Elias Götz. Contemporary Politics. Volume 22, Issue 3, 2016.
What are the causes, or sources, of Russia’s Ukraine policy? This question has occupied countless journalists, think-tank analysts, and academics in recent years. A wide range of explanations have been offered, emphasizing factors such as Putin’s worldviews, Ukraine’s special role in the Russian national identity, and the Kremlin’s authoritarian ideology. Different though they are, these explanations have one element in common: that factors internal to Russia are the main propellant of its behaviour.
This line of reasoning has been challenged by John Mearsheimer, who points to geopolitical factors as the primary driver of Russia’s behaviour. According to Mearsheimer (2014a), Moscow’s actions are the result of external pressures, especially EU’s and NATO’s eastward expansion, and reflect a general interest of major powers to build spheres of influence near their borders. This article places Mearsheimer’s neorealist-informed argument into a broader temporal perspective and tests it systematically against the track record of Russia’s Ukraine policy over the last two-and-a-half decades.
But to do so, one must first specify neorealist theory. Neorealism traditionally focuses on relations between great powers and whether smaller states are more likely to balance or bandwagon. In contrast, the question of how larger states deal with smaller neighbours has received surprisingly little attention. This study strives to help fill that gap.
Briefly, I argue that powerful states not only want to possess the greatest amount of material capabilities in their part of the world, as originally stated by Mearsheimer, but also seek to constrain the foreign-policy autonomy of smaller neighbouring countries. In addition, powerful states want to secure lines of communication and trade routes in their vicinity and maintain access to strategically important locations near their border.
Furthermore, I argue that the tools and tactics by which major powers pursue and uphold their dominant regional positions depend on the level of external pressure. In my account, external pressure refers to attempts of smaller neighbouring states to team up with great powers from other parts of the world. When the level of external pressure is low, the local great power will employ soft-power tools – for example diplomatic blandishments and economic inducements – to dominate its neighbourhood. When the level of external pressure is high, the local great power will adopt more assertive policies, including the threat and use of force. In short, variation in the level of external pressure determines whether larger states employ soft-power or hard-power tools in the pursuit of regional dominance.
As I show below, this simple logic goes a long way towards explaining the pattern of Russia’s Ukraine policy over the last 25 years. To oversimplify slightly, whenever Kiev flirted with outside powers, Russia pursued strong-arm policies to rein in Ukraine. Conversely, whenever Kiev indicated its willingness to cooperate with Moscow in foreign and defence affairs, Russia pursued less assertive policies and sought to pull Ukraine closer through the provision of cheap energy and other economic benefits. However, the essential goal remained basically unchanged: to establish primary influence over Kiev’s foreign policy orientation.
Seen in this perspective, Russia’s current behaviour in Ukraine is anything but surprising. It is simply an attempt by a local great power to maintain a sphere of influence around its borders in the face of increasing external pressure. Thus, strange as it may sound, the article’s contribution lies precisely in the claim that there is little unique or case-specific about Russia’s aggressive actions towards Ukraine in recent years.
The remainder of the article consists of five sections. The first lays out the theoretical argument and derives observable implications regarding Russia’s Ukraine policy. The next two sections check whether these implications manifest themselves in the empirical record of Russia’s Ukraine policy through the 1990s and 2000s. The fourth section homes in on the current crisis and discusses the driving forces behind Moscow’s increasingly assertive behaviour. The final section summarizes the findings and suggests avenues for future research.
Neorealism and the neighbourhood policies of major powers
It is widely known that offensive realist theory, as formulated in Mearsheimer’s Tragedy of Great Power Politics, suggests that powerful states pursue regional hegemony. That is to say, powerful states seek to control the largest proportion of material resources – especially military and economic assets – in their part of the world. It goes often unnoticed, however, that offensive realism also suggests that powerful states attempt to influence and constrain the behaviour of smaller neighbours. For example, Mearsheimer (2014b, p. 370) writes that great powers such as the United States and China seek to ‘dictate the boundaries of acceptable behaviour to neighbouring countries, and make it clear that they will pay a substantial price if they do not follow the rules’. Unfortunately, he does not develop this argument further, neither empirically nor theoretically.
In general, one finds that realist scholars of different stripes agree that there are good reasons for larger states to exert influence over nearby small states. Jack Snyder (1991, p. 10), for example, in his study on overexpansion mentions in passing, ‘Much imperial expansion is unproblematic: the strong conquer the weak because it pays’. Robert Jervis (1978, p. 169) notes, ‘In order to protect themselves, states seek to control, or at least neutralize, areas on their borders’. And Christopher Layne (2012, p. 206) contends that ‘rising powers invariably seek to dominate the region in which they are situated’.
In other words, there appears to be a broad consensus among realists that major powers seek to build regional spheres of influence near their borders. But passing references notwithstanding, one is hard pressed to find any major neorealist work on the topic. To the best of my knowledge, neorealist scholars have not explicitly articulated a theory that explains why and how powerful states seek to dominate their weaker neighbours (for a partial exception, see Zakaria, 1998). Thus, before we can derive theoretically informed expectations from neorealism about Russia’s Ukraine policy, some elaboration is needed.
Why major powers build regional spheres of influence
Although there are important disagreements among neorealist scholars, they share a set of general assumptions about world politics. Three in particular stand out, namely, that the international system is anarchic, that states can never be certain about each other’s intentions, and that survival is states’ principal goal (for a discussion of these assumptions, see Gilpin, 1996, pp. 6–8; Grieco, 1997; Rosato, 2014/2015).
To these, a fourth can be added: the constraining effect of geography. While geography is usually not identified as key component of the neorealist enterprise, it plays an important role in the work of leading exponents of the school. As Mearsheimer (2014b, pp. 41, 83–84) argues, it is ‘the stopping power of water’ that prevents great powers from achieving global hegemony. Similarly, in Stephen Walt’s balance-of-threat theory, one central plank is that ‘the ability to project power declines with distance’ (Walt, 1987, pp. 23–24). Importantly, this does not mean that it is impossible to project military power over long distances. It simply means that all else being equal, it will always be easier to launch a military intervention in a neighbouring country than one that is far away.
