Vol. 3, No. 2

Summer 2020
JIPAThe Air Force

Journal of

Indo-Pacific Affairs

Chief of Staff, US Air Force

Gen David L. Goldfein, USAF

Commander, Air Education and Training Command

Lt Gen Marshall B. Webb, USAF

Commander and President, Air University

Lt Gen James B. Hecker, USAF

Director, Air University Academic Services

Dr. Mehmed Ali

Director, Air University Press

Dr. Christopher Rein

Chief of Professional Journals

Maj Richard T. Harrison, USAF

Editorial Staff

Dr. Ernest Gunasekara-Rockwell, Editor

Luyang Yuan, Editorial Assistant

Daniel M. Armstrong, Illustrator

Megan N. Hoehn, Print Specialist

Journal of Indo-Pacific Affairs (JIPA)

600 Chennault Circle

Maxwell AFB AL 36112-6010

e-mail: JIPA.aupress@us.af.mil

Visit Journal of Indo-Pacific Affairs online at https://www.airuniversity.af.edu/JIPA/.

ISSN 2576-5361 (Print) ISSN 2576-537X (Online)

Published by the Air University Press, The Air Force Journal of Indo–Pacific Affairs ( JIPA) is a professional journal of the US 

Air Force and a forum for worldwide dialogue regarding the Indo–Pacific region, spanning from the west coasts of the 

Americas to the eastern shores of Africa and covering much of Asia and all of Oceania. The journal fosters intellectual and 

professional development for members of the Air Force and the world’s other English-speaking militaries and informs 

decision makers and academicians around the globe.

Articles submitted to the journal must be unclassified, nonsensitive, and releasable to the public. Features represent fully 

researched, thoroughly documented, and peer-reviewed scholarly articles 5,000 to 6,000 words in length. Views articles 

are shorter than Features—3,000 to 5,000 words—typically expressing well-thought-out and developed opinions about 

regional topics. The Commentary section offers a forum about current subjects of interest. These short posts are 1,500 to 

2,500 words in length. Submit all manuscripts to JIPA.aupress@us.af.mil.

The views and opinions expressed or implied in JIPA are those of the authors and should not be construed as carrying the 

official sanction of the United States Air Force, the Department of Defense, Air Education and Training Command, Air 

University, or other agencies or departments of the US government.

https://www.af.mil/ https://www.aetc.af.mil/ https://www.airuniversity.af.edu/
VOL. 3 NO. 2 SUMMER 2020

FEATURES

 4 Terrorism in the Indo-Pacific

The Year Gone By and the Road Ahead

Dr. Sam Mullins

35 Comparing Space Sectors Down Under

Nicholas Borroz

55 Chasing the Chimera of the Indigenous Jet Fighter

China’s Stealth Fighters and the Lessons of Recent Aviation History

Owen L. Sirrs

78 A Footprint of Unfreedom

The Future of Naval Support Facility Diego Garcia

Dr. Peter Harris

DIGITAL - ONLY FEATURES

98 China’s Rising Missile and Naval Capabilities in the

Indo-Pacific Region

Security Implications for India and Its Allies

Thangavel K. Balasubramaniam

Ashok Kumar Murugesan

112 Caught in the Middle

An Empirical Assessment of the Impact of the Trade War and Beijing’s 

Taishang Incentive Policies on the Taishang’s Movement in and out of 

Mainland China

Dr. Kelan (Lilly) Lu

Kuan-Wu Chen

127 Exporting Nuclear Norms

Japan and South Korea in the International Nuclear Market

Dr. James E. Platte
DIGITAL - ONLY VIEWS

146 Chinese Communist Party Information Warfare

US–China Competition during the COVID-19 Pandemic

Eric Chan

1st Lt Peter Loftus, USAF

159 Kashmir

Beyond Imbroglios

Dr. Usman W. Chohan

Omer Aamir
Editorial Advisors

Gen Charles Q. Brown, Jr., USAF, Commander, Pacific Air Forces

Gen Herbert J. Carlisle, USAF, Retired; President & CEO, National Defense Industrial Association

Amb. Daniel Shields, Retired, Department of State

Dr. Matthew C. Stafford, Chief Academic Officer, Air Education and Training Command

Dr. Christopher Rein, Director, Air University Press

Reviewers

Air Cdre Nasim Abbas, Pakistan Air Force

Instructor

Air War College (Pakistan)

Dr. Sascha-Dominik “Dov” Bachmann 

Professor of Law and Justice

University of Canberra (Australia) 

Dr. Lewis Bernstein 

Historian, retired 

US Army 

Dr. Paul J. Bolt 

Professor, Political Science 

US Air Force Academy 

CDR John F. Bradford, US Navy

President

Yokosuka Council on Asia–Pacific Studies

Dr. Sean Braniff 

Assistant Professor, International Security 

Studies

US Air War College

Dr. David Brewster

Senior Research Fellow, National Security 

College

Australian National University

Dr. Stephen F. Burgess 

Professor, International Security Studies

US Air War College

Dr. Chester B. Cabalza 

Vice President, Center of Research and 

Strategic Studies

Development Academy of the Philippines 

Mr. Eric Chan 

Policy Analyst 

US Air Force 

Dr. Adam Claasen 

Senior Lecturer in History 

Massey University (New Zealand) 

CDR Mark R. Condeno 

Philippine Coast Guard 

Dr. Zack Cooper 

Senior Fellow for Asian Security 

Center for Strategic and International Studies 

Lt Col Alexander B. Fafinski, USAF

Military Professor, National Security Affairs

US Naval War College

Dr. Ian C. Forsyth 

Analyst 

Department of Defense

Dr. Jai Galliott 

Defense Analyst, Cyber Security 

Australian Defence Force Academy 

Maj Jessica Gott, USAF 

Strategy Officer 

Dr. Manabrata Guha 

Distinguished Fellow, Centre for Joint 

Warfare Studies 

Ministry of Defence (India) 

Dr. Achala Gunasekara-Rockwell 

Indian Languages and Cultural Advisor 

University of Alabama at Birmingham 

Dr. Amit Gupta

Professor, International Security Studies

US Air War College

Dr. Akhlaque Haque 

Professor of Political Science and Public 

Administration 

University of Alabama at Birmingham 

Dr. Jessica Jordan 

Assistant Professor

Air Force Culture and Language Center

Dr. Isaac Kardon

Assistant Professor, China Maritime Studies 

Institute

US Naval War College

Mr. Chris Kolakowski 

Director

General Douglas MacArthur Memorial 

Dr. Carlo Kopp 

Lecturer 

Monash University (Australia) 

Dr. Amit Kumar 

President 

AAA International Security Consultants 

Lt Col Scott D. McDonald

United States Marine Corps, retired

Dr. Montgomery McFate

Professor, Strategic and Operational Research

US Naval War College

Dr. Brendan S. Mulvaney 

Director

China Aerospace Studies Institute

Dr. Satoru Nagao 

Visiting Fellow 

Hudson Institute 

Dr. Dayne Nix

Professor, Joint Maritime Operations

US Naval War College

Dr. Frank O’Donnell

Postdoctoral Fellow, National Security Affairs

US Naval War College

Dr. James E. Platte 

Assistant Professor

Center for Unconventional Weapons Studies 

Dr. Terence Roehrig

Professor, National Security Affairs

US Naval War College

Dr. Jim Rolfe 

Senior Fellow, Centre for Strategic Studies 

Victoria University of Wellington 

(New Zealand) 

Mr. Richard M. Rossow 

Senior Adviser and Wadhwani Chair in US–

India Policy Studies 

Center for Strategic and International Studies 

Maj Gary J. Sampson, USMC

Foreign Area Officer, Northeast Asia

Commodore Abhay Kumar Singh, retired 

Research Fellow 

Institute for Defence Studies and Analyses 

(India) 

Mr. Daniel K. Taylor 

Defense Intelligence Officer for East Asia

Defense Intelligence Agency

Dr. Lavanya Vemsani 

Professor, History and Religious Studies 

Shawnee State University 

Dr. Michael E. Weaver 

Associate Professor

Air Command and Staff College 

Mr. Keith Webster 

Senior Vice President for Defense and 

Aerospace 

US–India Strategic Partnership Forum 

Brig Gen Craig D. Wills, USAF

Director of Strategy, Plans, and Programs 

Pacific Air Forces

Dr. Roland B. Wilson 

Program Coordinator & Professor of Conflict 

Analysis & Resolution George Mason 

University, Korea Campus 
4 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020

FEATURE

Terrorism in the Indo-Pacific*

The Year Gone By and the Road Ahead

Dr. Sam Mullins

Globally, terrorism has been on the decline since peaking in 2014, the year 

that the Islamic State (ISIS) declared its “caliphate” in the Middle East. 

Nevertheless, terrorism levels are still approximately double what they 

were a decade ago and around five times what they were in 2001.1 The IndoPacific region, which encompasses most of Asia, as well as North America, Australasia, Oceania, and parts of South America, consistently experiences some of 

the highest rates of terrorism in the world, and 2019 was no exception.2 This article, though by no means an exhaustive account, provides a roughly chronological 

overview of significant terrorist activities in the Indo-Pacific during the past year, 

with a particular focus on South and Southeast Asia. This is followed by several 

important advances in counterterrorism (CT). The article concludes by considering what these, and other developments, may portend for the future.

An Evolving Threat: Significant Developments in 2019

Suicide Bombing in the Philippines

The year began with a deadly, twin suicide bombing of the Cathedral of Our 

Lady of Mount Carmel in Jolo in the southern Philippines, in which 23 people 

lost their lives and scores more were injured. Executed by 35-year-old Rullie Rian 

Zeke and his 32-year-old wife, Ulfah Handayani Saleh, both from Indonesia, the 

attack was demonstrative of the enduring potency of the Abu Sayyaf Group 

(ASG), which orchestrated it, as well as Jamaah Ansharut Daulah ( JAD), which 

the two perpetrators had been members of in Indonesia.3 It furthermore underscored the continuing influence of ISIS (with which both ASG and JAD are 

aligned), the threat of foreign fighters, the heightened popularity of sectarian 

targets, and the importance of family ties between militants in the region. Also of 

great concern was the fact that this was the second suicide bombing in the Philippines within the space of six months—a rarity for the archipelagic nation, despite 

struggling with decades of insurgency and terrorism. Fears that suicide bombing 

* Previously published as Sam Mullins, “Terrorism in the Indo-Pacific: The Year Gone By and the Road 

Ahead," Security Nexus 21 (2020): https://apcss.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/Terrorism-in-the-Indo

-Pacific-The-Year-Gone-by-and-the-Road-Ahead-012420.pdf.
Terrorism in the Indo-Pacific

 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 5

is becoming an established tactic in the Philippines were further compounded in 

June, when the first known Filipino suicide bomber to attack at home (acting 

together with a foreign accomplice) struck at an army encampment in Indanan, 

on the island of Sulu, killing five.4 Since then, a female suicide bomber blew herself up at a military checkpoint, also in Indanan, and another three intended suicide bombers (two Egyptians and a Filipino) were killed before they could act.5

Escalating Tensions between India and Pakistan

In February 2019, attention shifted to South Asia, as archrivals India and 

Pakistan were yet again thrust into the spotlight following a vehicle-borne suicide 

bombing of a paramilitary police convoy in Pulwama, Jammu & Kashmir, which 

killed 40 Indian police personnel. Perpetrated by the Pakistan-based Jaish-eMohammed ( JeM), it was described as the worst attack in the restive region in 30 

years.6 Predictably, it resulted in an immediate escalation of tensions between the 

two nuclear-armed neighbors, as India reiterated its long-standing accusations 

that Pakistan was ultimately responsible due to its patronage of JeM and similar 

groups. In response, India launched airstrikes against an alleged terrorist training 

camp in Balakot, Pakistan, and the Pakistanis returned fire into Indian territory 

and briefly took custody of an Indian fighter pilot who they shot down over 

Pakistan-controlled Kashmir. Although relations soon stabilized—the pilot was 

returned home unharmed and Pakistani authorities arrested 44 suspects believed 

to be behind the attack—the episode serves as a reminder that terrorism in the 

region is not only extremely deadly but also has the potential to spark all-out 

conflict, perhaps even nuclear war.7

The Rise of Right-Wing Terrorism

March proved to be yet another landmark month for terrorism in the IndoPacific, but this time in a place that no one would have predicted. On 15 March, 

Brenton Tarrant—a 28-year-old Australian national—shot and killed 51 worshippers at the Al Noor Mosque and Linwood Islamic Centre in Christchurch, 

New Zealand. Although he seemingly acted alone, the attack is part of a much 

broader trend of growing right-wing extremism and terrorism that is very much 

transnational in nature. Attacks of this kind are motivated to varying degrees by 

white nationalist, anti-immigrant, Islamophobic, anti-Semitic, antigovernment 

and even misogynist beliefs, and although they are typically committed by lone 

males, the perpetrators are frequently in communication with others who share 

their twisted worldview. Of particular note is the fact that these individuals are 

heavily influenced by the actions of others who have gone before them, and in 
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Mullins

turn then serve as inspiration for future terrorists.8 This is especially the case when 

attackers leave behind manifestos offering justification for their deeds, and in 

Tarrant’s case this was further magnified by the fact that he live-streamed his attack.9

 The following month, 19-year-old John Earnest attempted to emulate Tarrant as he opened fire on the congregation of the Chabad of Poway synagogue in 

California, killing one, though fortunately the live-feed failed and his weapon 

apparently jammed, thus preventing more casualties.10 The United States would 

suffer a similar attack in August when Patrick Crusius—who was targeting Mexican immigrants—shot and killed 22 people at a Walmart in El Paso, Texas. Both 

Earnest and Crusius cited Tarrant, among others, as a source of inspiration.11

Islamist Terrorism Comes to Sri Lanka

While the world was still reeling from the attack in New Zealand, Salafijihadist terrorists again stole the limelight with multiple, coordinated suicide 

bombings on Easter Sunday in Sri Lanka, which claimed the lives of more than 

250 people. Though no stranger to terrorism, this was the first major Islamistmotivated terrorist attack in the country. Until that point, the groups held to be 

responsible (little-known, local outfit National Thowheed Jamath and the even 

more obscure Jammiyathul Millathu Ibrahim) had done little more than vandalize Buddhist temples.12 Such a quantum leap in capability would seem to suggest 

some form of external support, and so it came as little surprise when ISIS claimed 

responsibility for the atrocities just two days later (despite the fact that Sri Lanka 

was not a part of the anti-ISIS coalition).

