paramili-
tary regime-loyal forces rapidly turned the state-society confrontation into a
civil war. The weak Libyan military collapsed, and some units and individual
officers sided with the protesters and assisted in building militias. With the
support of Western and Arabian Gulf air forces, the regime was ousted in
2012. Droz-Vincent contends that the subsequent proliferation of local mili-
tias throughout the country, drawing in high numbers of unemployed youth
and legitimizing themselves through their revolutionary activities, was the
Conclusion and Outlook 231
legacy of the previous regime. The fact that Qaddafi relied on his personal
praetorian forces and avoided to establish institutionalized and functional
armed forces loyal to the state contributed to the immediate collapse of
the military. Furthermore, the brigades could turn the ideological basis of
the Qaddafi regime into an ideology of revolution, taking advantage of the
high degree of popular participation and local autonomy stated in the Green
Book. Anchored in tribe, neighborhood, town, region, a particular ideological
Islamic group, or a mixture of all, the brigades established makeshift councils
in order to defend towns and villages. Droz-Vincent points out that several
groups built their own local political rule and managed to gain local legiti-
macy by providing communities with security and some social and adminis-
trative services. Weapons left from the NATO support of the opposition and
funds from Qatari sponsors facilitated this development. The Libyan General
National Congress, elected in 2012, integrated entire brigades in the govern-
ment and gave others tasks to secure crucial state facilities such as petro-
leum installations, borders, government buildings, and infrastructure. The
brigades thus became intermediaries between the communities and powerful
commanders from which they derived legitimacy, on the one hand, and the
emerging government, on the other.
According to Droz-Vincent, in 2013 until mid-2014, Libya had a govern-
ment several ministries of which had links with an alliance of brigades from
Misrata, the Muslim Brotherhood, and Salafi-jihadist groups. An alliance of
brigades from Zintan that supported liberal politicians and federalist groups
from Benghazi formed against them. Subsequently, brigades and political
actors competed over the control of state institutions and a range of economic
resources as well as strategic facilities as a particular means for economic
gains. Scattered rule by militias prevailed until 2014. This outcome of the
Libyan “Arab Spring” collapsed in mid-2014. Officers of the former military
started to kill Islamist brigadists in the context of a stagnating constitutional
process and growing political infighting following a parliamentary election
with low voter turnout. Various brigades fought over the control of the main
airport and, subsequently, other strategic and economically lucrative facili-
ties. The government split into two factions, one from Zintan and one from
Misrata, each backed by a loose alliance of diverse brigades. Different gov-
ernments from neighboring countries and the Gulf took sides or tried to medi-
ate. Hence, similar to the case of Syria, the “Arab Spring” in Libya resulted
in the proliferation of numerous NSAGs fighting each other and a civil war
that was increasingly spreading out into the region.
The comparative analysis of authors’ assessments of the outcomes of the
“Arab Spring” indicates that the previous structure of the military was deci-
sive for the reconsolidation of an autocratic regime (Sudan, Egypt) or a split
into numerous paramilitary groups fighting against an opposition radicalizing
232 Conclusion and Outlook
in NSAGs (Yemen, Syria, Libya). In the first category, the military emerged
stronger than ever as a predominant political power, safeguarding its economic
privileges and ruling out public scrutiny. In the second category, the fact that
NSAGs increasingly fought each other indicates deep divides in society that
the uprisings had brought to light. In the absence of procedures geared toward
ameliorating these differences, many actors exacerbated political contradic-
tions by forming ideologically distinct groups engaged in combat. The initial
structure of the opposition took the form of councils protected by like-minded
NSAGs, which gained legitimacy from local constituencies through their
efforts to protect them from the government forces or other NSAGs and by
providing them with social services, infrastructure, and administration. At
the same time, the war context created commanders, many from the previous
officer corps and now wielding increasing influence through NSAGs under
their control. Accumulating bargaining power appears to be one motive,
mere economic aims another one, both more or less disguised by ideological
claims. The influx of external NSAGs further increased the multitude of vio-
lent actors through new alliances with local groups supplemented by internal
and external recruitment. The links of militaries, paramilitary organizations,
and NSAGs with regional supporters are likely to protract violence as the
chief means to negotiate these countries’ political future.