When combined, these four conditions – anarchy, uncertainty, the security imperative, and geography – provide a strong incentive structure for states to build a sphere of influence near their borders. There are several reasons for this. The first and most important one is to prevent smaller neighbouring states from becoming military bridgeheads or allies of extra-regional powers. Nobody, after all, wants to have forward operating bases or staging points of great power rivals from other parts of the world on its doorstep.
The underlying reason is that forward-basing arrangements mitigate the constraining effect of geography on the projection of military power. That is to say, great powers can use forward operating bases and regional allies as springboards to project power into distant regions (Mearsheimer, 2014b, pp. 142–143). The United States, for example, has projected substantial military power into Europe, East Asia, and the Middle East throughout the last century, and staged several major military operations there. The United States has done so with the help of local client states, which provided bases and supply routes for the movement of troops and material (see, e.g. Layne, 2002/2003).
In other words, geographical distance (or water for that matter) is not an insurmountable barrier to long-range power-projection – if one can fall back on local client states that offer forward operating bases and other facilities. This is why major powers seek to establish primary influence over the foreign-affairs and defence policies of smaller surrounding states. The aim is to prevent these countries from forming alliances with potential adversaries from other parts of the world.
Furthermore, a regionally preponderant state may wish to obtain bases and support installations on the territory of neighbouring states – especially in those considered essential for protecting the local power’s homeland. This can include the prepositioning of material and military personnel, for example, as well as the acquisition of important technical facilities related to intelligence and surveillance activities (Harkavy, 2007).
Finally, major powers have a strong incentive to control lines of communication and transport routes in their neighbourhood. After all, control over lines of communication and transport routes not only brings economic benefits, it serves a strategic purpose as well. It reduces the risk of being cut off from vital commodities or export markets in times of crisis or war.
In short, the pursuit of regional dominance serves a variety of objectives. Thus, it is not surprising that almost all great powers in the modern era have created – or attempted to create – zones of influence near their borders. At the same time, the historical record also reveals that major powers do not always act alike towards smaller and weaker states in their vicinity. On the contrary, major powers use a wide range of instruments to pursue and uphold their dominant regional positions. This raises an important question: How do larger states convert their raw strength into actual influence? And, more specifically, how do major powers exert control over neighbouring countries?
How major powers build regional spheres of influence
Major powers generally use a mix of military, economic, and diplomatic instruments in the pursuit of regional dominance. As the large body of work on coercive statecraft has shown, these instruments can be applied in a soft-power way or in hard-power fashion (see, e.g. Baldwin, 1985; Byman & Waxman, 2002; George, 1991; Schelling, 1966; Wayman & Diehl, 1994). Thus, it would be misleading to equate the use of military means with hardpower and economic means with soft-power. For example, the imposition of a comprehensive economic embargo is certainly not a soft instrument. Likewise, an offer of military or intelligence assistance to a client regime in a neighbouring state is not hard-power. In other words, all three forms of statecraft (military, economic, and diplomatic) can be used as negative or positive inducements. The question that remains is: How do states choose from the range of possible tools and tactics?
Building upon the theoretical foundations of neorealism, I argue that the choice depends largely on the level of external pressure, which can vary considerably over time and space. The level of external pressure is high when smaller states in one’s vicinity team up with great powers from other parts of the world. After all, since the geographical constraints on long-range power-projection can be mitigated by forward-basing arrangements, the local great power has good reasons to be concerned about attempts of smaller neighbouring states to enter into alliances with extra-regional powers. These concerns are exacerbated when extra-regional powers begin to establish a foothold in one’s backyard (through political-military agreements and troop deployments, for example). In short, the level of external pressure is determined by the interplay of the foreign-policy orientation of smaller neighbouring states and the activities of extra-regional powers.
Admittedly, this makes it difficult to measure in exact terms the level of external pressure. However, it is reasonable to assume that policy-makers can distinguish between higher and lower levels. That is to say, the level of external pressure can be measured on a nominal scale. In fact, we often find such estimates in national security doctrines and threat assessments of states. In ideal-typical terms, one can distinguish between three different levels of external pressure – high, low, and medium – which are related to different types of neighbourhood policies.
First, if small states in one’s vicinity engage in substantial military cooperation with extra-regional powers, the level of pressure is high. In such situations, the local great power will employ all means available, including hard-power instruments to constrict the foreign-policy autonomy of smaller adjacent states. This may include (i) the threat and use of economic sanctions or blockades; (ii) interference in the internal affairs of neighbouring countries, such as manipulation of electoral processes and support of insurgencies; and (iii) the threat and use of force, ranging from punitive raids to military interventions. The aim of all these activities is to coerce neighbouring states to cut off ties with extra-regional powers. When the local great power fails to achieve this, it will try to overthrow ‘unfriendly’ governments in neighbouring states and replace them with regimes deemed more congenial to its geopolitical interests.
Second, the level of external pressure is low, if smaller regional states have aligned their foreign and defence policies with the local great power. In such situations, the local great power will use soft-power instruments to manifest its influence and hedge against future uncertainties. This may include (i) the provision of economic support and financial assistance to neighbouring states; (ii) the creation of institutional arrangements that bind these states closer to the local great power; and (iii) offers of military and intelligence assistance to client regimes in nearby countries, especially when these regimes are threatened by internal unrest or insurgencies.
Third, the level of external pressure is medium, if neighbouring states begin to develop closer economic and political relations with extra-regional powers (e.g. by making efforts to join integrative institutions run by outsiders). In such cases, the local great power will pursue hybrid strategies. That is to say, the local great power combines soft-power and hard-power instruments to influence the geopolitical orientation of its neighbours. This may include (i) attempts to foster asymmetric interdependencies through the acquisition of strategic economic assets in fields such as energy, finance, and telecommunication; (ii) various forms of diplomatic pressure and blandishments; and (iii) shows of force along with the threat and use of limited military actions.