Figure 1. A Sri Lankan security officer stands guard in the aftermath of the 2019 

Easter attacks

Nevertheless, the precise nature of ISIS’s involvement appears to be as yet unknown. The claim of responsibility was accompanied by a video of the attackers 
Terrorism in the Indo-Pacific

 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 7

pledging allegiance to (then) ISIS leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, which is demonstrative of at least some form of online connection. Shortly afterward, it was reported by the Wall Street Journal that one of the attackers, 37-year-old aeronautical engineering graduate Jameel Mohammed Abdul Latheef, had spent up to six 

months in Syria before being sent home to conduct attacks.13 But these allegations 

have yet to be clearly substantiated, and Sri Lankan police announced in July that 

thus far there was insufficient evidence to show that ISIS had a direct hand in the 

attacks.14 If indeed this holds true, it must surely be the most deadly example of 

ISIS-inspired (vs. directed) terrorism to date. What is known for sure is that—

contrary to popular stereotypes—the perpetrators were well-educated young men 

from affluent families, who had plenty of other opportunities in life.

ISIS in Asia

Whether or not ISIS played a substantive role in the bombings in Sri Lanka, 

the attacks—which took place less than a month after the terrorist group lost its 

last sliver of territory in Syria—no doubt sharpened its focus on South Asia. Hot 

on the heels of what for ISIS was a badly-needed success, in May the group announced a reorganization of its operations in the region, creating the new “provinces” of Wilayah Pakistan and Wilayah Hind to deal with Pakistan and the rest 

of the Indian subcontinent respectively, thereby leaving ISIS Khorasan to focus 

on its base of operations in Afghanistan.15 To date, the practical consequences of 

this move have yet to materialize, and in that sense, it appears to have been largely 

symbolic—an effort to project beyond the organization’s real, physical presence in 

an effort to reestablish itself following the destruction of the caliphate and to 

cultivate more localized recruitment. Even so, such developments should not be 

dismissed. More recently, it was reported that ISIS was believed to have selected 

and trained inaugural leaders for India, Kashmir, and Pakistan, thereby seeking to 

translate words into something far more tangible.16

Of course, since then ISIS has suffered further setbacks, including the death of 

al-Baghdadi in October, and—perhaps of greater significance to the IndoPacific—the loss of Nangarhar Province, its core of operations in Afghanistan, in 

November.17 Although tactical victories such as these are important milestones in 

the fight against terrorism, it is not apparent that the Salafi-jihadist threat to the 

Indo-Pacific has drastically altered in the immediate aftermath. Indeed, ISIS affiliates from throughout the region—including Bangladesh, Pakistan, Afghanistan, the Philippines, and Indonesia—were quick to record new pledges of allegiance to al-Baghdadi’s replacement, Abu Ibrahim al-Hashimi al-Qurashi, 

despite him being relatively unknown, even within jihadist circles.18 This is particularly notable for the ISIS supporters in Southeast Asia, who had been side-
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lined by al-Baghdadi in April after he neglected to mention the terror organization’s East Asia province.19 More importantly, jihadist terrorists from throughout 

the region have a long track record of resiliency in the face of adversity, often 

predating ISIS by many years, and are unlikely to be dissuaded from their chosen 

course of action. Within two months of al-Baghdadi’s death, there was a suicide 

bombing in Indonesia, at least three explosives attacks in the Philippines, and 

multiple ISIS-related raids and arrests in Indonesia, the Philippines, India, and 

Pakistan.20 It is only a matter of time before terrorists inspired by—if not directly 

connected to—ISIS strike again within the region.

The Naval Air Station Pensacola Shooting

Although there are so far no reports of connections to ISIS, as 2019 was coming to an end, jihadist terrorism again reared its ugly head in the Indo-Pacific, this 

time in the United States. Early in the morning of 8 December, 21-year-old Mohammed Alshamrani—a second lieutenant in the Saudi Air Force who was attending an aviation training program at Naval Air Station Pensacola in Florida—

opened fire in a classroom on base, killing three American Sailors and injuring 

several others, before he was shot dead by local law enforcement.21 During the 

attack, Alshamrani fired approximately 180 rounds, using a legally purchased 

handgun, and made statements critical of US military actions overseas.22 Shortly 

after the attack, investigators found a Twitter account, believed to belong to the 

shooter, featuring anti-American and anti-Israeli postings, as well as quotes from 

al-Qaeda figures Osama bin Laden and Anwar al-Awlaki.23 Attorney General 

William P. Barr subsequently reported that the incident had been confirmed as an 

act of terrorism “motivated by jihadist ideology.”24 At the time of writing, however, it is not known whether Alshamrani was inspired by any specific group, and 

he is thus far believed to have been acting alone.25

Notwithstanding the fact that there is much we still do not know, the Pensacola 

shooting is notable for several reasons. To begin with, it is one of the most significant cases of foreign infiltration of the United States for purposes of terrorism 

since 9/11, particularly as it involved a member of the Saudi armed forces. As a 

result, it raised important questions about vetting of foreign military personnel 

attending courses in the United States (including as it relates to social media), 

which caused the Pentagon to develop new security protocols in response.26 At 

the same time, it once again raised the thorny issues of gun control, and the 

“Apple vs. FBI” debate, which came up after the FBI reported that it was unable 

to access the contents of Alshamrani’s smartphones.27 The repercussions of this 

attack will, therefore, be felt well into 2020 and beyond.
Terrorism in the Indo-Pacific

 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 9

India’s Extreme Left

Besides violent jihadists—who understandably tend to dominate discussions of 

terrorism, given their transnational reach and frequent, mass-casualty attacks—

the Indo-Pacific continued to face a variety of other terrorism threats in 2019. A 

large part of the reason why India ranks so highly in the list of countries suffering 

from terrorism (coming in third place in number of attacks worldwide in 2018) is 

because of the actions of extreme left-wing terrorists, known as the Naxalites.28

Although far less deadly than their jihadist counterparts, they are much more 

active, conducting almost twice as many attacks as all jihadist groups combined in 

2018 (the most recent year that we currently have data for).29 During the past 

year, the Naxalites continued to face setbacks, thanks to a combination of internal 

organizational fault lines and an increasingly effective counterinsurgency campaign.30 Nevertheless, they were still active in as many as 90 districts spread across 

11 states,31 and they retained lethal capabilities, including the killing of 15 police 

officers and their driver in a landmine attack in Maharashtra in May 2019.32 For 

India, combatting the Naxalites thus remains a high priority in the fight against 

terrorism, even as the insurgency continues to weaken.

The New People’s Army in the Philippines

Also representing the extreme left, the most active group in the Philippines—

heavily contributing to the fact that it ranked fifth in number of terrorist attacks 

in 2018—is the Communist New People’s Army (NPA).33 In 2019, the group’s 

50th year of insurgency, the NPA continued to extort the civilian population and 

conduct attacks against Philippine security forces. Major attacks included an ambush on troops on Samar Island in April that resulted in a prolonged firefight in 

which six soldiers were killed,34 and a similar incident, again in Samar, in which 

another six soldiers lost their lives and 20 more were wounded in November, after 

the terrorists detonated multiple improvised explosive devices and proceeded to 

open fire with automatic weapons.35 Most recently, a holiday ceasefire broke down 

in late December after the NPA carried out attacks in Iloilo, Quezon, and Camarines Norte, placing future peace talks in jeopardy.36

Thailand’s Southern Insurgency

Elsewhere, separatist insurgencies continue to smolder with varying degrees of 

intensity. In Thailand’s Muslim-majority deep south, attempts at formal negotiations between the government and militants have been stalled since April 2018, 

and although violence has been at the lowest levels since 2004, tensions flared 

following the death of an insurgent suspect in army custody in August 2019.37
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While it is unclear whether this was the driving factor, November saw the bloodiest attack in the region since 2001, when gunmen killed 15 people, including village defense volunteers, at a security checkpoint in Yala.38 In contrast to this, a 

glimmer of hope emerged in January 2020, when a delegation from the largest 

rebel group in the south, the Barisan Revolusi Nasional, met with representatives 

from Bangkok in what was the first official bilateral meeting between the two since 

2013.39 Although this is certainly a welcome development, for the time being, the 

outlook for a peaceful political settlement in southern Thailand remains bleak.

Ethnonationalists in Northeast India

By comparison, separatist violence in India’s northeast appeared to take a 

slightly more positive turn in 2019. Insurgency-related incidents had already declined by as much as 66 percent from 2013 to 2018,40 and although deadly attacks 

and related criminality continued last year (including the murder of a local member of parliament in Arunachal Pradesh in May41), a “historical breakthrough” was 

achieved in October when negotiators overcame a long-standing deadlock between the central government and the National Socialist Council of Nagaland 

(Isak-Muivah) (NSCN [IM]).

Multilateral peace talks had been on the verge of falling through due to the 

latter’s insistence on demands for the establishment of Greater Nagaland and a 

separate constitution. But once the NSCN (IM) agreed to place these conditions 

on hold in return for being allowed to fly a separate state flag, it brought them in 

line with the other seven insurgent organizations involved in the talks (collectively 

known as the Naga National Political Groups), thus paving the way for further 

potential progress.42 Tempering this optimism, the passing of the Citizenship 

Amendment Act (CAA) in December, which grants citizenship to non-Muslim 

persecuted religious minorities from neighboring countries, was met with widespread protests throughout the northeast, where it is believed it will increase migration to the region and is thus viewed as a threat to indigenous identities and 

way of life.43 Ethnonationalist sentiment and distrust in central government were 

similarly stirred in relation to developments in Kashmir (more on this below) and 

are likely to complicate peace talks with insurgent groups in the region, if not result in further violence.

Balochistan

Meanwhile, in Pakistan, the Baloch separatist insurgency continued to simmer, 

despite the surrender of hundreds of militants in recent years under an amnesty 

program that continues to have success.44 According to the Pak Institute for Peace 
Terrorism in the Indo-Pacific

 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 11

Studies, Baloch nationalists conducted 51 attacks in Balochistan in 2019, killing 

71 people and wounding 162 others (compared to 80 attacks the previous year, 

which killed 96).45 Notable operations included the murder of 14 military personnel near the town of Ormara on Pakistan’s south coast in April, which was claimed 

by the Baloch Raji Ajohi Sangar (the Baloch National Freedom Movement or 

BRAS)—a coalition of previously disparate separatist groups that came together 

in November 2018.46 The following month, the Baloch Liberation Army (BLA), 

which is part of the BRAS alliance, launched a 20-hour assault on the luxury 

Pearl Continental Hotel, killing five. Afterward, the BLA issued a warning to 

China to halt its “exploitative projects in Balochistan” or risk further attacks47—a 

direct reference to the multibillion dollar China–Pakistan Economic Corridor 

(CPEC), which has only added to the grievances of the people of Balochistan 

since it was first established in 2015.48 When the activities of violent jihadist and 

sectarian groups are also taken into account, Balochistan remains one of the regions most affected by terrorism in Pakistan, and in 2019 it saw the greatest number of casualties anywhere in the country.49 Balochistan’s increasingly prominent 

position in a complex geostrategic landscape suggests, that despite gradual progress being made, it will be a focal point for terrorism and CT in the months and 

years to come.50

Separatist Insurgency in Myanmar

Further east, China’s Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) has run up against yet 

more ethnonationalist insurgency, this time in the form of various ethnic rebel 

groups in Myanmar that threaten the China–Myanmar Economic Corridor 

(CMEC), agreed to in July 2018. During the past year, international attention has 

remained focused on the plight of the Rohingya, many of whom now live as refugees in neighboring Bangladesh, after being driven from their homes in western 

Rakhine state. However, much of the recent violence in Rakhine has centered on 

the activities of the Arakan Army (AA), which is fighting for independence from 

the central government but has openly condemned the Rohingya using similar, 

hardline rhetoric.51 In 2019, the AA intensified its operations, beginning with an 

attack on border posts in January that left 13 police dead. Several hundred from 

both sides have been killed since, and many more civilians displaced.52 In August, 

the AA was involved in “one of the most audacious insurgent operations [in 

Myanmar] in recent years,” this time in Shan state to the east, which shares a 

border with China.53 Operating under the banner of the Northern Alliance and 

working together with the Palaung Ta’ang National Liberation Army and the 

ethnic Chinese Myanmar National Democratic Alliance Army, they overran 

highway security checkpoints, blew up four major bridges, and fired rockets at the 
12 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020

Mullins

Defense Services Technical Academy, which has been referred to as Myanmar’s 

West Point.54 At least 16 people were reportedly killed in these attacks, and two 

border gates with China were temporarily closed, prompting much discussion of 

the longer-term implications for the CMEC.55 Fears of terrorism continued to 

rise in the country in September when the US embassy in Yangon reportedly issued a warning that insurgents—believed to include members of the Karen National Union, the Chin National Front, and the Northern Alliance—were planning attacks in the capital city of Naypyidaw.56 Although fortunately, the attacks 

did not materialize, the incident serves to highlight the level of concern over insurgency and terrorism in the country.