increasingly blurred during the attempts of rebuilding the military with bri-
gades after the ousting of Qaddafi in 2011, all armed groups have thrived
from the state. As Droz-Vincent shows, this does not only pertain to the
“ghost soldier” phenomenon but also includes the interest in gaining political
power through the state in order to collect revenues from oil and gas exports
from the position of a state official or an official entitlement to operate as
security provider. Particularly for the case of Libya, Droz-Vincent describes
the generation of semiautonomous and militia-governed units—including
their internal relations with local communities and external relations with
other such units—and the state-in-the-making. Such a situation of coexisting
local orders prevails in situations of civil war, in NSAG-held territories in
Syria, Yemen, and Sudan. These local orders can become cores for the for-
mation of coherent structures up to the degree of a new state likely to secede.
Outlook
The explanation for why armed actors are involved at all levels of the econ-
omy, from local to global, lies in the fact that they have continuously adapted
to drastic changes in the predominant international and global economic
frameworks during the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. Through-
out this period, civilian actors have been struggling to establish international
conventions and regulations in order to get the adverse repercussions of
economic globalization under control. Where international regulations have
successfully gained the support of states, enforcement has far lagged behind
due to the absence of powerful institutions above the national level.
The chapters of this book and the final analysis have revealed on an
empirical basis the interests and strategies of diverse armed groups, includ-
ing the military and NSAGs, in business and economic involvement at all
levels, and disclosed in detail the avenues and strategies they pursue. Obvi-
ously, globalization of the economy and communication opened up a range
of opportunities for them. At the global level, international movements for
transparent financial and trade transactions, and the enforcement of existing
and the creation of new binding regulations for global actors, would change
the conditions of economic involvement for civilian as well as armed actors
in the long run.
As the chapters have shown, the national level—and, on that level, the
role of the military—has been crucial for the containment, suppression, or
proliferation of armed groups in the MENA countries. As part of the regime,
it has collaborated in strategically releasing actors or tolerating groups, which
then formed NSAGs that had a divisive effect on oppositional movements.
The economic weight of the military also originates from the conditions at the
Conclusion and Outlook 237
national level, and the development of relations between the military and the
government on the one hand, and state-society relations on the other. Long-
term military regimes, which survived in the era of globalization following
the end of the Cold War, have devoured the state and institutionalized their
hegemony politically and economically, most outstandingly in Pakistan and
Egypt. In the absence of strong, autonomously acting state institutions, broad,
long-term alliances of civilian groups, or solid political parties representing
large parts of the society, the military is likely to consolidate this position
even more. The formation of factions within the military, even if this happens
due to contradictory economic interests such as those between the national
bourgeoisie and global capitalism, and a respective alliance with strong social
groups, may be one way to undermine the powerful military conglomerates,
as history has shown. A strong division of interests between the military and
an equally strong paramilitary force, such as a powerful, armed intelligence
service or militia, may have the same potential. A coup d’état by such a
faction of the state forces thus can be a starting point for a change that may
gradually bring civilian groups to a hegemonic position in society. The popu-
lar uprisings in the MENA region in the “Arab Spring” can be considered
as having opened the door only slightly ajar so that a glance at the turmoil
underneath these long-term autocratically ruled societies was possible. The
authors of this book have taken this glance, and their analyses invite more
in-depth research about what is there and how it works.
Notes
1. “Arab Spring” is a label that excludes non-Arab actors in North Africa and is,
therefore, put in quotation marks.
2. Kamrava, “Introduction,” 1.
3. See table “Characteristics of the Armed Forces in Nine Country Cases (2014)”
in Appendix C. For a comparison, the ratio of soldiers to civilians is 1:576, in
Germany 1:446, whereas in the United States it is 1:22. Cf. International Institute for
Strategic Studies, The Military Balance, 40, 90–91, 96–97.