This is, of course, a stylized picture. In reality, the line between high, low, and medium levels of external pressure is blurry. What my adjusted-neorealist theory suggests is that the intensity of external pressure is best understood as a continuum. As the level of pressure increases, the local great power will move from the soft-power end of the spectrum to the hard-power end in the diplomatic, economic, and military realms. Table 1 summarizes this relationship. Importantly, hard-power responses to high levels of external pressure do not preclude the use of other influence tools to augment more coercive measures. Note also that the list of policy tools and instruments is illustrative rather than exhaustive.
Table 1. External pressure and hard/soft-power tools.
| Diplomatic | Economic | Military | |||
| External pressure | High | •Break-off of diplomatic relations | Economic blockades | Armed interventions | |
| Promotion of opposition groups | Trade restrictions | Punitive raids | |||
| Medium | Interference in elections and leadership transitions | Acquisition of strategic economic assets | Fomenting internal unrest | ||
| Political pressure (e.g. diplomatic protest notes, recall of ambassadors) | Conditional loans and credits | Military manoeuvres in border areas | |||
| Low | Enmeshing nearby states in regional institutional arrangements | Trade concessions | Intelligence assistance and training of security forces | ||
| Establishing close ties with high-ranking government officials | Economic aid | Arms transfers |
Sources: This table and the previous discussion draw on Bugajski ([19], pp. 32–49), Kramer ([64], pp. 4–15), Tolstrup ([135], pp. 928–929), and the above-noted literature on coercive statecraft.
Theoretical expectations: explaining Russia’s Ukraine policy
What, then, does neorealist theory have to say about Russia’s Ukraine policy? First of all, it expects that Russia works hard to check Ukraine’s foreign-policy autonomy. After all, Ukraine shares a more than 2000-kilometers long border with Russia. What is more, Ukraine’s territory is strategically important as it provides a buffer zone and land route to Central Europe. In addition, military bases and naval facilities along Ukraine’s shoreline provide ideal platforms for projecting power into the Black Sea region. Finally, a number of important transportation routes and energy pipelines cross Ukrainian territory. For all these reasons, Russia has a strong incentive to maintain primary influence over Kiev’s foreign and defence policy.
Second, if my adjusted-neorealist theory is correct, we should find that Russia’s behaviour varies systematically with the level of external pressure. Whenever a Ukrainian government makes overtures to extra-regional powers, which appear willing to establish closer strategic ties with Kiev, Russia will use hard-power tools to rein in Ukraine. Conversely, when the level of external pressure is low and the leadership in Kiev shows no interest in joining forces with outsiders, Moscow will employ soft-power tools to consolidate its position. Finally, in situations when Kiev pursues multi-vectored policies, looking both East and West, Moscow will use a mix of softer and harder means to establish primary influence over Ukraine’s foreign-policy orientation. These are the expectations that can be derived from neorealist theory. The next three sections examine whether they are borne out in reality.
Russia’s Ukraine policy in the 1990s
In the early 1990s, Moscow promoted diplomatic and institutional arrangements that would bind Ukraine and other post-Soviet republics to Russia. The centrepiece of this agenda was the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS). While many regarded the CIS simply as a ‘means for a civilized divorce’ (Moroney & Closson, 2003, p. 224), Russian policy-makers wanted to use the organization to check the foreign-policy autonomy of the other post-Soviet republics. This was clearly reflected in Article One of the CIS Charter, which stated that ‘participating states will not enter into military alliances or participate in any groupings of states, nor in actions directed against another participating state’ (quoted in Rivera, 2003, p. 92). The CIS, in this sense, was both an expression and instrument of Russia’s regional ambitions (Garnett, 1997, pp. 61–68; Mark, 1996/1997, pp. 153–155; Rivera, 2003, pp. 92–93).
Ukraine, however, showed little interest in becoming a full-fledged member of the CIS. Much to Moscow’s irritation, Kiev ratified the agreement only after adding numerous amendments, one of which concerned ‘the downgrading of joint foreign-policy activities from “coordination” to “consultation”’ (Solchanyk, 1993, pp. 355–356; also see D’Anieri, 1997, p. 22; Wolczuk, 2003, pp. 57–61). Making matters worse, at least from Moscow’s perspective, Kiev was also unwilling to grant Russia basing rights on the Crimean Peninsula. Instead, Kiev staked claims to all military formations and facilities within Ukraine’s borders (Pyskir, 1993).
Moscow reacted to this geopolitical disloyalty by exerting economic pressure. For instance, Russia ‘raised the price [of natural gas shipped to Ukraine] from 1600 rubles (four dollars) per 1000 cubic meters to USD40 in hard currency, and pledged to increase the price further to USD80’ (Drezner, 1999, p. 199). By comparison, neighbouring Belarus – which had joined the CIS and made great strides towards becoming a Russian client state – only had to pay half the price (Bugajski, 2004, p. 85; D’Anieri, 1997, pp. 18–19; Smolansky, 1995, pp. 74–75).
In early 1994, the Kremlin proposed to swap Ukrainian debt for Russian ownership of energy infrastructure, particularly gas storage facilities and pipelines. This would have provided Moscow not only with greater control over energy export routes to Europe, but also with pressure points that could be exploited in a future conflict. It was precisely for this reason that Kiev rejected the proposed debt-for-equity deal (Balmaceda, 1998, pp. 261– 263; D’Anieri, 1997, p. 19; Drezner, 1999, pp. 205–207; Smolansky, 1995, pp. 82–84). Meanwhile, in February 1994, the Ukrainian government led by President Kravchuk signed up for NATO’s Partnership for Peace (PFP) program. Moscow immediately expressed apprehensions over Kravchuk’s tilt towards the West and the PFP program more generally (Kuzio, 1995, pp. 61–63; Larrabee, 1994, pp. 17–18; Marantz, 1994, pp. 744–747).
The upcoming elections in Ukraine gave Moscow an opportunity to get rid of Kravchuk and draw Kiev closer to Russia. Reportedly, Russian authorities provided financial support to the opposition leader, Leonid Kuchma, who made closer ties with Russia a central plank of his campaign. In addition, President Yeltsin endorsed him on Ukrainian television (Bugajski, 2004, p. 92; Bukkvoll, 2001, p. 1143). Thus, Kuchma’s victory in the summer 1994 elections was widely perceived as setting the stage for warmer relations between Kiev and Moscow. However, once in office, he was less Russia-friendly than many had expected. Much to the consternation of Moscow, Kuchma continued to make overtures to NATO ‘as part of his “multi-vectored” foreign policy’ (Miller, 2006, p. 106; also see D’Anieri, 1997, pp. 21–23).