Counterterrorism

Declining Terrorist Attacks

Despite many challenges, terrorists in the Indo-Pacific region have not simply 

had their own way, and 2019 also bore witness to significant progress in terms of 

CT. As noted at the start of this article, global terrorist attacks have been on the 

decline now for several years, and this trend evidently continued in 2019. Nowhere was this more impressive than in Pakistan, which—notwithstanding continued frustration over its ongoing support for JeM and other externally-focused 

groups—has seen a dramatic reduction in the number of attacks inside the country as a result of sustained, military-led CT operations and a National Action 

Plan against terrorism that was launched in 2015. Pakistani think tanks reported 

further reductions in terrorism in 2019, ranging from 13 to 31 percent.57

Meanwhile, international pressure also continued to build on Pakistan to end 

its selective approach to CT and clamp down on those individuals and organizations it is accused of supporting. Already on the Financial Action Task Force 

(FATF) “grey list” for failing to implement satisfactory counterterrorist financing 

and anti-money-laundering measures, Islamabad had until October 2019 to complete a plan of action to bring Pakistan in line with international standards.58

Although this was extended until June 2020, the government will have to demonstrate meaningful progress to avoid being placed on the “blacklist,” which carries 

serious economic implications.59 The July 2019 arrest and subsequent indictment 

of Hafiz Saeed—the founder of Lashkar e-Taiba (LeT) and alleged mastermind 

of the terrorist attacks in Mumbai in 2008—on charges of terrorism financing is 

some indication that this pressure is having an effect.60 In this environment, 

Pakistan’s stance toward JeM will also be tested, especially since the leader of that 

organization, Masood Azhar, was finally sanctioned by the UN Security Council 
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in May, after years of Chinese opposition to the move finally broke down in the 

aftermath of the attack in Pulwama.61

Elsewhere in the region, terrorists were also on the back foot. In addition to the 

decline in violence in India and Thailand (see above), Indonesia, too, saw a drop 

in the number of attacks in 2019, from 15 the previous year down to eight.62

Bangladesh was also relatively successful in limiting the activities of terrorists in 

the country for the third year in a row since the Holey Artisan Café attack of 

2016, though it experienced a small number of low-level attacks against police.63

Authorities in Singapore and Malaysia meanwhile maintained an even tighter 

grip on security, making numerous raids and arrests to extend their successful records against terrorists operating within their respective borders. Malaysia, in 

particular, has been relentless, having arrested more than 500 ISIS suspects and 

thwarted 25 terrorist attack plots since 2013.64

The Elimination of Terrorist Leaders

Against this backdrop of continual law enforcement operations, the year was 

also punctuated by the death of several high-profile militants from the region. 

This included the killing of “the main Malaysian recruiters” for ISIS, Mohd Rafi 

Udin and Wan Mohd Aquil Wan Zainal Abidin in Russian airstrikes in Baghouz, 

Syria, in January and March.65 Also in March, the Philippine military eliminated 

“the last surviving leader” of the ISIS-affiliated Maute Group, Benito Marohombsar, aka Abu Dar.66 In November, they killed Talha Jumsah (aka Abu Talha), an 

ISIS-trained bomb maker who was instrumental in helping the ASG carry out 

suicide bombings and served as a “finance conduit and liaison” between foreign 

and local jihadists.67 Indian CT forces likewise recorded numerous successes in 

2019, beginning with the killing of Zakir Musa, the leader of Ansar Ghazwat 

ul-Hind, an al-Qaeda-linked militant organization operating in Kashmir in 

May.68 The following month they killed the group’s spokesman, Shabir Ahmad 

Malik, and in October they dispatched with Musa’s replacement, Hamid Lelhari.69 This came hot on the heels of the death of Asim Umar, the leader of alQaeda in the Indian Subcontinent (AQIS), in a joint US–Afghan military raid in 

Helmand province in Afghanistan, further adding to al-Qaeda’s woes in South 

Asia.70 While kinetic operations alone are unlikely to result in lasting strategic 

victory, they are nevertheless an essential component of CT that help demoralize 

the enemy and disrupt their operations.
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“Soft” Counterterrorism

On the nonkinetic side of things, there has also been progress. Numerous countries in the region, including Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, Pakistan, and Australia, have been operating a variety of “deradicalization” and rehabilitation programs for several years, which they continue to refine, and others are now getting 

on board. In June, for example, it was reported that 21 counseling centers had 

been established in India’s southern state of Kerala—which has seen the greatest 

concentration of ISIS supporters in the country—and some 3,000 people had 

already been deradicalized.71 Although there are too few details to know exactly 

what to make of this, it is an indication of growing awareness of the need for more 

comprehensive approaches to CT. Another example of this comes from the Philippines, where the Anti-Terrorism Council approved a new National Action Plan 

on Preventing and Countering Violent Extremism (NAP PCVE) in July 2019.72

Among other lines of effort, this will involve collaboration between the government and religious leaders to address youth radicalization and the establishment 

of deradicalization programs within prisons.73 It is also a timely development for 

the Philippines, as the peace process with the Moro Islamic Liberation Front 

(MILF) entered into a new phase in February 2019, with the formal establishment of the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region in Muslim Mindanao in the south 

of the country, following a plebiscite to ratify the Bangsamoro Organic Law 

(BOL) in January.74 This was no doubt a historic development, representing more 

than 20 years of negotiation with the MILF.75 However, the process of disarming, 

demobilizing, and reintegrating some 40,000 fighters (scheduled to last until 

2022) will be extremely challenging, and there is always the possibility that some 

will return to violence.76 On top of this, the Muslim-majority south is still plagued 

by an assortment of terrorist groups, which remain adamantly opposed to the 

peace process, including the ASG, the Maute Group, and the Bangsamoro Islamic Freedom Fighters. While the future role of the NAP PCVE in Mindanao 

is currently unclear, it is there that it will be most needed.

International Cooperation

Besides the efforts of individual nation-states, it is essential that countries work 

together in the fight against terrorism. Here, too, there were signs of progress. In 

Southeast Asia, Indonesia, Malaysia, and the Philippines have been conducting 

coordinated maritime and air patrols together in the Sulu and Celebes Seas 

through the Trilateral Cooperative Agreement, which began in 2017, largely as a 

response to the activities of ASG. In July 2019, this was expanded to incorporate 

a trilateral land-based exercise between the three countries, in the first step toward 
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developing a ground component to the agreement.77 Although there is evidently 

still much to be done, it is nevertheless a clear sign of progress that may yet pay 

dividends in the fight against cross-border terrorism and crime. The same three 

countries have also been working together as part of an Interpol Integrated Border Management Task Force program called Project Riptide, which entails a combination of training courses and on-the-ground operations at border points aimed 

at enhancing the detection of foreign fighters and criminals.78 Between April 

2017 and February 2019, more than 800 officers had received training and details 

of 448 wanted persons—including 105 foreign fighters—were added to Interpol 

databases.79 Interpol provided an additional boost to CT in the region with the 

establishment of a new Regional Counter-Terrorism Node in Singapore, which 

was announced in July.80

Though the dynamic in South Asia is rather different, there has been a shift 

toward closer cooperation in matters of CT there too, particularly after the bombings in Sri Lanka, which served to highlight ongoing deficiencies. The good news 

was that, prior to the attacks, India had passed on detailed intelligence to their Sri 

Lankan counterparts on three separate occasions that, had it been acted upon, 

could have potentially prevented the attacks.81 Unfortunately, amid alleged interpersonal rivalries within the Sri Lankan political and security establishment, this 

did not take place.82 While this speaks primarily to lapses in internal interagency 

cooperation within Sri Lanka that will need to be addressed by the newly elected 

Rajapaksa government as a matter of urgency, it also led to the realization that 

countries in the region need to work more closely with each another. To this end, 

Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi vowed to step up CT cooperation with Sri 

Lanka on a bilateral basis, following his reelection in May, which he then backed 

up with a 50 million USD line of credit in November.83

More significantly, in the immediate aftermath of the attacks, India renewed its 

efforts within the Bay of Bengal Initiative for Multi-Sectoral Technical and Economic Cooperation (BIMSTEC) to ensure that the Convention on Cooperation 

in Combating International Terrorism, Transnational Organized Crime and Illicit Drug Trafficking—which had been stalled for a decade—will finally come 

into force.84 New Delhi is using the same platform to push for the early signing 

of the Convention on Mutual Legal Assistance in Criminal Matters between 

BIMSTEC member states, which include India, Sri Lanka, Nepal, Bangladesh, 

Bhutan, Myanmar, and Thailand.85

The need for stronger cooperation on matters of CT received a further diplomatic boost in November at the 14th meeting of the East Asia Summit (EAS), 

which includes all 10 members of the Association of Southeast Asian Nations 

(ASEAN), as well as India, Japan, China, the Republic of Korea, Australia, New 
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Zealand, Russia, and the United States.86 Among other issues, the EAS highlighted the need to work more closely with the FATF and similar regional bodies 

to counter terrorist financing, as well as the UN Office on Drugs and Crime 

(UNODC), which provides assistance in developing legislation, enhancing 

knowledge and skills needed for investigations and prosecutions, and improving 

international cooperation.87 Such declarations assist in highlighting important 

issues and generating political will but, of course, must also be acted upon if they 

are going to have any impact. Another limitation is that neither the EAS nor 

BIMSTEC includes Pakistan. Indeed, part of the reason India is working through 

the BIMSTEC is due to frustration at the continued ineffectiveness of the South 

Asian Association for Regional Cooperation (SAARC), for which the India–

Pakistan rivalry has proven an insurmountable obstacle. Although there were no 

signs of this changing in 2019, it is worth noting that, together with the other 

members of the Shanghai Cooperation Organization (SCO), India and Pakistan 

took part in a large-scale military exercise with the theme of countering international terrorism in Russia in September.88

Yet more effort to enhance international CT cooperation was made in 2019, this 

time in the realm of cyberspace. At the forefront of these endeavors was New 

Zealand. Spurred on by the fact that Facebook and other social media companies 

ultimately failed to prevent the online spread of footage from the attack in Christchurch before it went viral, Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern spearheaded a global 

initiative to generate stronger commitment to “eliminate terrorist and violent extremist content online” and to build closer cooperation between governments and 

tech companies. Although it is nonbinding in nature, the “Christchurch Call” includes a series of commitments or guidelines for governments and the tech sector 

that serve to highlight various lines of effort that need to be pursued with greater 

vigor. Examples include strategies to develop processes allowing governments and 

online service providers to rapidly respond to the spread of terrorist content online, 

to ensure appropriate cooperation with and among law enforcement agencies, and 

to partner with civil society to promote community-led efforts to counter violent 

extremism through things like countermessaging.89 Among the 18 founding members of this initiative, when it was first signed in May, were New Zealand, Australia, 

Canada, India, Indonesia, and Japan. Another 31 signatories came on board in 

September, including the Maldives, Sri Lanka, South Korea, and Chile.90 Although 

each country is responsible for devising its own laws, regulations, and procedures 

in translating the Christchurch Call into action, at the very least the initiative has 

raised further awareness of the need to take more decisive action against terrorists 

in cyberspace, which is a net positive for the region and beyond.
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The Road Ahead