4. Lock, “Gewalt als Regulation: Zur Logik der Schattenglobalisierung.”
5. Ibid., 42–53; see also Schlichte, “Gewinner und Verlierer,” 11–18.
6. Hanson, Kashyap, and Stein, “A Macroprudential Approach to Financial
Regulation.”
7. Grawert, “Challenges of Sub-Regional Peace after the Comprehensive Peace
Agreement in Sudan,” 246–55.
Appendix A
Ajnad al-Islam
Islamist umbrella organization in Damascus and parts of Quneitra gov-
ernorates. Many of their forces are part of the Levant Front (al-Jabha
al-Shammiya).
Al-Aqsa brigades
Palestinian armed groups that identify themselves as the military wing
of Fatah. They have nationalist goals without Islamic or other religious
background.
Alawites/Alawi
Also known as Nusayris or Ansari, Alawis are a religious group in Syria. It
is part of the “Twelver,” the largest branch of Shia Islam.
Al-Jabha al-Shammiya
See: Levant Front
239
240 Appendix A
Al-Jabhat al-Islamiyya
See: Islamic Front or IF
Al-Jaysh al-Shaʿbi
Paramilitary force formed by the Syrian regime. The majority of its members
are Alawis and Shiʿa. A coalition between the Syrian Armed Forces, Syrian
Resistance, and other groups to defend the Assad regime.
Al-Lijan al-Thawriyyah
See: Revolutionary Committees
Al-Qaeda
Sunni extremist umbrella organization for many Salafist jihadist groups. It
has been designated as a terrorist organization by the United Nations.
Ansar al-Shariʿah
Also known as Ansar al-Shariʿah in Libya (ASL), it is a Salafist Islamist
militia group that advocates the implementation of strict Sharia law across
Libya. Ansar al-Shariʿah was created in 2011 during the Libyan Civil War.
They have perpetrated extremist attacks and have been recognized as a ter-
rorist organization by the United Nations.
Badr Organization
An Iraqi Shiʿite political party with an unofficial Shiʿite Islamist military
wing called the Badr Brigade. It was formed and controlled by Iran. The Badr
Brigade is engaged in the Syrian civil war fighting on the side of the Assad
regime against the opposition.
Farouq Battalion
Established in Homs/Hama as part of the alliance of Khalid bin Walid
Brigade, formed by the Free Syrian Army, they are also part of the Syrian
Islamic Liberation Front.
Hamas
Islamic party in Palestine with both military and political wings. Since the
elections in 2006, Hamas has governed the Gaza Strip without coalitions or
reelection.
Hazzm Movement
Several of small armed factions that joined the Levant Front on March 1,
2015. Also part of the Free Syrian Army.
Hezbollah
A Shiʿi Islamist militant group and political party based in Lebanon.
Hezbollah was formed and directed with Iranian assistance. Until the Syrian
civil war, Hezbollah had fought against Israel in south Lebanon. Hezbol-
lah militants are engaged in Syria in fighting the opposition of the Assad
regime.
Infitah (Opening)
Political and economic opening for private investment in Egypt in the years
following the October War in 1973. It goes back to the method of liberaliza-
tion policy of Anwar El Sadat.
Appendix A 243
inshād
Singing of theme poems from everyday life, often about religious and tradi-
tional issues.
Ismaiʿilis (religion)
Second largest branch of Shiʿa Islam after the “Twelver.”
Jabhat al-Akrad
See: Kurdish Front Brigade
Jamaʿat Sayf
Coterie of Sayf al-Islam al-Qaddafi.
Jaysh al-Islam
Formerly known as Liwaʾ al-Islam, it is a coalition of multiple Salafist
groups. As part of the Islamic Front and allied Free Syrian Army, it fights
against the Assad regime, against Al-Nusra Front, and the Islamic State in
Iraq and the Levant (ISIL).