In response, Moscow ramped up its diplomatic and economic pressure. For example, it imposed new customs duties on Ukrainian goods and disconnected Ukraine from Russia’s power grid. In addition, Moscow stepped up its efforts to maintain a hold over the Crimean Peninsula and the Black Sea Fleet based there (Drezner, 1999, pp. 203–206). Moscow had a strong interest in the Black Sea Fleet, not only because of its symbolic value, but also and above all for geostrategic reasons. In the words of one knowledgeable observer:
The latent rationale behind Moscow’s desire for the rusting armada that made up the Black Sea Fleet (BSF) was the basing rights that came with the fleet: ownership of the fleet also conferred ownership of the infrastructure that went with it. (Wolczuk, 2003, p. 29)
For Russia, maintaining a strategic position on Crimea was – and remains – important for three main reasons. First of all, the peninsula is a valuable outlet to the Black Sea, providing easy access to seaports, shipping routes, and sea-lanes of communication. Second, the peninsula serves as a shield against incursions of outside powers into the waters of the eastern Black Sea, Kerch Strait, and Sea of Azov (Chossudovsky, 2014). Third, given its strategic location, Crimea also constitutes a power-projection platform. Especially Sevastopol, with its deep-water port, is important for Russia’s ability to conduct naval operations in the Black Sea region. Seen in this light, it is not difficult to understand why Moscow was determined to maintain a foothold on the peninsula (Delanoe, 2014, p. 370; Hille, 2014; Schwartz, 2014; Varretoni, 2011, p. 90).
By 1997, Russia seemed to have achieved this aim. Moscow signed an agreement with Kiev, according to which the Black Sea Fleet was split into two halves. Moscow’s signature, however, was contingent upon Ukraine’s willingness to sell a part of its share to Russia. As a result, Russia ended up controlling more than 80% of the fleet’s ships and submarines. In addition, and more importantly, Russia was able to lease a string of major naval facilities on Crimea (including Sevastopol’s deep-water port) for a 20-year period. In return, Moscow reduced Kiev’s energy debt by more than USD500 million (Bilinsky, 1999, pp. 58–62; Buba, 2010, pp. 4–5; Felgenhauer, 1999; Miller, 2006, p. 107; Sherr, 1997).
The conclusion of these agreements can be seen as a victory for Russia. Still, Kiev refused to join the CIS Collective Security Treaty. Instead, the Kuchma government signed a partnership agreement with NATO and increased its cooperation with the Alliance (Wolczuk, 2003, pp. 107–110). It is well documented that Russian policy-makers, of all stripes, looked with concern at the burgeoning ties between Kiev and Brussels and generally opposed NATO’s eastward expansion (see, e.g. Black, 2000, pp. 175–202; Lieven, 1995). This broad-based opposition was partly a result of historical enmity with the Alliance, but it was also based on simple strategic calculations. In the words of thenRussian Foreign Minister Yevgeny Primakov:
If NATO [ … ] comes to engulf the territory of the Warsaw Pact, from our point of view, the geopolitical situation will deteriorate. Why? Because intentions change. [ … ] Obviously I do not believe that NATO will attack us. However, on a hypothetical level a situation might emerge in which we will be forced to act in a way which is not in our best interest. (quoted in Wolczuk, 2003, p. 120, emphasis added)
Elsewhere, he emphasized that ‘Russia cannot remain indifferent to the factor of distance [ … ]. Should NATO advance to new staging grounds, the Russian Federation’s major cities would be within striking range of not only strategic missiles, but also tactical aircraft’ (quoted in Donaldson & Nogee, 2009, p. 216, emphasis added). Together, these two statements illustrate nicely how the interaction of military power, geographical proximity, and uncertainty over intentions shaped Moscow’s threat assessment.
In line with the expectations of neorealist theory, Russian policy-makers protested strongly against NATO’s eastern advancements, not only towards Ukraine but also the Baltic states, and threatened to take all sorts of retaliatory measures. On the ground, however, relatively little happened. Moscow’s fierce rhetoric was not matched by concrete actions. This contradicts my adjusted-neorealist model.
How can one explain the gap between words and deeds in Russian foreign policy? The answer is not hard to find. Towards the end of the 1990s, Russia faced a deep economic crisis and a great deal of internal political turmoil: Parts of the state apparatus were captured by oligarchs; the military was in decay; and several federal regions had begun to formulate their own foreign policies. Indeed, some Western observers speculated at the time that Russia was on the verge of disintegrating (see, e.g. Herd, 1999; Hoffman, 1999; Lieven, 1997). Given the severity of Russia’s economic and domestic political problems in the late 1990s, it is not surprising that Moscow did not respond more assertively to the budding partnership between Ukraine and NATO. This alludes to the importance of ‘state capacity’ as a precondition for strategic action – a point to which I return below.
Russia’s Ukraine policy in the 2000s
In the early 2000s Russia regained internal strength, partly due to the increase in economic fortunes and partly due to the rebuilding of state capacity under President Putin. Moreover, developments in Ukraine played into Russia’s hands. President Kuchma’s alleged implication in the murder of an investigative journalist caused strains in the relationship between Ukraine and the West (Kuzio, 2007, pp. 42–43). The Putin government seized that opportunity and launched a soft-power campaign. For example, it declared 2002 ‘the year of Ukraine in Russia’ and nominated ex-prime minister and former Gazprom chief Viktor Chernomyrdin to serve as ambassador to Ukraine (Hedenskog, 2005, p. 139; also see Bugajski, 2004, pp. 81–83, 92–94). In addition, Russian companies stepped up their economic operations on the Ukrainian market and invested heavily in sectors such as metallurgy, banking, telecommunications, and energy (Balmaceda, 2008, pp. 29–31; Bugajski, 2004, pp. 86–89; Puglisi, 2003, pp. 839–840). This approach appeared to work: Kuchma declared that Ukraine was Russia’s ‘strategic partner’ (Miller, 2006, p. 110) and sacked the most pro-Western members of his government (Hedenskog, 2005, pp. 138– 143; Smolansky, 2004; Torbakov, 2001, pp. 598–600).