Rising Hindu Nationalism in India

As we look to the future, there are a number of controversial issues in the IndoPacific that continue to draw international attention and that terrorists, both in 

and outside of the region, may seek to exploit to their advantage. The rise of 

Hindu nationalism and the associated Hindutva policies of Prime Minister Modi’s Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) in India is one such issue. For several years now, 

this development has created an environment in which Hindu extremists are becoming increasingly emboldened, and from 2014 to mid-2019, there were 276 

religious bias-driven hate crimes in India, including lynchings of Muslims suspected of slaughtering cows and eating beef.91 In 2019, there were two particularly 

inflammatory developments, which yet have the potential to foment radicalization and acts of retaliatory terrorism. The first was the August revocation of Article 370, which had allowed Kashmir significant autonomy from the central 

government, and the subsequent division of the region into two federally administered states ( Jammu & Kashmir and Ladakh). Predicated on the need to further 

integrate the troubled region with the rest of India and to boost its economic 

development, critics point out that the revocation paves the way for what they see 

as deliberate alteration of the Muslim-majority region’s ethnic and religious composition, as it allows people from the rest of the country to settle there.92 In anticipation of potentially violent protests, tens of thousands of Indian troops were 

bused into the already highly militarized area ahead of the announcement, after 

which Jammu & Kashmir was placed on lockdown. This entailed curfews; blackouts of media, social media, and communications; as well as mass arrests, including the house arrest of hundreds of local politicians.93

These added security measures appear to have so far largely contained terrorist 

activity in the region. However, they cannot continue in perpetuity and are likely 

to generate widespread bitterness and anger. Sporadic outbreaks of violence (including a grenade attack on security personnel in Srinigar in October) are indicative of this simmering resentment.94 Indian security officials have also repeatedly 

warned that several hundred terrorists are thought to be stationed in Pakistancontrolled Kashmir, waiting for the opportunity to infiltrate.95 Although these 

claims cannot be verified, there is little doubt that groups such as JeM and LeT will 

view the revocation of Article 370 as an act of aggression, will be eager to exact 

revenge, and may see an uptick in recruitment. Jihadist organizations in general, 

including those with few real connections to the region, may also seek to capitalize 

on India’s actions by framing them as part of the perceived, global “war on Islam.”96

Meanwhile, the Pakistani government has condemned the move as illegal and 
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vowed to “exercise all possible options.”97 On top of all this— as noted above—

there are implications for India’s northeast. People there now fear that their own 

special status, provided for under Article 371, is now also in jeopardy, meaning they 

will need to be reassured if peace talks are to going to continue to progress.98

The second important development in India was the aforementioned enactment of the CAA in December, which granted a pathway to citizenship for nonMuslim “persecuted minorities” from neighboring Muslim states. While people 

in the northeast protested because it is viewed as a threat to their ethnic integrity, 

people throughout the rest of the country protested because it is seen as a threat 

to the secular constitution and as a deliberate move to further marginalize India’s 

sizable Muslim minority population.99 When viewed together with the abrogation of Article 370 and against the backdrop of increasingly strident Hindu nationalism and acts of violent extremism, of which Muslims have been the primary 

victims, it is possible that together these conditions will create fertile ground for 

radicalization, which violent jihadists could exploit. To date, India’s Muslim 

population has been remarkably resistant to Salafi-jihadist messaging, with relatively few becoming involved with groups like ISIS or al-Qaeda. If that were to 

change, in a worst case scenario, India could experience intercommunal violence 

on a massive scale, with serious implications for regional stability.

China’s Actions in Xinjiang

Other issues in the Indo-Pacific, which terrorists may seize upon and are worthy of close attention, include China’s treatment of its Muslim (mainly Uyghur) 

population in Xinjiang and the Rohingya refugee crisis in Myanmar and Bangladesh. The Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region has been subject to increasing 

securitization, characterized by extensive surveillance measures, since the related 

flare-up of political violence and acts of terrorism in the country from 2009–

2014.100 During this period there were numerous mass stabbings and multiple 

suicide bombings, including an incident in Luntai in which 50 people (consisting 

of 40 “rioters,” six civilians, and four police officers) were killed.101 However, 

China’s approach to security in Xinjiang began to attract much greater attention 

only after it resorted to mass internment and “reeducation” of Uyghurs and other 

Muslim minorities, coupled with efforts to monitor and control the Uyghur diaspora population, beginning in 2017.102

Justified by China as necessary steps to counter the “three evils” of terrorism, 

separatism, and extremism, the internment camps (referred to by the Chinese 

Community Party [CCP] as Vocational Education and Training Centers) have 

been widely criticized on human rights grounds since they became public knowledge.103 The debate intensified in July 2019 when 22 countries, including the 
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United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Japan, issued a joint statement at the UN condemning China’s policies.104 In reply, 37 countries, including 

Pakistan, the Philippines, Myanmar, Cambodia, Laos, and North Korea issued a 

letter of support for China.105 The controversy then further escalated in November when several official CCP documents, containing details of repressive measures employed in the camps, were leaked to the international press.106

As the drama has unfolded, terrorists have also been watching. Uyghur militants have long-established, deep operational ties to al-Qaeda and the Taliban 

dating back to at least the early 2000s, and the groups have long expressed solidarity for the Uyghurs’ cause.107 For example, in October 2009, following deadly riots 

in the Xinjiang regional capital of Urumqi, Abu Yahya al-Libi, then a prominent 

member of the al-Qaeda leadership, condemned China’s “decades of oppression . 

. . organized cleansing and . . . systematic repression” of the Muslim population, 

and called on Uyghurs to prepare for Holy War.108 Similarly, in 2016, al-Qaeda 

leader Aymen al-Zawahiri railed against China as an “atheist occupier,” and in 

April 2019, al-Qaeda’s general command issued a statement in support of the 

Turkistan Islamic Party (TIP)—which is the primary Uyghur terrorist organization currently operating in Afghanistan and Syria—and called on Muslims to 

support their cause.109 ISIS has likewise urged “revenge” against China for Beijing’s policies in Xinjiang, and in March 2017 released a video featuring Uyghur 

members of the group who vowed to return home and “shed blood like rivers.”110

As these examples allude to, Uyghur extremists enjoy the support of transnational 

jihadist groups, thanks largely to the fact that they continue to fight alongside 

al-Qaeda and ISIS on the battlefield.111 Precise numbers are elusive, but it is believed that around 300 Uyghurs joined ISIS in Syria, while many times that number fought alongside Jabhat al-Nusra, and later Hayat Tahrir al-Sham.112 Some 

estimates suggest the total number of Chinese foreign fighters in Syria (mostly 

Uyghurs but also including some Han Chinese) to be as many as 5,000.113

In light of these developments, China is understandably apprehensive that 

Uyghur terrorists, or their allies, may seek to launch attacks in Xinjiang, elsewhere in China, or against Chinese interests overseas. As noted above, some 

Uyghurs currently fighting in Syria would like to return home to conduct attacks. 

This is also in line with remarks made by the leader of the TIP, Abdul Haq alTurkistani.114 However, not all Uyghur foreign fighters necessarily share these 

aims, and given the intensity of China’s security crackdown, the chances of infiltrating Xinjiang and conducting terrorist activities without being detected are 

relatively low. An alternative possibility, which might present a more viable option, would be for jihadist veterans of the Syrian war to travel either to Afghanistan or to neighboring countries in Central Asia (Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, or 
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Tajikistan) and launch attacks from there.115 Uyghur militants are also known to 

have established ties with jihadist counterparts in Southeast Asia, which was the 

primary transit route on the way to Turkey and Syria. This has been particularly 

evident so far in Indonesia, where several Uyghurs have been arrested or killed in 

CT operations in recent years.116

Furthermore, Uyghurs have already demonstrated the intent and capability to 

conduct attacks outside of China. Notable examples include the August 2015 

bombing of the Erawan shrine in Bangkok, in which 20 people were killed in 

apparent retaliation for Thailand’s forcible repatriation of Uyghurs to China, and 

the August 2016 suicide bombing of the Chinese embassy in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, which was ordered by Uyghur militants active in Syria and carried out by a 

member of the East Turkestan Islamic Movement.117 Regardless of how the threat 

eventually manifests itself, China’s policies in Xinjiang have undoubtedly enflamed jihadist sensibilities.

This, in addition to BRI projects (discussed above), places China and its interests 

in the region at heightened risk of attack.118 It may also lead to closer cooperation 

between China and other countries in matters of CT. While there are some advantages to this, there is also a danger that this will increase China’s political leverage, 

and that, over time, surveillance-heavy, repressive measures will proliferate in the 

region, which could potentially increase the risk of terrorism in response.

The Rohingya Refugee Crisis

Finally, there is the ongoing Rohingya refugee crisis. Currently, there are around 

one million Rohingya living in Bangladesh, having fled the appalling violence in 

Rakhine state in western Myanmar.119 The immediate terrorist threat related to 

this comes in the form of the Arakan Rohingya Salvation Army (ARSA), whose 

actions first sparked the current crisis in August 2017 when they attacked more 

than 30 police posts, killing 12 members of the Burmese security forces, which 

then responded with indiscriminate violence on a massive scale.120 Since then, the 

ARSA has remained active, but its operations are sporadic (including just two 

reported incidents in Myanmar in 2019), and the organization does not appear to 

have advanced beyond a relatively low level of capability.121

However, as the Rohingya continue to suffer in deplorable conditions, there is 

concern they will become increasingly vulnerable to recruitment by violent extremists over time. During the past year, several reports have indicated that militants are active in Cox’s Bazar, the main refugee camp for Rohingyas in Bangladesh, and the ARSA has been blamed for numerous killings and other atrocities 

directed against people it regards as traitors or informants.122 Women who are 

deemed not to be dressed moderately enough have also been targeted.123 Accord-
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ing to a self-professed member of the group, interviewed by journalists reporting 

for the German newspaper Deutsche Welle, there are as many as 3,500 members of 

the ARSA living in Bangladeshi refugee camps, and several hundred have snuck 

across the border to Myanmar to receive military training.124 The same individual 

admitted threatening women who work for aid agencies because “Muslim religion 

doesn’t support it,” and said that he had been instructed to hit women who were 

not sufficiently covered.125 Meanwhile, Rohingya children living in the camps, 

deprived of proper education, are being taught in madrassas, some of which are 

run by “hardline” Islamists with histories of violent activism.126

While the plight of the refugees drags on, there is the added fear that Rohingya 

militants may develop operational connections with transnational terrorist organizations like ISIS and al-Qaeda, which could lead to a significant escalation in 

conflict. These concerns are founded upon reports such as that the leader of the 

ARSA, Ata Ullah, and other senior members of the group, were given training by 

Tehrik e-Taliban Pakistan.127 There have also been unsubstantiated allegations of 

links to LeT.128 Additionally, ISIS, al-Qaeda, and other extremist groups have 

expressed solidarity with the Rohingya and encouraged violent jihad against the 

government of Myanmar.129 For its part, the ARSA has stringently denied any 

form of connection and, although this cannot simply be taken at face value, there 

is presently no evidence to prove otherwise.130

Nevertheless, a number of seemingly isolated cases have come to light in recent 

years, including a 2013 plot to bomb the Burmese embassy in Indonesia;131 the 

2016 arrest of an Indonesian extremist in Malaysia, who was allegedly heading to 

Myanmar;132 the 2017 arrest of a British–Bangladeshi in New Delhi, who had 

reportedly been tasked by al-Qaeda with recruiting Rohingya refugees in northeast India;133 and the May 2019 arrest of an ISIS cell in Malaysia, including two 

Rohingya, who were plotting attacks on multiple targets, including the Burmese 

embassy in Kuala Lumpur.134 Thus, although the Rohingya issue so far has been 

largely symbolic for transnational jihadists, some may yet succeed in infiltrating 

Myanmar and/or Bangladesh, which—as we saw in the Philippines, for example—could result in tactical innovations such as suicide bombing. We might also 

yet see recruitment of Rohingya to jihadist organizations in meaningful numbers 

and potential attacks on Burmese targets outside of Myanmar. For the time being, 

these are possibilities rather than probabilities. Whether or not they materialize is 

partly dependent on how Myanmar and Bangladesh handle the situation going 

forward and whether there are renewed flare-ups in violence that serve to refocus 

international attention on the region.
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Foreign Terrorist Fighters

As this discussion shows, the future of terrorism in the Indo-Pacific—though 

by no means clear—is likely to be shaped, at least in part, by the unfolding of 

various highly charged, political and social issues that transcend national boundaries and provide terrorists with opportunities they can exploit. Of course, there 

are myriad factors specific to individual countries that will shape the threat as 

well—not least being their CT strategies and how they are implemented. Importantly, the evolution of the threat is also dependent on events outside of the region. 

The rise of ISIS in Syria and Iraq had an invigorating effect on jihadist terrorists 

throughout the world. Now that the group has been militarily defeated (at least 

for the time being), some of the wind appears to have been taken from their sails. 