Jaysh al-Sham
Formerly part of Suqour al-Sham brigade. It split from it because it did not
want to participate in the fighting between Suqour al-Sham and the Islamic
State in Iraq and the Levant (ISIL). Jaysh al-Sham fights mainly in Idlib Gov-
ernorate and is allied with the Islamic Front, the Free Syrian Army, and the
Nusra Front in fighting the Assad and Baath regime.
Jund al-Haramain
A brigade of Jaysh al-Mujahedeen.
Liwaʾ Dawood
Formerly part of Jaysh al-Sham and defected from it to join ISIL in July 2014.
Assad regime and was formed and directed with Iranian assistance. It is allied
with Kataʾib Hezbollah and ʿAsaʾib Ahl al-Haqq.
Revolutionary Committees
Committees established to protect the revolution and to prevent a civil war.
This has become a concept in many countries and revolutions. In Libya, Qad-
dafi created these committees a few years after the revolution and used them
as a parallel army to pursue his opponents and to stifle any ideas of a further
revolution.
Tehrik-i-Taliban (TTP)
Taliban Movement of Pakistan
Maps
The boundaries and names shown and the designations used on this map do
not necessarily imply official endorsement by the Bonn International Center
for Conversion.
249
250
Appendix B
Map 1 Research Area. Source: GAUL, Natural Earth. Layout: Marianne Wargenau.
Appendix B
Map 3 Syria and Iraq. Source: GAUL, Natural Earth. Layout: Marianne Wargenau.
Appendix C
Tables
253
254
Table C.1 Characteristics of the Armed Forces in Nine Country Cases (2014)
Data/Country Jordan Syria Sudan (North) Iran Turkey Egypt Pakistan Yemen Libya
Active personnel (highest figure) 100,500 178,000 244,300 523,000 510,600 438,500 643,800 66,700 7,000
Active personnel (2010) 100,500 295,000 109,300 523,000 510,600 468,500 617,000 66,700 35,000 (est.)
Civilians per one Soldier 64.9 126.9 145.2 154.5 159.8 198.1 304.7 390.6 892
Civilians per one Soldier (2010) 64.4 76.2 312.8 143.5 148.2 180.3 299.4 363.6 86.1
Army 74,000 110,000 240,000 350,000 402,000 310,000 550,000 60,000 Up to 7,000
Navy 500 5,000 1,300 18,000 48,600 18,500 23,800 1,700 n.k.
Air 12,000 27,000 3,000 30,000 60,000 30,000 70,000 3,000 n.k.
Air defense — 36,000 — — — 80,000 — 2,000 —
Special Operations/Revolutionary 14,000 — — 125,000 — — — — —
Guard Corps
Reserve (most recent figure) 65,000 314,000 85,000 350,000 378,700 479,000 513,000 n.k. 40,000
Paramilitary/armed security forces 15,000 178,000 (2013) 20,000 40,000 102,200 397,000 304,000 71,200 n.k.
Paramilitary (2010) armed security 10,000 108,000 17,500 ⸗40,000 102,200 397,000 304,000 71,200 n.k.
forces 200,000
Appendix C
(2012)
Fighters in nonstate armed groups (est.) 187,000 (2014) 60,000 (2013) 250,000
(2013)
GMI* rank 8 4 n.k. (66 in 30 24 26 66 48 111
2009)
Military expenditure, in % of GDP 3.5 (2013) n.k. n.k. 1.9 (2012) 2.3 (2013) 1.7 (2013) 3.0 (2013) 2.9 (2013) 3.3 (2012)
Military expenditure, in % of GDP 5.0 (2010) 4.1 (2010) 3.4 (2006) 2.1 (2010) 2.2 (2010) 2.0 (2010) 2.9 (2010) 3.0 (2010) 1.2 (2008)
(before the Arab Spring)
Arms imports 2013† 100 361 345 18 604 501 1,002 22 51
Sources: IISS (2015), 315, 327, 344, 461; SIPRI (2014); World Bank (2014); BICC (2014); Editors’ compilation from the chapters.
n.k. = not known.