Not all, however, was rosy for Russia. Despite Russian-American cooperation on Afghanistan, Moscow grew increasingly worried about NATO’s eastern agenda. Indeed, after the Alliance had incorporated several Eastern European states and the Baltic republics in 2004, it began to step up its activities in other parts of the post-Soviet space. Several NATO members expressed support for further enlargement. Possible candidate countries were Georgia, Moldova, and Ukraine (Allison, 2006, pp. 116–122).
Consistent with the predictions of neorealist theory, the Kremlin launched a counteroffensive in the region. Among other things, Russia increased its pressure on Georgia and Moldova through economic sanctions; it stepped up its support for secessionist provinces in the two countries; and it created a Moscow-led military alliance, the CSTO, in central Eurasia (for overviews, see Kramer, 2008; Mankoff, 2009, ch. 6). It is in this broader, geopolitical context that Russia’s meddling in Ukraine’s domestic affairs is best understood.
As is widely known, Moscow threw its weight behind Viktor Yanukovych in the 2004 elections, providing him with substantial financial and political support. Like Yeltsin 10 years earlier, President Putin appeared on Ukrainian television and encouraged voters to back Yanukovych. Moreover, Russian government authorities and state-owned firms such as Gazprom financed Yanukovych’s campaign with several hundreds of millions of dollars. The campaign itself was run by Russian political consultants and Kremlin spindoctors (Kuzio, 2005a, pp. 495–509; McFaul, 2007, p. 70; Petrov & Ryabov, 2006; Socor, 2004; Vanderhill, 2013, pp. 144–147).
This approach backfired, however. When Yanukovych was declared the winner of elections marred by irregularities, more than half a million Ukrainians gathered in central Kiev and participated in a series of protests that came to be known as the Orange Revolution. With great reluctance, Moscow had to accept a revote, which was won by opposition leader Viktor Yushchenko (Donaldson & Nogee, 2009, p. 174; Karatnycky, 2005).
As Moscow had feared, Yushchenko (known for his pro-Western orientation) made closer ties with the European Union and NATO a top priority. Even more disconcerting was that NATO responded by inviting Ukraine to engage in an ‘intensified dialogue’. On top of that, the Yushchenko administration announced that it would not renew the Russian lease of military facilities in Crimea, which expired in 2017 (Kuzio, 2005b, 2005c, 2005d). These developments threatened to undermine Russia’s strategic position in the Black Sea region. In terms of the neorealist model outlined above, the level of external pressure was increasing.
Not surprisingly, therefore, Moscow launched a concerted campaign to rein in Kiev. Most importantly, Moscow took advantage of Ukraine’s dependence on Russian energy supplies. In April 2005, Russian companies increased the price of fuel and petroleum products sold in Ukraine. In early December, the Rosatom subsidiary TVEL informed Kiev that it would increase the price of nuclear fuel. At about the same time, President Putin announced that Gazprom would raise gas prices for Ukraine from USD50 per thousand cubic meters to approximately USD220–230 (Golani, 2011, pp. 47–48; Larsson, 2006, pp. 203–206; Sokov, 2006).
Moscow maintained that its decisions were driven by purely commercial considerations. Upon closer inspection, there is good reason to doubt this claim. Although Russia’s allies in the region were also asked to pay higher prices, Putin’s personal involvement, along with the abrupt introduction of new gas prices and the steep increase, imply a political motive. In comparison, neighbouring Belarus had to pay USD47 in 2006, up from USD30 in 2003. Thus, it seems fair to say that Russia’s price-setting policy was animated at least in part by geopolitical considerations (Larsson, 2006, pp. 218–221; Light, 2006, p. 66; Newnham, 2011, pp. 138–140; Torbakov, 2005).
When Kiev refused to pay the new price and negotiations stalled, Gazprom shut off the taps. Some commentators on Russian state television openly declared that the cut-off was ‘retribution for the Orange Revolution’ (quoted in Newnham, 2011, p. 140). The dispute was settled three days later, after a complex deal had been worked out. A Swiss-registered company called RosUkrEnergo – widely believed to be a front for Russian and Ukrainian oligarchs – would henceforth sell Central Asian gas to Ukraine at USD95 per thousand cubic meters (Kramer, 2006; Larsson, 2006, pp. 216–218; Socor, 2006).
In hindsight, it seems that the aim of the Russian energy cut-offs and price hikes was two-fold: to punish the Yushchenko government for its pro-Western foreign-policy course, and to exacerbate rifts within Ukraine’s Orange coalition. This tactic worked well. The murky arrangement that resolved the gas dispute exposed vicious personal rivalries within the Orange government. Indeed, after a few days of heated debate, several of Yushchenko’s ministers and close confidantes were sacked by the Ukrainian parliament over the gas deal (BBC, 2006; Donaldson & Nogee, 2009, pp. 175–176; Greene, 2012, pp. 13–14; Warner, 2006; for background, see Larrabee, 2007).
In parallel, Russia began to stoke discontent on the Crimean Peninsula. Since the breakup of the Soviet Union, a popular Crimean movement had called for independent statehood or a return to Russia. While the authorities in Moscow had maintained close contacts, they had been careful not to escalate the conflict. In the aftermath of the Orange Revolution, Moscow was less reticent. A range of state-linked organizations – including Cossack groups, the Russian Orthodox Church, and youth movements such as Nashi – became increasingly active in Crimea (Kuzio, 2009, pp. 358–360; Roslycky, 2011).
Russia’s growing influence was demonstrated in 2006, when Kiev announced that the annual Sea Breeze manoeuvre within NATO’s PFP program would be held on the peninsula. After Moscow’s protests had been dismissed by Kiev, a series of anti-NATO rallies and demonstrations erupted in Crimea. The protests even spread to eastern parts of Ukraine, allegedly with support from Russian intelligence operatives and local crime kingpins. The manoeuvre was eventually called off, which led the Crimean parliament to declare the area a ‘NATO-free zone’ (Greene, 2012, pp. 15–16; Kupchinsky, 2008; Kuzio, 2006).