Nevertheless, as illustrated in the above discussion of Uyghur militants, an immediate concern for the region is the return of their citizens (foreign fighters and 

their families), some of whom are still at large, while others are currently languishing in Kurdish detention camps in northern Syria. For the most part, the numbers 

and identities of these individuals appear to be unknown, but it is believed that 

several hundred Indonesians, 80 Australians, 65 Malaysians, and around 32 Canadians are still in Kurdish custody.135

Although most of these individuals are women and children, the worry is that 

returnees from Syria will conduct attacks and/or spread Salafi-jihadist ideas. So 

far, these fears have been confirmed in at least three cases. In April 2015, Malaysian police arrested a returnee named Murad Halimmuddin Hassan, who along 

with his son, was later convicted of plotting to kidnap government officials and 

conduct attacks targeting the police and military.136 In Bangladesh, the mastermind of the aforementioned Holey Artisan Café attack in July 2016 was a Bangladeshi–Canadian named Tamim Chowdhury. Having radicalized in Canada, he 

had joined ISIS in Syria before being sent to oversee the group’s operations in his 

country of birth.137 In July 2017, another veteran of the war in Syria named Syawaludin Pakpahan, together with an accomplice he had recruited, stabbed a police officer to death in Indonesia.138

Because of such occurrences, governments have been understandably reluctant 

to bring their citizens back. However, following the Turkish incursion into Kurdish occupied Syria in October 2019, there is an added sense of urgency to ensure 

that detainees are accounted for and repatriated before they can escape or are 

potentially set free. Those foreign fighters who are still at large might relocate 

elsewhere, but ultimately, it seems inevitable that those who are detained will 

have to return home. When that eventually takes place, judicial systems and re-
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integration programs, such as already exist in places like Indonesia and Malaysia, 

will be tested.

Attacks involving returnees are likely to remain rare but, of course, cannot be 

ruled out. Far more likely, and in many ways more difficult to prevent, will be 

continued efforts by returnees to spread their twisted beliefs, which is likely to 

occur both in and outside of prison. The effects of this may be felt for many 

years to come.

A closely related concern is that, with the Middle East now a much less viable 

prospect for terrorist activities, parts of the Indo-Pacific may emerge as attractive 

destinations for foreign fighters, both from within the region and elsewhere. In 

the Philippines, this is already the case. Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi had encouraged 

Muslims to support the jihadist struggle in Mindanao as early as 2015, and ISIS 

stepped up its recruitment efforts for the region the following year.139 After the 

siege of Marawi ended in October 2017, the Philippine military reportedly identified 32 foreigners among the tally of terrorists they had killed, mostly from Indonesia and Malaysia, but also thought to include some from Saudi Arabia, Yemen, and Chechnya.140 Since then, there have been reports of foreign terrorist 

suspects making their way to the Philippines from as far afield as Egypt and 

Spain, and in November 2018, a high-ranking intelligence officer was quoted as 

saying there were “about 40” foreign fighters still in the country.141 Moreover, as 

noted at the beginning of this article, foreign militants have been instrumental in 

orchestrating the recent rise in suicide bombing in the Philippines, beginning 

with an attack by a German–Moroccan man at a security checkpoint in southern 

Basilan in July 2018.142

Another prospective destination for foreign fighters in the region could be 

Pakistan, where numerous jihadists traveled to after 9/11 but before the conflict 

in Syria. More recently, there have been signs that it is again attracting this sort of 

attention, as reflected in arrests made by US authorities in New York in February 

and July of 2019. The first of these cases involved 29-year-old Jesus Wilfredo 

Encarnacion, who was planning to join LeT, while the second involved 33-yearold Delowar Mohammed Hossain, who ultimately intended to join the Taliban in 

Afghanistan.143 As discussed above, Myanmar and Bangladesh could also potentially attract jihadist travelers because of the Rohingya issue, as could places like 

Indonesia and Malaysia, given the involvement of some of their citizens in international terrorist networks and their proximity to the Philippines. Thus, although 

the Philippines currently stands out as a future draw for jihadist foreign fighters, 

there are numerous other possibilities. In any of these cases, the numbers involved 

are likely to be very small in comparison to conflict zones such as Syria, and most 

of it is likely to involve intraregional, rather than global travelers. However, even 
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a few skilled terrorist operatives can have an outsized impact, and this will therefore remain a concern for Indo-Pacific countries for some time.

“Frustrated” Foreign Fighters, “Home-Grown” Cells, and Lone Actors

A closely related set of challenges concerns so-called “frustrated” foreign fighters, meaning those who wanted or attempted to travel to Syria but were unsuccessful, as well as “home-grown” cells and lone-actor terrorists who choose to act 

at home. On the one hand, these groups and individuals tend to be relatively low 

in capability, because they have not had access to the kind of training and experience that they could acquire in a conflict zone. On the other hand, their bloodlust 

remains unsatisfied, and their intent to do harm is often high. Furthermore, they 

sometimes manage to team up with local groups or organizations that augment 

their capabilities and provide them with opportunities to act. The Indonesian 

couple responsible for the suicide bombing in Jolo, mentioned at the beginning of 

this article, is a prime example. In January 2017, they had attempted to go to Syria 

but had been deported by Turkish authorities.144 On returning home, they completed a one-month reintegration program, but by December 2018, they had 

made their way to the Philippines, where they joined with ASG (effectively becoming foreign fighters on their second attempt).145 By comparison, those who 

act independently generally achieve far less in terms of casualties but are especially 

difficult to prevent and can still sometimes have a significant impact. The October 

2019 stabbing of Wiranto, Indonesia’s top security minister, by a peripheral member of JAD named Syahrial Alamsyah is a case in point. Although Alamsyah was 

on the Indonesian intelligence radar, he appears to have told no one except his 

wife (who was arrested alongside him in the attack) about his plan, and although 

the stabbing was not fatal, it demonstrated the vulnerability of even high-ranking 

government officials.146

As governments in the region become more successful in constraining the activities of established terrorist organizations and dismantling their networks (as 

Indonesia has against JAD), it is likely that we will see further acts of terrorism 

committed by (semi)autonomous groups and individuals. This is also likely to be 

the most common manifestation of the threat in countries that are already relatively secure, such as Singapore and Malaysia. It will furthermore remain the 

dominant modus operandi of right-wing terrorists operating in countries such as 

the United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. Given the renewed intensity with which the right-wing movement is now being scrutinized, it seems 

unlikely they will be given sufficient room to scale up their level of organization 

and related capabilities as they might like. Yet we will almost certainly continue to 
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see sporadic acts of right-wing violence committed by lone actors, occasionally 

punctuated by mass-casualty incidents as we saw in Christchurch and El Paso.

Terrorist Use of the Internet

Going forward, a related challenge for the region—and a central component of 

both right-wing and jihadist terrorism—will be terrorist use of the Internet. As 

discussed earlier, significant progress is being made, as highlighted by the launch 

of the Christchurch Call. In late 2019, there was also a big push, spearheaded by 

Telegram in collaboration with Europol, and subsequently taken up by a variety 

of smaller companies, to deny terrorists access to Internet-based communication 

platforms. As the preferred application for terrorists for some time now, the decimation of their accounts and channels on Telegram was a significant step. ISIS 

supporters in particular were targeted, first on Telegram and then on each of the 

other platforms, they turned to (including Riot, TamTam, Hoop Messenger, 

MeWe, and Mastadon).147 But as necessary as this sort of action is, it is difficult 

to sustain indefinitely across a wide enough online space. Less than a month after 

Telegram’s purge, terrorism scholar Thomas Hegghammer observed that “[W]e 

are definitely witnessing an online jihadi renaissance. Not quite at 2012-14 levels, 

but much higher than 6 m[on]ths ago, and overwhelming to monitor.”148

This furthermore dovetails with observations from the region. For example, in 

September Bangladesh’s Counter Terrorism and Transnational Crime Unit reported that 82 percent of recently arrested terrorist suspects there were recruited 

online.149 Similarly, following the death of ISIS leader al-Baghdadi in October, 

the chief of CT police in Malaysia stated, “What we are most worried about now 

are ‘lone wolf ’ attacks and those who are self-radicalized through the Internet. We 

are still seeing the spread of IS teachings online.”150 Terrorist activities on the 

Internet are also not limited to radicalization and recruitment. As Indonesia’s 

Vice-Minister for Foreign Affairs stated in a speech at the UN in March, “There 

is a clear indication that terrorist financing is shifting towards high-tech cyber 

activities, including sophisticated online transactions.”151 It will, therefore, be imperative for countries to work closely with the tech sector (per the Christchurch 

Call and the joint efforts of Telegram and Interpol) in an effort to keep pace with 

evolving terrorist methodologies.

The Specter of Chemical, Biological, Radiological, or Nuclear Terrorism

A final concern for the future of terrorism in the Indo-Pacific involves the potential weaponization of chemical, biological, radiological, or nuclear (CBRN) 

materials. Two recent plots within the region have featured attempts to develop 
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Mullins

chemical and biological agents, respectively. The first of these was a plot disrupted 

in Australia in July 2017, in which brothers Mahmoud and Khaled Khayat had 

intended to first bring down an airliner using a conventional improvised explosive 

device (IED), and then to develop poisonous gas using viable instructions sent to 

them by an ISIS handler located overseas (though at the time of their arrest, they 

had only conducted one test involving chemicals and had not actually manufactured any poison).152 The second plot was uncovered in October 2019 in Indonesia, where a group affiliated with JAD had acquired rosary pea seeds, which they 

were using (or had perhaps even managed already), to produce the deadly biological toxin abrin, which they planned to add to an IED.153 Both of these developments are obviously concerning, especially when viewed alongside ISIS’s other 

efforts to use chemical and biological materials—including dozens of alleged attacks using chlorine and sulfur gas in Iraq and Syria as well as a plot to poison 

people with ricin that was disrupted in Germany in June 2018.154 Together, these 

incidents are indicative of terrorists’ continued, if not growing, interest in developing CBRN weapons. We must not overlook the fact that this also applies to rightwing terrorists, who have collectively established a concerning track-record in this 

area.155 However, it is important to recognize that intent is rarely matched by capability or the opportunity to act. The more successful states are in weakening 

established terrorist organizations, the more that capability is curtailed. Moreover, 

even ISIS supporters are generally conservative in that most of their attacks involve explosives, firearms, or even more basic weapons such as vehicles and knives.

Thus, although an unsophisticated CBRN attack somewhere in the IndoPacific is certainly possible, and governments must do all they can to prevent this 

from happening, it is not a likely scenario for the foreseeable future.

Conclusion

When dealing with a region as vast and varied as the Indo-Pacific, it is impossible to keep track of everything that takes place and easy to lose sight of important developments. Looking back on the previous year’s events, terrorists have 

unfortunately reminded us many times of their continued potency. The attacks in 

Jolo, Pulwama, Christchurch, and Colombo, in particular, were each devastating 

for the respective countries and were also of regional, even worldwide, significance. The kaleidoscope of insurgencies that continue to churn away in the background, often receiving little attention from the media, should also not be overlooked. Together, they are indicative of continued, widespread deficiencies in 

governance in the region, which persist even as the insurgents and terrorists are 

gradually beaten down.
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On the positive side of things, efforts to counter terrorism have significantly 

reduced the scale and severity of terrorism in the Indo-Pacific, and terrorist organizations in many places are on the back foot. Tactical successes are also increasingly complemented by soft approaches that have the potential to further reduce 

the violence and, in some cases, pave the way for lasting stability. In addition, there 

were several notable advancements in international cooperation during the past 

year, which signify the gradual, collective strengthening of CT in the region.

Looking ahead, there is no immediate end in sight to any of the terrorism problems discussed. Jihadist terrorism may also further ignite in response to smoldering 

political issues in India, China, Myanmar, and Bangladesh. The threat will also 

continue to evolve as jihadist veterans of the Syrian war and their families return 

home or relocate to other locations in the region. Here, the Philippines appears to 

be particularly vulnerable, but the threat may yet transform in unpredictable ways. 

Added to this is the numerically greater challenge of frustrated foreign fighters, 

home-grown cells, and lone actors, many of whom remain steadfast in their commitment to violence. Western countries within the region will also have to contend 

with right-wing terrorists, who in many ways mirror the jihadist threat. In either 

case, the Internet will prove to be a key battleground in the fight to prevent and 

counter the spread of radicalization, while simultaneously monitoring and disrupting existing terrorist networks. Terrorists may seek to innovate in other ways too, 

such as CBRN attacks, but these remain relatively unlikely.

Naturally, there are innumerable other developments that may take place, and 

many more challenges that countries of the region will have to grapple with: the 

increasingly prominent role of women and children in terrorist networks; the burden of expanding terrorist populations in prison; the sobering realization that 

many of those prisoners will soon be released; the potential resurgence of ISIS in 

the Middle East, Afghanistan, or elsewhere; a possible comeback for al-Qaeda 

and associated groups like Jemaah Islamiyah ( JI) in Indonesia; terrorist use of 

drones or other emerging technologies; the stubborn persistence of so-called “root 

causes” of terrorism; and of course, the unending, precarious balancing act needed 

to maintain security without falling into the terrorists’ trap and sacrificing civil 

liberties in the process. How each nation responds and copes with each of these 

challenges will ultimately shape their future, and the future of the region. 