— = No data on this sector available for this country.
*The Global Militarisation Index (GMI) depicts the relative weight and importance of the military apparatus of one state in relation to its society as a whole.
†In constant 1990 million US dollars.
Table C.2 Military Conflict Data by Country (between 1946 and 2013)
Country Sudan
Indicator Jordan Syria (North) Iran Turkey Egypt Yemen Pakistan Libya
Type of Constitutional Single-party Federal Islamic Republican Military Divided Federal Islamic Divided
government monarchy system in Islamic republic parliamentary government government: republic government:
civil war republic democracy resigned transitional
and not president and elected
in control cabinet vs. government
of vast militant Islamic vs. militant
territories movement movements
Conflict/war — Domestically/ Domestically — Domestically Domestically Domestically/ Domestically/ Domestically/
type (2013– regional regional regional regional
2015)
Number of 6 6 5 6 8 8 10 7 5
violent
conflicts and
wars
Number of 2 (2011) 2.2 (2010) 11.2 (2012) 4.1 (2012) 2.6 (2011) 3.4 (2011) 4.8 (2010) 7.7 (2012) 1.7 (2012)
murders*
Appendix C
Number of 14.8 (2006) 4.3 (2008) — — 10.9 (2008) 3.4 (2011) 2 (2009) — —
robberies*
Death penalty allowed allowed allowed allowed no death allowed allowed allowed allowed
penalty
Torture > 50 cases > 50 cases > 50 cases > 50 cases > 50 cases > 50 cases > 50 cases > 50 cases > 50 cases
Political Terror 3 5 5 4 4 4 4 5 4
Scale Index
value†
Political System –3 –9 –4 –7 9 –4 3 7 –7
Index value
Sources: Amnesty International (2013); Child Soldiers International (2012); CIRI (2014); CSP (2014); Heuni (2010); UCDP/PRIO (2014); PTS (2014); Sexual Violence in Armed
Conflict; Bastick, Grimm, and Kunz (2007); Global Overview and Implications for the Security Sector (2007); UNDP (2011); UNODC (2013); World Bank (2014); Ceder-
man, Wimmer, and Min (2010); ETH (2012); Wimmer, Cederman, and Min (2009).
*Per 100,000 inhabitants.
†For 2013
255
256
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287
288 Index
204–7, 209, 211, 214n51, 227, behavior, 7, 10–12, 14–15, 46, 138, 187
229–30, 234, 240; beneficiary(ies), 10, 16, 45, 52, 62, 105,
terrorist, 38, 59 111–12, 129, 233
audit(ed)/auditing, 33, 63, 65, 110, 128, benefit(s), 3, 10, 45, 51, 64, 70, 102,
148, 168 110, 146, 154n33, 163, 176,
austerity/austerity measures, 23, 37, 184–85, 188–89, 235;
148–49, 162, 221, 224, 233 indirect, 9;
authoritarianism/authoritarian, 4–8, 14, socioeconomic, 218
23, 37, 73, 77–79, 86, 89, 93n28, bill(s), 23, 30, 31, 37
106, 138, 176–77, 187, 218, 223 body(ies):
authority(ies), 28, 30–31, 33, 35–36, governmental, 33;
50, 56, 59, 61, 88, 109, 123, 143, state, 21n84
153n11, 176, 178–79, 186–88, border, 44, 56, 103, 121, 149, 164,
190, 207, 220, 233 180–82, 202, 205–6, 208,
authorized, 57, 181, 202 233–34, 246;
auto/automotive, 71, 75–76, 78, 80, 84, Border and Strategic Installations
101, 120, 145, 219 Guard, 180;