Unfazed, NATO stepped up its activities in the Black Sea region. Washington, in particular, pushed for establishing closer ties with Ukraine and Georgia. Although the two countries did not receive a Membership Action Plan (MAP) at the Bucharest NATO summit in April 2008, it was declared that Ukraine and Georgia would join the Alliance at a future date (Weitz, 2010, pp. 90–91). Predictably, Russia objected in the strongest possible terms. President Putin declared:
We view the appearance of a powerful military bloc on our borders [ … ] as a direct threat to the security of our country. The claim that this process is not directed against Russia will not suffice. National security is not based on promises. (quoted in Tsygankov, 2010, p. 225)
Following the president’s lead, Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov warned in a rather blunt statement that Russia ‘will do everything possible to prevent the accession of Ukraine and Georgia to NATO’ (quoted in Weitz, 2010, p. 90).
Words were followed by deeds. However, the crisis erupted not in Ukraine but in Georgia. A detailed discussion of the August 2008 war is obviously beyond the scope of this article. It suffices to say that although the chain of events that led to the outbreak of the war remains contested, there is broad agreement among scholars that Russia took advantage of the conflict to punish Saakashvili and his administration for their proWestern foreign-policy stance. In addition, Russia’s intervention sent a clear message to other countries in the post-Soviet space: If you don’t respect Moscow’s strategic interests, you will face severe consequences. In this sense, the war was as much about Ukraine as about Georgia (see, e.g. Allison, 2008; Cornell, 2008; King, 2008; Larrabee, 2010, pp. 35– 36; Trenin, 2009).
In January 2009, Moscow once again turned off the gas to Ukraine in response to a pricing dispute. The stoppage served two larger purposes: first, to retaliate for Yushchenko’s diplomatic backing of Georgia in the August 2008 war; and second, to spur social discontent within Ukraine. Although it is difficult to assess the effect of the gas cut-offs on Ukrainian domestic affairs, they most likely contributed to discrediting the Orange camp and President Yushchenko in particular. No doubt, Ukraine’s economic downturn and allegations of corruption in Yushchenko’s administration also hurt his popularity. Combined, these factors prepared the ground for a political comeback by Yanukovych, who won Ukraine’s presidential election in 2010 (Newnham, 2013; Vanderhill, 2013, pp. 149–153). Thus, Moscow had attained its two main objectives: a more pro-Russian government had assumed power in Kiev, and NATO expansion had been thwarted.
To summarize: Apart from a brief period in the late 1990s, when Russia was unable to respond to geopolitical stimuli due to its internal weakness, neorealist theory goes a long way towards explaining the pattern of Russia’s Ukraine policy. Moscow worked assiduously to maintain control over important military facilities in Crimea; it was apprehensive of Ukraine’s cooperation with NATO; and it sought to constrain Kiev’s foreign-policy autonomy. To achieve these ends, Moscow applied a combination of softer and harder means, depending on the level of external pressure. Developments since 2010 present an even clearer example of how the variation in external pressure shapes Russia’s Ukraine policy.
Russia’s Ukraine policy since 2010: from soft-power to hard-power tactics
After being elected, Yanukovych immediately indicated his willingness to re-orient Ukraine’s foreign policy towards Russia. Moscow, for its part, lost no time and employed a range of soft-power tools to draw Ukraine into a closer embrace. First of all, Moscow offered to write off parts of Ukraine’s energy debt and promised favourable loans and credits. In return, Yanukovych agreed to extend the Russian lease on basing facilities in Crimea until 2042. Moreover, Russia agreed to provide Ukraine with low-priced gas. In return, Ukraine’s parliament passed a law that effectively barred the country from seeking NATO membership (Harding, 2010; Kuzio, 2010a; Sherr, 2010, pp. 6–13).
Second, Moscow built close ties with the Yanukovych administration in the security and military fields. This included the redeployment of counter-intelligence officers to Crimea and the conclusion of a major cooperation agreement between the Security Service of Ukraine (SBU) and the Russian Federal Security Service (FSB). Moreover, with Russian assistance, Ukraine’s elite riot police force, Berkut, was transformed into a modern-day Praetorian Guard, designed to protect Yanukovych from internal adversaries and unrest (Kuzio, 2010b, 2012; Sherr, 2010, pp. 14–16).
Third, Russia promoted regional integration projects to consolidate its influence over Ukraine and other neighbouring states. Most importantly, in October 2011, Putin outlined his plans to create a Russian-led trading block called the Eurasian Economic Union. The proposed union was partly a genuine attempt to deepen economic cooperation between Russia and other post-Soviet countries. In part, it was a means to woo domestic audiences nostalgic of the Soviet Union before Putin’s return to presidency in 2012. The primary aim, however, was to curtail the influence of outside powers and trading blocs, such as the EU, in the post-Soviet space (Adomeit, 2012; Krickovic, 2014; Popescu, 2014).
The making of a crisis: Russia’s growing wariness of the EU
Through its soft-power campaign, Moscow managed to regain some influence over Kiev’s foreign and security policy. This does not mean, however, that Yanukovych was completely loyal to Russia. He remained an independent figure and pursued his own agenda. In particular, he resisted the Kremlin’s push to make Ukraine part of the Eurasian Economic Union; instead, he toyed with the idea of building closer ties with the EU. In 2012, negotiations with Brussels over a free-trade and association agreement intensified. Moscow opposed the agreement partly for economic reasons, but above all due to geopolitical concerns. The agreement, after all, contained clauses that stipulated a close cooperation between EU-Europe and Ukraine in foreign policy and military affairs. As Article 7 of the treaty states:
The Parties [EU and Ukraine] shall intensify their dialogue and cooperation and promote gradual convergence in the area of foreign and security policy, including the Common Security and Defence Policy (CSDP) […] . Cooperation will be based on common values and mutual interests, and shall aim at […] promoting joint policy planning. (EU-Ukraine Association Agreement, 2014, p. 8)
It is worth noting in this connection that policymaking circles in Russia have come to view the EU with growing suspicion. Scholars have attributed this to the Kremlin’s uneasiness about Brussels’ ambition to spread Western norms and democratic principles, as well as to conflicting economic agendas and diverging energy policies (see, e.g. Casier, 2012; Greene, 2012; Haukkala, 2015; Krickovic, 2015). There is certainly something to it. Seen from a neorealist perspective, Moscow has become more watchful of the Union also because it poses a potential threat to Russia’s geopolitical ambitions and security interests. After all, the EU is no longer simply a free-trade area and customs union. Notwithstanding serious internal challenges, the EU possesses enormous latent power resources. For example, it has a population of 450 million, more than three times the population of Russia, and EU-Europe’s economy is more than 16 times bigger than Russia’s (Kupchan, 2004/2005; Moravcsik, 2009, pp. 408–413; Nye, 2011, pp. 158–163).