Dr. Sam Mullins

Dr. Mullins is a professor at the Daniel K. Inouye Asia-Pacific Center for Security Studies (DKI APCSS) in Honolulu, Hawaii, and an honorary principal fellow at the University of Wollongong, Australia. The views expressed in 

this article are the author’s alone and do not necessarily reflect the official position of the DKI APCSS or the United 

States government.
28 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020

Mullins

Notes

1. From 2001–2018. National Consortium for the Study of Terrorism and Responses to Terrorism, 

Global Terrorism Database (University of Maryland, 2020).

2. For a list of countries considered by the United States government to be part of the Indo-Pacific, see 

Daniel K. Inouye Asia-Pacific Center for Security Studies, “Countries of the Asia-Pacific Region,” undated, 

https://apcss.org/.

3. Ana P. Santos, “Who Were the Indonesian Husband and Wife behind Jolo Bombing?,” Rappler, 27 

December 2019, https://www.rappler.com/.

4. Jim Gomez, “Philippines: 1st Known Filipino Suicide Attacker Identified,” ABC News, 1 July 2019, 

https://abcnews.go.com/.

5. JC Gotinga, “1 Filipino, 2 Egyptian ‘Suicide Bombers’ Killed in Army Clash in Sulu – AFP,” Rappler, 

5 November 2019, https://www.rappler.com/.

6. Sameer Yasir and Maria Abi-Habib, “Kashmir Suffers from the Worst Attack There in 30 Years,” New 

York Times, 14 February 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/.

7. “JeM Chief Masood Azhar’s Son, Brother among 44 Taken into Preventive Detention in Pakistan,” 

Times of India, 5 March 2019, https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/.

8. See Weiyi Cai and Simone Landon, “Attacks by White Extremists Are Growing. So Are Their Connections” New York Times, 3 April 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/.

9. J.M. Berger, “The Dangerous Spread of Extremist Manifestos,” Atlantic, 26 February 2019, https://

www.theatlantic.com/.

10. Deanna Paul and Katie Mettler, “Synagogue Shooter Tried to Livestream Deadly Rampage,” Sydney 

Morning Herald, 28 April 2019, https://www.smh.com.au/.

11. Graham Macklin, “The Christchurch Attacks: Livestream Terror in the Viral Video Age,” CTC Sentinel 12, no. 6 (2019): 18–29, https://ctc.usma.edu/.

12. “Sri Lanka attacks: Who are National Thowheed Jamath?,” BBC News, 28 April 2019, https://www

.bbc.com/.

13. Niharika Mandhana, Rob Taylor, and Saeed Shah, “Sri Lanka Bomber Trained in Syria with Islamic 

State,” Wall Street Journal, 30 April 2019, https://www.wsj.com/.

14. “Sri Lanka Police Say No Evidence for Direct IS Link to Easter Attacks,” Reuters, 24 July 2019, 

https://www.reuters.com/.

15. Robert Postings, “ISIS Announces New India and Pakistan Provinces, Casually Breaking Up Khorasan,” Defense Post, 15 May 2019, https://thedefensepost.com/.

16. Nancy A. Youssef and Warren P. Strobel, “U.S. Fights an Islamic State Rise in Afghanistan,” Wall 

Street Journal, 27 December 2019, https://www.wsj.com/.

17. Stefanie Glinski, “With ISIS Gone, Afghan Villagers Struggle to Rebuild from Rubble,” National, 21 

November 2019, https://www.thenational.ae/.

18. See Cole Bunzel, “Caliph Incognito: The Ridicule of Abu Ibrahim al-Hashimi,” Jihadica, 14 November 2019, https://www.jihadica.com/; and Aaron Zelin, “The Islamic State’s Bayat Campaign,” Jihadology, 3 

November 2019, https://jihadology.net/.

19. Zachary Abuza and Colin Clarke, “The Islamic State Meets Southeast Asia,” Foreign Affairs, 16 

September 2019, https://www.foreignaffairs.com/.

20. Jacob Airey, “Philippines Rocked By Multiple Christmas Week Terrorist Attacks,” Daily Wire, 26 December 2019 https://www.dailywire.com/; Amy Chew, “Ex-Isis Fighters Arrested in Indonesian Terror Probe 

after Medan Suicide Bombing,” South China Morning Post, 14 November 2019, https://www.scmp.com/; Jim 

Gomez, “IS-linked Philippine Militant behind Suicide Attacks Killed,” Star Tribune, 23 November 2019, 

http://www.startribune.com/; Arvind Ojham “Terror Strike Averted in Delhi, Police Arrest 3 Men Linked to 

Islamic State, Recover IED,” India Today, 25 November 25, 2019, https://www.indiatoday.in/; and “Pak Foils 

ISIS Plot to Target Intelligence Agency’s Offices,” India Today, 5 December 2019, https://www.indiatoday.in/.
Terrorism in the Indo-Pacific

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21. Josh Margolin, Aaron Katersky, and Ella Torres, “Suspect in Pensacola Naval Base Shooting Wrote 

‘the Countdown Has Started’ 4 Months before Attack: Report,” ABC News, 14 December 2019, https://

abcnews.go.com/.

22. Ibid.

23. Nic Robertson and Paul Cruikshank, “Tweet Purportedly from Gunman in Pensacola Navy Base 

Shooting Suggests al Qaeda Inspiration,” CNN, 8 December 2019, https://www.cnn.com/; “Shooting at 

Naval Air Station Pensacola Called ‘Act of Terrorism’,” Federal Bureau of Investigation, 13 January 2020, 

https://www.fbi.gov/.

24. “Shooting at Naval Air Station Pensacola Called ‘Act of Terrorism’.”

25. Ibid.

26. Kevin Robinson, “Pentagon Plans New Security Protocols in Wake of Pensacola Attack,” Pensacola 

News Journal, 16 January 2020, https://www.usatoday.com/.

27. “Shooting at Naval Air Station Pensacola Called ‘Act of Terrorism’.”

28. National Consortium for the Study of Terrorism and Responses to Terrorism, “Trends in Global 

Terrorism,” University of Maryland (2019) https://www.start.umd.edu/.

29. National Consortium for the Study of Terrorism and Responses to Terrorism, Global Terrorism Database (University of Maryland, 2020).

30. Niranjan Sahoo, Half a Century of India’s Maoist Insurgency: An Appraisal of State Response (Observer 

Research Foundation, 2019) https://www.orfonline.org/.

31. Press Information Bureau, “Naxal Affected Districts,” Ministry of Home Affairs, 5 February 2019, 

https://pib.gov.in/.

32. Swati Gupta, “16 Dead in Suspected Maoist Attack on Police Convoy in India,” CNN, 1 May 2019, 

https://www.cnn.com/.

33. National Consortium for the Study of Terrorism and Responses to Terrorism, “Trends in Global 

Terrorism.”

34. “Six Philippine Troops Killed in Communist Rebel Ambush on Samar Island,” South China Morning 

Post, 23 April 2019, https://www.scmp.com/.

35. JC Gotinga, “6 Soldiers Killed, 20 Wounded in Eastern Samar Clash with Communist Rebels,” 

Rappler, 12 November 2019, https://www.rappler.com/.

36. Lian Buan, “Communists Rebuke Military: Ceasefire Attacks Initiated by Gov’t Troops,” Rappler, 25 

December 2019, https://www.rappler.com/.

37. Matthew Wheeler, “Behind the Insurgent Attack in Southern Thailand,” International Crisis Group, 

8 November 2019, https://www.crisisgroup.org/.

38. Ibid.

39. Noah Lee, Muzliza Mustafa, Pimuk Rakkanam, and Mariyam Ahmad, “Thai Peace Negotiator 

Meets with BRN Rebel Delegates in Malaysia,” Benar News, 21 January 2020, https://www.benarnews.org/.

40. Sumir Karmakar, “NE Insurgency Down, Nagaland and Manipur Still a Worry,” Deccan Herald, 3 

November 2019, https://www.deccanherald.com/.

41. “Indian MP, at Least 10 Others, Killed in Militant Attack,” New Straits Times, 21 May 2019, https://

www.nst.com.my/.

42. “Naga Peace Talks Achieve Breakthrough in Deadlock as NSCN (IM) Softens Stand, Agreement to Be 

Finalised after Consultations,” OpIndia, 31 October 2019, https://www.opindia.com/.

43. Kaustubh Deka, “‘We Will Give Blood, but Not Our Land’: The Citizenship Amendment Act Protests in the Context of Northeast India,” Heinrich Böll Stiftung India, 20 December 2019, https://in.boell.org/.

44. “50 ‘Militants’ Surrender in Balochistan,” Pakistan Today, 3 April 2019, https://www.pakistantoday

.com.pk/.

45. “262 Terror Attacks Killed 595 People in Pakistan in 2018: Report,” Economic Times, 7 January 2019, 

https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/; and Pak Institute for Peace Studies, “Pakistan Security Report 

2019,” Research Journal Conflict and Peace Studies 12, no. 1 (2020), 21, https://www.pakpips.com/.
30 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020

Mullins

46. Shamil Shams, “Pakistan Blames Iran-based Separatists for Deadly Baluchistan Attack,” Deutsche 

Welle, 20 April 2019, https://www.dw.com/; and Farhan Zahid, “Baluch Raji Ajohi Sangar: Emergence of a 

New Baluch Separatist Alliance,” Terrorism Monitor 17, no. 18 (2019): https://jamestown.org/.

47. “Pakistan Lauds US Branding of Baloch Fighters as ‘Terrorists’,” Al Jazeera, 2 July 2019, https://www

.aljazeera.com/.

48. Philip Kowalski, “Balochistan: From the Periphery to the Center of Attention,” Middle East Institute, 

21 October 2019, https://www.mei.edu/.

49. Pak Institute for Peace Studies, “Pakistan Security Report 2019,” 21.

50. Kowalski, “Balochistan: From the Periphery to the Center of Attention.”

51. David Scott Mathieson, “Shadowy Rebels Extend Myanmar’s Wars,” Asia Times, 10 June 2017, 

https://www.asiatimes.com/.

52. Anthony Davis, “Myanmar’s Military Takes a Strike to the Heart” Asia Times, 15 August 2019, 

https://www.asiatimes.com/.

53. Ibid.

54. Ibid.; and Nan Lwin, “Rebel Strikes Cast Shadow on China’s BRI Projects in Myanmar,” Irrawaddy, 

20 August 2019, https://www.irrawaddy.com/.

55. Ibid.

56. Evan Friedin, “Myanmar’s Never-ending Conflict Reaches the Capital,” Foreign Brief, 29 October 

2019, https://www.foreignbrief.com/.

57. Pak Institute for Peace Studies, “Pakistan Security Report 2019,” 11; and “Pakistan Saw 31pc Reduction in Terrorism in 2019: Report,” Pakistan Today, 31 December 2019, https://www.pakistantoday.com.pk/.

58. “FATF asks 150 Questions to Pakistan, Seeks Answers against Madrassas Linked to Proscribed 

Outfits,” Economic Times, 22 December 2019, https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/.

59. Pinaki Chakraborti, “What Is FATF ‘Grey List’ and How It Impacts Pakistan?,” Times of India, 16 

October 2019, https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/.

60. “Pakistani Islamist Leader Pleads Not Guilty on Terrorism Financing Charges,” Reuters, 20 December 2019, https://www.reuters.com/.

61. Sarah Zheng, “Why China Dropped Its Opposition to UN Blacklisting of Pakistan-based Terror 

Chief Masood Azhar,” South China Morning Post, 2 May 2019, https://www.scmp.com/.

62. V. Arianti and Ahmad Sobirin, “Indonesia,” Counter Terrorist Trends and Analyses 12, no. 1 (2020): 

5–10, https://www.rsis.edu.sg/.

63. Iftekharul Bashar, “Islamic State Ideology Continues to Resonate in Bangladesh,” Middle East Institute, 3 September 2019, https://www.mei.edu/.

64. “Malaysia Says Islamic State May Shift Operations to Southeast Asia,” Reuters, 26 November 2019, 

https://www.reuters.com/.

65. Muzliza Mustafa, “Counterterror Chief: Senior Malaysian IS Members Killed in Syria Airstrikes,” 

Benar News, 12 November 2019, https://www.benarnews.org/.

66. Carmela Fonbuena, “Leader of Isis in Philippines Killed, DNA Tests Confirm,” Guardian, 14 April 

2019, https://www.theguardian.com/.

67. “Philippine Army Says It Has Killed Militant behind Suicide Attacks,” Reuters, 23 November 2019, 

https://www.reuters.com/.