autocracy/autocrat(s), 32, 136, 150–51 crossing, 206;
autonomy/autonomous, 8–9, 12, 16, 18, state, 12
45, 58, 69, 71, 90, 105, 107, 138, trade, 149, 233;
142, 159, 186, 188, 217, 225; boundary(ies), 12–13, 18, 156n77,
autonomize(d), 182; 218, 232
autonomous position, 9; bourgeois(ie), xii–xiv, 73–77, 79–80,
budget, 3; 82–84, 86–87, 89–91, 99, 104–8,
economic, 224; 110–14, 136–37, 139, 226, 237
financial, xii; boycott, 85, 144, 191
local, 159, 231; branch(es), 9, 109, 220–22, 224, 230
political, 186, 227; bread, 27, 37, 161, 187, 197
semi-autonomous, 8, 23, 33, 224, 236 bridge(s), 27, 31, 36, 55
brigade(s), 2, 176, 178, 180–82, 184,
balance(s)/balancing: 188–89, 194n22, 201–4, 206–7,
balance of power, 135, 137, 149, 213n46, 231, 235–36, 239, 241,
152, 153n22, 177, 227; 243–46, 248
checks and balances, 16, 225, 227 broker(s), 183, 226
bank, 55, 57–58, 63, 73, 78, 80, 86, 100, budget(ary):
111–12, 125, 130, 165, 182, 191; autonomy, 3;
banking, 25, 48, 57–58, 65, 81, cuts, 25;
100–101, 111, 113, 115n21, 223; defense, 9, 44–46, 66n9, 122,
bank loan, 8; 164, 218;
Central bank, 112, 191 deficit, 23, 37;
bankrupt, 73, 225 inflated, 224;
bargain/bargaining, 77, 175, 187, 217; military, 23, 33, 35, 37, 88, 130, 158,
power, 224, 232; 164, 218, 224, 228;
ruling, 1, 14–15, 17, 157–58, 163, national, 23, 128;
165–68, 171, 218, 228 state, 30, 35, 145, 148, 227
290 Index
building(s), 5–6, 18, 27, 29, 107–8, 127, accumulation, 16, 71, 73, 76–80, 82,
183, 188–90 89, 99, 101, 107–8, 111–12, 225;
bureaucracy(ies)/bureaucratic, 28–29, foreign, 24, 26, 28, 34, 36, 38, 71,
32–33, 37, 46, 51, 73–74, 102, 113;
77–78, 90, 99, 105–7, 113, gains, 36, 75;
136–37, 147–48, 151, 183, 188, goods, 78, 220;
219–20, 225; international, 29–30, 107, 140;
state, 8, 32, 137, 219–20 local capital, 29–30;
business: market(s), 233
businessman/businessmen, 36, 60, capitalism/capitalist(s), 29, 69, 73–77,
74, 88, 107, 125, 141, 146–48, 85, 88–91, 101, 105–6, 110,
158, 167, 172n17, 190–91; 136–37, 139–40, 147–49, 151,
businesspeople, 229; 153n17, 187, 220–22, 225,
community, 36; 227–28, 237;
elite, 28, 34, 36, 38, 120, 130; crony, 6, 10, 27, 31, 62, 65, 142,
empire, 24, 27, 33, 38, 46, 55, 58, 144, 147–49, 220, 222, 227;
62, 65; finance/financial, xiii, 226;
foreign, 12, 38, 225; foreign, 26;
interest(s), 17, 135, 139, 151–52 merchant-, 221;
illegal, 18; national, 228;
import, 161, 221; neoliberal, 79–84;
individual, 223; Turkish, 70, 75, 77, 90–91
licenses, 223, 225; career, 156n85, 203;
military/ military-owned businesses, military, 3
3, 9–10, 17, 24, 29, 33, 35, ceasefire, 177, 210
44–45, 57–58, 62–65, 66n6, 136, cell(s):
145, 218–24; militant, 2;
outsourced, 226; National Logistics Cell (NLC),
privatized, 217; 48, 54
ties, 28, 222; cement, 29–30, 32, 44, 48, 58, 65, 71,
tourism, 222 75, 80, 181, 219
centralization/centralized, 5, 16, 75,
cadre(s), 16, 45, 50, 54, 57, 63–64, 107 104–5, 168, 188, 190, 193, 210;
caliphate, 204, 209, 243 center/central, 5, 12, 59, 73, 76, 78,