Russia’s uneasiness about the Union’s power potential is exacerbated by the EU’s activities in the post-Soviet space, which increased after the launch of the Eastern Partnership (EaP) initiative in 2009. As Russian Foreign Minister Lavrov noted, ‘We are accused of having spheres of influence. But what is the Eastern Partnership, if not an attempt to extend the EU’s sphere of influence’ (quoted in Pop, 2009). Indeed, even Western analysts conclude that the EaP program, if implemented, will undermine Russia’s influence in the region (see, e.g. Charap & Troitsky, 2013; DeBardeleben, 2013). It is thus not surprising that Moscow is opposed to the program (Zagorski, 2011; also see Adomeit, 2011).
Furthermore, despite all the problems in EU-NATO relations, the two organizations have repeatedly stated their intent to cooperate in security and military affairs. There is also a considerable overlap in membership and, although there is no formal linkage, it is undeniable that Alliance expansion often goes hand-in-glove with Union enlargement (for some background on EU-NATO relations, see Flockhart, 2014).
Finally, the EU has made some moves towards developing a common foreign and security policy. Of course, these attempts are plagued by many problems and are still at an incipient level. However, there is no question that Brussels has the ambition to develop an independent defence identity. In fact, the 2007 Lisbon Treaty contained a mutual defence clause, giving the Union a clear military dimension (see, e.g. Allen, 2012; Flockhart, 2011). This added to Russia’s concerns. As Jeffrey Mankoff (2013, p. 280) of the Center of Strategic and International Studies put it, ‘Attempts to create an integrated European Defense and Security Policy (ESDP) and Common Foreign Policy (CFP) forced Moscow to confront the possible emergence of a united, powerful Europe with close links to Washington on its borders’.
In view of this background, it is not surprising that Russia wanted to prevent Yanukovych from signing the EU’s association agreement. To this end, Moscow used various forms of economic leverage, including trade restrictions on Ukrainian goods. At the same time, Moscow made clear that economic benefits would be forthcoming if Yanukovych rejected a closer association with the Union (Grytsenko & Walker, 2013; Kramer, 2013; Olearchyk, 2013).
At first, this mix of positive and negative inducements appeared to work. Yanukovych decided to withdraw from the EU deal at the Vilnius summit in late November 2013 and inked a major economic agreement with Russia (Herzsenhorn & Kramer, 2013). Not all, however, went as planned. Yanukovych’s ‘no thanks’ to the EU triggered street protests in Kiev. Large parts of the population were increasingly unhappy with Yanukovych’s deeply corrupt and incompetent rule. After several months of more and more violent demonstrations, Yanukovych was toppled in late February 2014 and fled to Russia. He was replaced by an interim coalition government, which was dominated by members of the so-called Dnepropetrovsk clan and pro-Western elites (Buckley & Olearchyk, 2014; Charap & Shapiro, 2014, pp. 268–269; Trenin, 2014a, pp. 4–6).
Russia shifts to hard-power
From Moscow’s perspective, the problem was not so much the ouster of Yanukovych, who had been an awkward ally. Indeed, Putin’s personal relationship with Yanukovych had been far from good (Kuzio, 2011). What disturbed Moscow was that the new government in Kiev made clear its commitment to sign the EU association agreement and, more generally, to develop close ties with Western states and institutions (BBC, 2014). The Russian concerns were reinforced by the dubious role played by the European Union and the United States in the upheaval. For example, Western politicians had travelled to Kiev numerous times to support the demonstrators on the Maidan (CBS, 2013; Rettman, 2013). Furthermore, after Yanukovych’s toppling, Brussels and Washington lost no time in forging closer links with the new government in Kiev. In this light, it is not difficult to understand why Moscow suspected that Western powers were setting the stage for building an alliance-like relationship with Ukraine. Russia, in other words, faced a nightmare scenario of having a giant client state of outside powers on its doorstep (Charap & Shapiro, 2014, pp. 268–270). The level of external pressure was high, to put it in the terminology of neorealist theory. Consequently, Russia ratcheted up its pressure on Ukraine. More specifically, it began to pursue a three-part strategy (Trenin, 2014a, pp. 6–8).
In a first step, Russia took control over Crimea. In doing so, Russia made sure that it remained in control of strategically important naval bases and military facilities on the peninsula. As a result, the Kerch Strait and the Sea of Azov were effectively turned into a Russian mare nostrum. It is important to note here that for the previous two decades Russia had been prevented from modernizing and expanding the Black Sea Fleet in Crimea by the basing agreements with Kiev. With the takeover of the peninsula, such restrictions obviously no longer applied. Indeed, shortly after the annexation, Moscow announced that it would add new ships and submarines to the fleet, and laid out plans to move air-defence batteries and naval infantry units to Crimea. If implemented, these moves will greatly enhance Russia’s anti-access/area-denial (A2/AD) and force projection capabilities in the Black Sea region (Allison, 2014, pp. 1277–1282; Blank, 2015, pp. 71– 72; Bugajski & Doran, 2016; Delanoe, 2014, pp. 374–379; Socor, 2014).