68. Thomas Joscelyn, “Analysis: Al Qaeda Eulogizes Zakir Musa, as His Successor Is Named,” Long War 

Journal, 7 June 2019, https://www.longwarjournal.org/.

69. Thomas Joscelyn, “Indian Forces Kill Spokesman for al Qaeda Group in Kashmir,” Long War Journal, 

28 June 2019, https://www.longwarjournal.org/; and Ashraf Wani, “J&K: Zakir Musa’s Successor Hamid 

Lelhari Killed in Awantipora Encounter,” India Today, 23 October 2019, https://www.indiatoday.in/.

70. “Asim Umar: Al-Qaeda’s South Asia Chief ‘Killed in Afghanistan’,” BBC News, 8 October 2019, 

https://www.bbc.com/.

71. Sneha Mary Koshy, “ISIS Shift in Strategy May Threaten India, Sri Lanka, Warns Intel,” NDTV, 20 

June 2019, https://www.ndtv.com/.
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72. “Philippines Adopts Strategy against Violent Extremism,” Japan Times, 21 July 2019, https://www.

japantimes.co.jp/.

73. Ibid.

74. John Unson, “ARMM Turns Over Power to Bangsamoro Authority,” Philippine Star, 27 February 

2019, https://www.philstar.com/.

75. Ibid.

76. JC Gotinga, “Mindanao Closer to Peace as MILF Decommissions 12,000 Fighters– Gov’t,” Rappler, 

6 September 2019, https://www.rappler.com/.

77. Prashanth Parameswaran, “What Did the New Sulu Sea Trilateral Land Exercise Accomplish?,” 

Diplomat, 13 August 2019, https://thediplomat.com/.

78. “Tackling Foreign Terrorist Fighter Movement in Southeast Asia,” Interpol, 25 February 2019, 

https://www.interpol.int/.

79. Ibid.

80. Fabian Koh, “Singapore Police Officer to Lead New Interpol Counter-terrorism Unit,” Straits Times, 

3 July 2019, https://www.straitstimes.com/.

81. Jeffrey Gettleman and Dharisha Bastians, “Sri Lanka Authorities Were Warned, in Detail, 12 Days 

Before Attack,” New York Times, 29 April 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/; and Nikhil Kumar and Sugam 

Pokharel, “India Relayed Three Specific Warnings about Terror Attacks to Sri Lanka, ahead of Easter Bombings,” CNN, 24 April 2019, https://www.cnn.com/.

82. Kate Mayberry, “Bombings Intelligence Row Exposes Tension in Sri Lanka Government,” Al Jazeera, 

24 April 2019, https://www.aljazeera.com/.

83. Baratha Mallawarachi, “India, Sri Lanka Agree to Step Up Anti-Terrorism Efforts,” Diplomat, 10 

June 2019, https://thediplomat.com/; and “PM Announces $450 Million Line of Credit to Sri Lanka after 

Talks with Gotabaya Rajapaksa,” India Today, 29 November 2019, https://www.indiatoday.in/.

84. Anirban Bhaumik, “India to Work with Sri Lanka on Counter-terrorism,” Deccan Herald, 22 April 

2019, https://www.deccanherald.com/.

85. Ibid.

86. “East Asia Summit Vows to Step Up Anti-terror Cooperation,” Economic Times, 4 November 2019, 

https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/.

87. Ibid.; and “Southeast Asia and Pacific: Terrorism Prevention” United Nations Office on Drugs and 

Crime, undated, https://www.unodc.org/.

88. Shaurya Karanbir Gurung, “India to Participate with Pakistan, China in SCO Exercise,” Economic 

Times, 8 August 2019, https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/.

89. “Christchurch Call,” ChristchurchCall.com, May 2019, https://www.christchurchcall.com/.

90. Craig McCulloch, “Christchurch Call: Tech Companies Overhaul Organisation to Stop Terrorists 

Online,” Radio New Zealand, 24 September 2019, https://www.rnz.co.nz/.

91. Kunal Purohit, “India Struggles with Religious Lynchings,” Deutsche Welle, 8 August 2019, https://

www.dw.com/.

92. “Article 370: India Strips Disputed Kashmir of Special Status,” BBC News, 5 August 2019, https://

www.bbc.com/.

93. “At least 2,300 Detained in Locked-down Indian-ruled Kashmir,” NBC News, 20 August 2019, https://

www.nbcnews.com/; and Kamaljit Kaur Sandhu, “Lockdown in Kashmir: 400 Politicians, Aides, Separatist 

under Arrest as Valley Turns into Massive Prison,” India Today, 7 August 2019, https://www.indiatoday.in/.

94. Ashraf Wani, “1 Killed, 35 Injured in Grenade Attack on Security Forces in Srinagar,” India Today, 4 

November 2019, https://www.indiatoday.in/.

95. Kamaljit Kaur Sandhu, “300 Terrorists Waiting to Infiltrate via PoK, Kashmir on High Alert: 

Sources,” India Today, 10 January 2020, https://www.indiatoday.in/.

96. For an example immediately preceding the withdrawal of Article 370, see Thomas Jocelyn, “Al Qaeda 

Leader Threatens India, Criticizes Pakistan in Message on Kashmir,” Long War Journal, 9 July 2019, https://

www.longwarjournal.org/.
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Mullins

97. “Article 370: India Strips Disputed Kashmir of Special Status.”

98. Arunabh Saikia, “First 370, then 371? North Eastern States Are Anxious about Losing Their Special 

Protections,” Scroll.in, 7 August 2019, https://scroll.in/.

99. Vinod Babu and Manoj Kumar, “Tens of Thousands March in Southern India to Protest Citizenship 

Law,” Reuters, 4 January 2020, https://www.reuters.com/.

100. Sheena Chestnut Greitens, Myunghee Lee, and Emir Yazici, “Counterterrorism and Preventive 

Repression: China’s Changing Strategy in Xinjiang,” International Security 44, no. 3 (2020): 9–47 https://

www.mitpressjournals.org/.

101. Colin Clarke, Uighur Foreign Fighters: An Underexamined Jihadist Challenge (The Hague: International Centre for Counterterrorism, 2017), https://www.researchgate.net/; and “Xinjiang Unrest: China 

Raises Death Toll to 50,” BBC News, 26 September 2014, https://www.bbc.com/.

102. Greitens, Lee, and Yazici, “Counterterrorism and Preventive Repression.”

103. “Vocational Education and Training in Xinjiang,” China Daily, 17 August 2019, http://www.china 

daily.com.cn/.

104. Ben Westcott and Jo Shelley, “22 Countries Sign Letter Calling on China to Close Xinjiang Uyghur 

Camps,” CNN, 11 July 2019, https://amp.cnn.com/.

105. Catherine Putz, “Which Countries Are For or Against China’s Xinjiang Policies?,” Diplomat, 15 

July 2019, https://thediplomat.com/.

106. “Data Leak Reveals How China ‘Brainwashes’ Uighurs in Prison Camps,” BBC News, 24 November 

2019, https://www.bbc.com/.

107. Thomas Joscelyn, “Analysis: The Turkistan Islamic Party’s Jihad in Syria,” Long War Journal, 10 July 

2018, https://www.longwarjournal.org/; and Thomas Joscelyn, “Zawahiri Praises Uighur Jihadists in Ninth 

Episode of ‘Islamic Spring’ Series,” Long War Journal, 7 July 2016, https://www.longwarjournal.org/.

108. Saad Abedine, “Al Qaeda Tells China’s Uyghurs to Prepare for Holy War,” CNN, 9 October 2009, 

http://edition.cnn.com/.

109. Thomas Joscelyn, “Al Qaeda Declares Solidarity with Turkistan Islamic Party in the Face of Chinese 

Oppression,” Long War Journal, 17 April 2019, https://www.longwarjournal.org/.

110. “ISIL Video Threatens China with ‘Rivers of Bloodshed’,” Al Jazeera, 1 March 2017, https://www.

aljazeera.com/; and “Islamic State Leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi Encourages Emigration, Worldwide Action,” SITE, 1 July 2014, https://news.siteintelgroup.com/.

111. Also see Clarke, Uighur Foreign Fighters.

112. Greitens, Lee, and Yazici, “Counterterrorism and Preventive Repression,” 34–35.

113. Ibid., and Mathieu Duchâtel, “China’s Foreign Fighter Problem,” War on the Rocks, 25 January 2019, 

https://warontherocks.com/.

114. Greitens, Lee, and Yazici, “Counterterrorism and Preventive Repression,” 33.

115. Ibid., 35–36; and Clarke, Uighur Foreign Fighters.

116. Greitens, Lee, and Yazici, “Counterterrorism and Preventive Repression,” 31–32; and Yenni Kwok, “Is 

There a Uighur Terrorist Buildup Taking Place in Southeast Asia?,” Time, 28 December 2015, https://time.com/.

117. Olga Dzyubenko, “Kyrgyzstan Says Uighur Militant Groups behind Attack on China’s Embassy,” 

Reuters, 6 September 2016, https://www.reuters.com/; “Erawan Shrine Bombing Trial of Two Chinese 

Uighurs Begins after Delays,” Straits Times, 15 November 2016, https://www.straitstimes.com/.

118. Mollie Saltskog and Colin Clarke, “China’s Rights Abuses in Xinjiang Could Provoke a Global 

Terrorist Backlash,” Foreign Affairs, 16 January 2020, https://www.foreignaffairs.com/.

119. Jason Beaubien, “Bangladesh Struggles to Cope with Pressures of Hosting 1 Million Rohingya 

Refugees,” NPR, 15 April 2019, https://www.npr.org/.

120. “Myanmar Tensions: Dozens Dead in Rakhine Militant Attack,” BBC News, 25 August 2017, 

https://www.bbc.com/.

121. Htet Naing Zaw, “Myanmar Military: Two ARSA Militants Killed in Rakhine State,” Irrawaddy, 

22 November 2019, https://www.irrawaddy.com/.
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122. “Building a Better Future for Rohingya Refugees in Bangladesh,” International Crisis Group, 25 April 

2019, https://www.crisisgroup.org/; Naomi Conrad, Stefan Czimmek, and Arafatul Islam, “Rohingya Militants 

Active in Bangladeshi Refugee Camps,” Deutsche Welle, 24 September 2019, https://www.dw.com/; and Eugene 

Whong, “Rohingya Militants Urged to Halt Atrocities That ‘Mirror the Myanmar Army’,” Radio Free Asia, 14 

March 2019, https://www.rfa.org/.

123. Conrad, Czimmek, and Islam, “Rohingya Militants Active in Bangladeshi Refugee Camps.”

124. Ibid.

125. Ibid.

126. “Banned from Bangladesh Schools, Rohingya Children Are Exposed to Extremism in Madrasas,” 

South China Morning Post, 18 June 2019, https://www.scmp.com/.

127. Conrad, Czimmek, and Islam, “Rohingya Militants Active in Bangladeshi Refugee Camps.”

128. C. Christine Fair, “Arakan Rohingya Salvation Army: Not the Jihadis You Might Expect,” Lawfare 

(blog), 9 December 2018, https://www.lawfareblog.com/.

129. Francis Chan, “ISIS, Al-Qaeda Drawn to Crisis in Rakhine State,” Straits Times, 20 September 2017, 

https://www.straitstimes.com/; Fair, “Arakan Rohingya Salvation Army”; and Miranova and Sergatskova, “Will 

Former ISIS Fighters Help the Rohingya?: Why Calls for a New Jihad Are Falling on Deaf Ears,” Foreign Affairs, 22 September 2017, https://www.foreignaffairs.com/.

130. Faisal Edroos, “ARSA Group Denies Links with al-Qaeda, ISIL and Others,” Al Jazeera, 14 September 2017, https://www.aljazeera.com/; and Nyein Nyein, “No Evidence of Any ARSA Links to ISIS: 

Terrorism Expert,” Irrawaddy, 4 June 2019, https://www.irrawaddy.com/.

131. Ben Otto and I Made Sentana, “Myanmar’s Rifts Make Waves in Indonesia,” Wall Street Journal, 3 

May 2013, https://www.wsj.com/.

132. “Rohingya Plight Making Myanmar a Target for ISIS, Malaysia Warns,” Guardian, 5 January 2017, 

https://www.theguardian.com/.

133. Rajshekhar Jha, “Al-Qaida Man on Mission to ‘Recruit Rohingya Youth’ Held in Delhi,” Times of 

India, 18 September 2017, https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/.

134. “Malaysia Police Arrest 4 Linked to ISIS Bomb Plot,” Defense Post, 13 May 2019, https://

thedefensepost.com/.

135. Helen Davidson and Ben Doherty, “Australian Families Trapped in ISIS Camps Offer to Be Put 

Under Control Orders If They Can Return,” Guardian, 26 October 2019, https://www.theguardian.com/; 

John McBeth, “ISIS Headed Home to Indonesia” Asia Times, 21 June 2019, https://www.asiatimes.com/; 

“Police Working to Bring Home 40 Detained Malaysians” Straits Times, 14 October 2019, https://www

.straitstimes.com/; Diana Swain, “What to Do with Suspected Canadian ISIS Fighters and Their Families 

Detained in Syria?” CBC News, 15 February 2019, https://www.cbc.ca/.