camp(s), 209, 220; 85, 89, 98, 126–27, 150, 178–79,
refugee, 208 182, 186, 189–90, 192;
campaign(s): center of gravity, 205, 208, 211
election, 36; Chad/Chadian, 182, 191, 193
presidential, 36–37; challenge(s), 6, 15, 17, 25, 44, 48–49,
propaganda, 38, 208 57, 74, 76–77, 84, 98, 119,
capacity(ies), 11, 44, 58, 69, 87, 89, 157–58, 163–68, 171n6, 189,
107, 137–38, 168; 209, 218
administrative, 140, 221; change(s):
military, xii agents, 136, 151;
capital: political, 14, 104, 109, 190;
Index 291
187–89, 194n23, 204–5, 233, loan(s), 8, 82, 148, 160–61, 165, 169,
244, 246; 210, 223;
investment, 36, 199; housing, 109, 221–22;
rule of law, 233 IMF, 6, 221, 229
leader(s), 3, 5, 8, 26, 32, 35, 56, 87, local/localism, 2, 12–13, 15, 18, 24,
135, 137, 142–43, 156n77, 166, 28–29, 34, 36, 38, 64, 75, 103,
176, 178, 189, 199, 203–4, 206, 124, 148, 159, 164–65, 176–80,
222, 224; 182–92, 198, 204, 208, 210, 218,
military, 5; 220, 222, 224–26, 229–32, 236
political, 224; loyalty(ies)/loyal/loyalist, 25, 97, 119,
tribal, 166, 224 142, 150, 159, 162, 169–71, 179,
leadership, 29, 45–46, 139, 141, 186, 189, 197, 200–201, 204, 219,
143–44, 146, 150, 154n37, 225, 227–31, 245
155n48, 163, 167, 169–70, loss(es), 1, 25, 28, 61, 140, 150, 202,
172n37, 198, 200, 220 205, 225
Lebanon, 104, 124, 199–200, 204,
208–10, 234, 242 mafia, 12, 101
leftist(s), 35, 78, 139–40 Mali, 182
legal, 13, 29, 43, 65, 69–71, 74, 82, 88, manager/management/manage/
102–3, 180, 188, 225 managing/managerial, 105, 108,
legislation/legislative, 149 169, 173n44;
legitimacy/legitimize/legitimizing/ civilian, 223;
legitimization, 1, 5, 7, 11, 14–15, military, 30;
17–18, 77, 87, 98, 109, 140, 150, production, 219;
167, 176–77, 179–80, 183–93, state, 110, 223
218, 226–28, 230–32; manpower, 10, 60
revolutionary, 176, 193 manufacture/manufacturing/
liberals, 35 manufacturer, 100, 122, 131, 132;
liberalization/liberalize/liberalizing/ military, 28, 145–46, 151
semiliberalized, 8, 15–16, 24, marginalization/marginalize(d)/
27–29, 31, 34, 81, 85, 110–11, marginalizing, 17, 26, 38, 166,
113–14, 163, 199, 217, 220, 223, 167, 175, 183, 199
233, 242; market(s):
economic, 4–7, 9–10, 17, 29, 120, black, 164, 182, 200;
221, 224; capital, 233;
market, 9 consumerist, 27;
liberation/liberate, 26, 153n11, 178, domestic, 29;
184, 188, 198, 246 free, 30;
link(s), 8, 13, 15, 63, 71, 102–3, 106, global/globalizing, 4;
112, 121, 123, 140–41, 145–48, labor, 80, 226;
150–51, 153n11, 153n17, 161–62, liberal, 6, 7, 90, 220;
182, 190, 221–22, 225, 228, market liberalization, 9;
231–32; markets of violence, 2, 18, 198, 208,
informal, 13 211, 212n8;
Liwa, 201, 206–7, 213n46, 243–46 market reforms, 29, 34, 38;
302 Index
plan(s)/planning, 29, 30, 34, 75, 105, balance of, 135, 137, 149, 152,
155n60; 153n22, 177, 227;
economic, 27 economic, 8, 9, 16, 45, 69, 86–89,
pluralism/pluralist, 38, 192 105, 225, 229;
police/policing, 87, 121, 126, 182, international, 230;
184–85; military, 3, 9, 11, 199, 218, 229;