Of course, many Russian officials and pro-Kremlin analysts have argued that the takeover was primarily driven by concerns for the safety of the Russian community in Crimea. It seems unlikely, however, that this was the key motivating factor for the annexation. Although the interim government in Kiev contained elements of far-right nationalists, most analysts agree that there was no direct or immediate threat to the safety of ‘Russian-speakers’ on the peninsula (Allison, 2014, pp. 1262–1263). But even if one acknowledges that there was a genuine fear within the Russian community in Crimea, it does not automatically explain Moscow’s military intervention.
After all, Moscow’s compatriot policy in the past has been cool and calculating, rather than driven by nationalist sentiments or humanitarian concerns. In 1997, for example, as Russia signed the above-mentioned treaty with Ukraine, Moscow did not push very hard to include clauses regarding dual citizenship. This was surprising, as Moscow had been eager to emphasize this issue in the run-up to the treaty negotiations. In other words, Moscow apparently was willing to set aside the rights of the Russian community in Ukraine to acquire basing rights in Crimea (Zevelev, 2001, p. 137). Indeed, if Moscow supports its co-nationals in the post-Soviet region, it appears that this backing is often used in an instrumental fashion. For instance, Moscow continues to criticize Estonia and Latvia for their treatment of Russian minorities, while it has toned down its criticism of countries like Kazakhstan that pursue Moscow-friendly foreign and security policies (Bugajski, 2004, pp. 40–41; for a Russian perspective, see Zevelev, 2008).
All of this is not to deny that Crimea’s historical links to Russia and the composition of the local population most likely played a role in the decision to annex the peninsula, rather than to establish a separatist regime beholden to Moscow, as the Russians have done in Abkhazia, South Ossetia, and Transnistria (Mankoff, 2014). In other words, while the particulars of Russia’s land grab can be explained by specific contextual and situational factors, the main driver was geopolitical.
In a second step, Russia exploited tensions in Ukraine’s eastern provinces and began to fan an insurgency in the Donbas area. There is strong circumstantial evidence that Russia has been (and still is) providing the insurgents with material, money, and military support (Trenin, 2014a, p. 7). In May 2014, for example, the Vostok Battalion surfaced in eastern Ukraine in an apparent effort to bring the various rebel groups under tighter Russian control. The Vostok Battalion was originally a group of pro-Russian Chechens, operating under the auspices of the GRU, Russia’s military intelligence agency. Today, the Vostok Battalion is best described as a band of mercenaries and adventure-seeking nationalists that helps Moscow in emergency situations. Moreover, rebel leaders have acknowledged that also Russian regular forces are present in the area, but emphasize that they do so while on vacation. On reflection, it seems highly unlikely that groups like the Vostok Battalion and Russian troops can operate in eastern Ukraine without approval or support from the Kremlin (Bigg, 2014; Galeotti, 2014; Luhn, 2014; McCoy, 2014).
Seen from a geopolitical perspective, Moscow’s meddling in eastern Ukraine is not difficult to explain. It is widely known that countries with unresolved territorial disputes or ethnic conflicts on their soil are unlikely to become NATO members. Thus, the simmering conflict in the Donbas is a sort of insurance for Russia against a potential future membership of Ukraine in the Alliance (Allison, 2014, p. 1273; Jackson, 2014; Motyl, 2014a).
In a third step, Moscow began to press for Ukraine’s decentralization. Once again, there are good strategic reasons for the Russians to do so. To begin with, a decentralized Ukraine gives Moscow the opportunity to establish a belt of pro-Russian provinces along its border. These provinces will provide Russia with a forward security zone and prevent the stationing of foreign military infrastructure in the southern and eastern parts of Ukraine. Furthermore, in the best case, the governors of these provinces are going to have a say in the formation of Ukraine’s foreign policy. This would leave Moscow with considerable leverage to block Kiev’s ambitions to develop closer ties with EU and NATO. Finally, in case government authorities in Kiev act against Moscow’s stated interest and cozy up too closely with the United States or other outside powers, it would be fairly easy for Russia to heat up the ‘frozen’ conflict and push for a secession of Ukraine’s eastern provinces (Allison, 2014, pp. 1273–1275, 1293–1294; Gertz, 2014; Motyl, 2014a, 2014b; Socor, 2015; Trenin, 2014b).
Conclusion
The analysis conducted in this article has shown that there are strong associations between the level of external pressure and the degree of coercion in Russia’s Ukraine policy. The analysis has also shown that Moscow’s main aim – to establish primary influence over Kiev’s foreign-policy orientation – has remained basically unchanged since the early 1990s. These findings dovetail nicely with the expectations of neorealist theory.
The fit is not perfect, however. For example, a purely neorealist account cannot explain why Russia annexed Crimea, instead of establishing a proxy regime there. What is more, neorealist theory fails to account for Russia’s incoherent and less assertive behaviour in the late 1990s, a time of growing external pressure but internal weakness. This calls for the inclusion of the factor ‘state capacity’, which would be a modest reformulation of the theoretical framework in line with arguments made by neoclassical realists like Taliaferro (2006) and Zakaria (1998). Simply put, it appears that the ability of the Russian government to respond to geopolitical stimuli in a timely and effective manner is conditioned upon a minimum level of state capacity. Of course, this argument needs to be further specified and substantiated.
In addition, future research should compare my realist-informed account of Russia’s Ukraine policy with alternative explanations. Relatedly, a logical extension would be to apply neorealist theory to Moscow’s policies vis-à-vis other former Soviet republics – say, for example, Georgia, Moldova, or Kazakhstan. If my adjusted-neorealist theory is correct, we should be able to observe that Russia’s behaviour towards these states is shaped to a considerable extent by varying levels of external pressure and geopolitical objectives.
Finally, another interesting subject for future research would be a comparison with major powers from other places and times. Exploring additional cases will help to refine the theoretical argument advanced in this paper and test its broader applicability. At the same time, we would gain a better understanding of what is special about Russia’s near abroad policy and what is common to the neighbourhood policies of major powers. In other words, we would be able to separate the unique from the general and, by doing so, learn more about the underlying drivers, motivations, and ambitions of Moscow’s Ukraine policy and its actions in the post-Soviet space more generally.