riot police, 228 political, 3, 71, 73, 79, 80, 86, 88,
policy(ies): 89, 90, 166, 186;
ambiguous, 34; resources, 5;
economic, 24, 34, 79, 82, 85, sharing, 32, 59, 144, 146, 162;
86, 226; struggle, 16, 150, 179, 230;
liberalization/liberalizing, 9, 10, 16, superior, 38
27, 29; practice(s), 3, 13, 14–15, 90–91,
protectionist, 221; 165, 166;
social, 16, 83, 86 legitimizing, 15, 230–31
political economy/political economist, praetorian/praetorianism, 77, 90, 104–8,
7–10, 14, 98, 99, 104, 105 171n3
political quietism, 175 predator/predatory, 10, 11, 46, 65, 192
politician(s), 4, 62, 149, 151, 177, 181, predominance/predominant, 221, 225,
200, 229, 231 227, 229, 232, 236
politics, 5, 63, 78, 79, 83, 85, 157–71, president:
181, 186 interim, 35, 36;
polity, 175, 176, 192 military, 24, 26, 27, 38, 49, 51;
poor/poverty/impoverished, 23, 26, 43, presidency, 24, 38, 87, 98, 101, 113,
187, 199, 226 150, 159, 160, 166, 167
popular/popularize, 34, 150, 185, 187, price(s):
192, 200, 211, 218, 220, 224, affordable, 30;
231, 237 market, 31;
population, 83, 84, 119, 148, 165, 183, oil, 220;
184, 185, 187, 227, 235 reduced, 30
populism/populist, 24, 73, 78, 86, 185 principle, 51, 73
port(s), 3, 18, 29, 35, 191, 195n26, 222 privatization/privatize(d), 15, 27, 110,
position(s): 111, 114, 163, 217, 226
administrative, 8, 31; privilege(s)/privileged:
autonomous, 9; bureaucratic, 99, 113, 225;
board, 223; economic, 3, 23, 126, 175, 220,
bureaucratic, 28, 33; 223, 232;
economic, 6, 227; legal, 29, 71, 225;
government, 24, 26, 35, 186, 221; military, 38;
hegemonic, 23–24, 83–84, 237; political, 9
leading, 219; procurement/procure, 9, 73, 121, 122,
management, 8; 124, 225
ruling, 226–27 produce, 29, 39n17, 103, 104, 106, 110,
post-colonial, 19n19 112, 120, 122, 123;
power(s): commercial, 29
306 Index
Elke Grawert is a political scientist and senior researcher at the Bonn Inter-
national Center for Conversion (BICC), Germany. She did her PhD and State
Doctorate (habilitation) at the University of Bremen. Her research focus is
on violent groups and political economy in Africa and the MENA region.
She has coordinated international, interdisciplinary, and transdisciplinary
research projects involving building academic capacities, and has published
on Sudan and South Sudan and on African political regimes.
313
314 List of Contributors
Adam C. Seitz is the senior research associate for Middle East studies at
the Marine Corps University. His research focuses on security and conflict
studies in Yemen, Iran, and the Gulf. He earned his MA in international rela-
tions and conflict resolution at American Military University. He published
“Yemen” in the World Almanac of Islamism and “Ties That Bind and Divide:
The ‘Arab Spring’ and Yemeni Civil-Military Relations” in Why Yemen
Matters: A Society in Transition.
Sherifa Zuhur: Visiting Scholar, Center for Middle Eastern Studies, Uni-
versity of California, Berkeley, since 2015. She held research and teaching
List of Contributors 315