136. “Malaysia: IS Veteran among Two Jailed for Terrorist Plot,” Benar News, 30 June 2015, https://www

.benarnews.org/.

137. Paristosh Bansal and Serajul Quadir, “New Evidence Shows Deep Islamic State Role in Bangladesh 

Massacre,” Reuters, 30 November 2016, https://www.reuters.com/.

138. Dina Febriastuti and Arie Firdaus, “Indonesia: Terror Attack Hits Sumatra Police Station,” Benar 

News, 16 May 2018, https://www.benarnews.org/.

139. Hannah Beech and Jason Gutierrez, “How ISIS Is Rising in the Philippines as It Dwindles in the 

Middle East,” New York Times, 9 March 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/; and Peter Chalk, “The Islamic 

State in the Philippines: A Looming Shadow in Southeast Asia?,” CTC Sentinel 9, no. 3 (2016): 10–13, 

https://ctc.usma.edu/.

140. Zam Yusa, “Philippines Military Photos Show Children among ISIS Foreign Fighters Killed in 

Marawi,” Defense Post, 25 October 2017, https://thedefensepost.com/.

141. Beech and Gutierrez, “How ISIS Is Rising”; and Hannah Ellis-Petersen and Carmela Fonbuena, 

“Philippines: Scores of Islamic State Fighters on Mindanao Island” Guardian, 11 November 2018, https://

www.theguardian.com/.
34 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020

Mullins

142. Jeoffrey Maitem and Mark Navales, “Philippine Defense Chief: Latest Suicide Bombing in South 

‘Very Important’ Development,” Benar News, 1 July 2019, https://www.benarnews.org/.

143. Philip Helsel and Jonathan Dienst, “Bronx Man Arrested at Airport on His Way to Join Taliban, 

Officials Say” NBC News, 26 July 2019, https://www.nbcnews.com/; and “New York Man Arrested for Attempting and Conspiring to Provide Material Support to Terrorist Organization,” United States Department 

of Justice, 8 February 2019, https://www.justice.gov/.

144. Santos, “Who Were the Indonesian Husband and Wife behind Jolo Bombing?”

145. Ibid.

146. Sidney Jones, “The Wiranto Attack and the ISIS Impact” Interpreter, 15 October 2019, https://

www.lowyinstitute.org/; “Wiranto Attacker Was on Intelligence Radar for IS-links: BIN” Jakarta Post, 11 

October 2019, https://www.thejakartapost.com/.

147. Rita Katz, “ISIS Is Now Harder to Track Online—but That’s Good News,” Wired, 16 December 

2019, https://www.wired.com/.

148. Thomas Hegghammer (@Hegghammer) “Yes we are definitely witnessing an online jihadi renaissance. Not quite at 2012-14 levels, but much higher than 6 mths ago, and overwhelming to monitor. Also, a 

terabyte-sized library of IS propaganda is circulating. Jihadis may be entering a new digital empowerment 

phase” 5 January 2020, 7:06AM, Tweet, https://twitter.com/.

149. Bashar, “Islamic State Ideology Continues to Resonate in Bangladesh.”

150. Martin Petty and Rozanna Latiff, “After Baghdadi Death, Southeast Asia Expects Long Fight 

against Islamic State’s Influence,” Reuters, 27 October 2019, https://www.reuters.com/.

151. “Security Council Unanimously Adopts Resolution Calling upon Member States to Combat, 

Criminalize Financing of Terrorists, Their Activities,” United Nations, 28 March 2019, https://www.un.org/.

152. R v Khaled Khayat; R v Mahmoud Khayat (No 14) [2019] NSWSC 1817 (17 December 2019) 

https://www.austlii.edu.au/.

153. V. Arianti, “Biological Terrorism in Indonesia,” Diplomat, 20 November 2019, https://thediplomat.com/.

154. Kyler Ong, “CBRN Terrorism: Need for More Deterrence?,” RSIS Commentary, 10 January 2020, 

https://www.rsis.edu.sg/.

155. Daniel Koehler and Peter Popella, “Mapping Far-right Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and 

Nuclear (CBRN) Terrorism Efforts in the West: Characteristics of Plots and Perpetrators for Future Threat 

Assessment,” Terrorism and Political Violence, (2018) https://doi.org/.
JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 35

FEATURE

Comparing Space Sectors Down Under

Nicholas Borroz

I

n the last decade, the global space sector has grown dramatically. Part of this 

growth has been fueled by the privatization of the space sector. Unlike during 

the Cold War, nowadays private firms, not just governments, are taking leading roles in space activity. Investors are channeling significant funds into private 

business, and in 2019 space firms raised $5.8 billion USD over 198 investment 

rounds.1 The largest new space firm, SpaceX, has launched 350 satellites to low 

Earth orbit to start creating Starlink, its constellation to provide satellite-based 

Internet.2 Growth is being spurred not just by privatization but also by geographic 

diversification; the number of countries involved in space activity is growing beyond the traditional space powers. Global launch attempts increased 39 percent in 

the last decade, and 82 countries now have satellites in orbit.3 Thirteen governments have established space agencies in the last decade.4

Two countries have made particularly dramatic strides: Australia and New 

Zealand. Australia’s space sector recently crossed the $5 billion AUD revenue 

mark.5 New Zealand’s space sector is smaller at $1.69 billion NZD, but this is still 

impressive given the sector doubled in size between 2018 and 2019.6 Both countries recently established space agencies—New Zealand in 2016 and Australia in 

2018. New Zealand’s space sector is notably defined by its hosting a successful 

up-and-coming launch-services firm called Rocket Lab—the firm launched six 

rockets last year from its launch facility in the Mahia Peninsula on the east coast 

of New Zealand’s North Island.7 Australia, on the other hand, which has long 

played a supporting role in terms of ground stations tied to National Aeronautics 

and Space Administration (NASA) and European Space Agency (ESA) missions, is supporting the development of its own sovereign launch capacity, as well 

as other business areas.8 For both countries, the US connection is strong—for 

New Zealand, Rocket Lab is registered in the United States, and many of its 

customers are American government entities; and for Australia, government 

funding schemes often relate to upcoming NASA missions.9

At first glance, the two countries’ space sectors appear similar. Both countries 

have close relationships with the United States. Both countries are building up 

their launch capabilities—New Zealand already has Rocket Lab, and Australia 

has a promising firm, Gilmour Space Technologies, that is developing its own 

rocket.10 Both countries are English-speaking, which facilitates interaction with 

the largely monolingual American space sector, and both are located in the South 
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Borroz

Pacific, which gives them similar geographic competitive advantages for certain 

types of launches. Both countries also have similar political economic systems; 

New Zealand and Australia are on the neoliberal end of the political economic 

spectrum, espousing free-market values and resisting explicit government intervention. Given all these similarities, are the two countries competing for the same 

role in the global space sector? Or may they end up playing complementary roles? 

Are they developing similarly, and will they continue to develop along similar 

lines? Or are they developing differently, and will they end up with space sectors 

unique from each other?

This article seeks to highlight how New Zealand’s and Australia’s space sectors 

are more different than they appear. Emphasizing differences builds a nuanced 

perspective about how the two space sectors have grown and will likely continue 

to grow. Such a perspective benefits individuals interested in the two countries’ 

space sectors—it helps government bureaucrats devise policy, firms decide business strategy, and investors place their capital.

This article applies a comparative political economy perspective, based on the 

developmental state literature, to show that New Zealand’s and Australia’s governments are intervening differently in their space sectors than each other. This article 

first explains what similarities the literature indicates one would expect to find 

between the two countries’ space sectors. Then, the article describes how there is 

little evidence for these similarities—comparing the two countries according to 

expected similarities instead highlights their differences. Finally, the article assesses 

what these differences imply for the two space sectors’ continued development.

Expectations of Australia’s and New Zealand’s Space Agencies

The developmental state literature does not at first seem to be a relevant literature 

to analyze New Zealand’s and Australia’s space sectors—it was established in the 

1980s to explain how Japan was able to so quickly develop its economy.11 The literature is relevant, however, if one traces how it has evolved since the end of the Cold 

War up until the present day. In recent years, developmental state scholars have expanded the scope of countries of interest. In doing so, they have derived some conclusions about how countries like New Zealand and Australia intervene in markets, 

which is relevant to understanding how New Zealand and Australia are developing 

their domestic space sectors, and how they will likely continue to develop them.

As mentioned above, the developmental state literature originated to explain 

the impressive rise of Japan’s economy, which was fascinating because Japan’s 

“miracle” transformation came after its economy had been decimated during 

World War II.12 How had Japan been able to reverse course, transforming from a 

war-torn country to an economic powerhouse? The founding scholar of the lit-
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erature, Chalmers Johnson, proposed one of the reasons for Japan’s rapid growth 

was because it was “plan rational”—in Japan, the appropriate role of government 

is to guide markets.13 He contrasted this with the United States, which is “market 

rational”—the government’s appropriate role is to remove barriers to doing business and to enforce rules of competition.14 Japan’s plan rationalism combined elements of each side of the Cold War capitalism–communism dichotomy—it 

“[conjoined] private ownership with state guidance.”15

As more scholars joined the literature, they showed that other “developmental 

states” existed besides Japan, most notably Singapore, South Korea, and Taiwan.16

They described how, besides plan rationalism, two other characteristics defined developmental states’ approach to intervening in markets: their use of financial mechanisms to subsidize desired business areas; and their preference for channeling 

subsidies to firms that were already working in those planned business areas.17 In 

other words, scholars identified three characteristics that define how developmental 

states tend to intervene: (1) government plans market growth; (2) government intervenes primarily via subsidies; and (3) government channels those subsidies toward firms that are already working in areas that align with planned growth areas.

The relevance to New Zealand’s and Australia’s space sectors is that, more recently, some developmental state scholars have begun examining market rational 

countries, herein called “regulatory states,” which are the foil to the developmental 

states. Traditionally, developmental states are portrayed in contrast to regulatory 

states; developmental states are portrayed as being more interventionist than 

regulatory states, which use a light-touch approach to guiding markets. The issue 

is that regulatory states are traditionally given short shrift in the literature; they 

are briefly mentioned in passing before moving on to the real meat of the literature’s intellectual enterprise: analyzing the developmental state. The recent intellectual turn toward focusing on regulatory states, however, means there is more 

understanding in the literature about how regulatory states intervene in markets. 

Scholars find regulatory states do not intervene less than developmental states but 

instead differently than developmental states; the difference is quality of intervention, not quantity of intervention.18

Three characteristics of regulatory states’ approach to intervention parallel, yet 

differ from, the three aforementioned characteristics of developmental states’ approach to intervention. The three characteristics are as follows: (1) government 

removes barriers to doing business, meaning it focuses on reducing unnecessary 

transaction costs; (2) government intervenes primarily via business support services, meaning it helps firms develop their business strategies through various 

means, such as networking support, market analysis, and gaining access to private 

financing; and (3) government prefers supporting firms that have viable business 
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plans, meaning it prefers supporting firms that can prove they are likely to succeed 

in the market.19 These characteristics of regulatory-state intervention cohere with 

what one would expect from a market rational state that values free-market principles; government’s role is to facilitate business by removing barriers and by helping competitive firms to refine their strategies.

New Zealand and Australia are regulatory states. More accurately put, they are 

likely regulatory states, since developmental state scholars have not yet explicitly 

defined what constitutes a regulatory state; to date, most scholars studying regulatory states have solely focused their research on the United States.20 However, 

Australia and New Zealand are likely also regulatory states if one borrows a category from another comparative political economy literature. The category, from 

the varieties of capitalism literature, is the “liberal market economy,” a type of 

political economy that is characterized by light-touch government intervention 

and institutionalized market transactions.21 Conceptually, the “liberal market 

economy” is very similar to the regulatory state; developmental state scholars 

sometimes mention the similarity, and the exemplary case for both conceptual 

categories is the United States.22 New Zealand and Australia are liberal market 

economies, and they are thus also very likely regulatory states.23

Using the liberal market economy as a proxy for the regulatory state indicates 

New Zealand and Australia should intervene in markets as one would expect 

regulatory states to do.24 For both New Zealand and Australia, the lead government entities for intervening in their space sectors are the new space agencies. 

This means that, in terms of how those space agencies go about developing their 

national space sectors, one can expect to see them intervening as follows: (1) the 

two agencies will focus on removing barriers to doing business in their respective 

space sectors; (2) the two agencies will intervene in their space sectors primarily 

via business support services; and (3) the two agencies will channel support toward firms with strong business cases. These characteristics essentially define the 

agencies’ missions, mechanisms, and preferences.

Is this in fact how the New Zealand and Australian agencies go about intervening in their space sectors? A review of government documents from both countries shows that both countries do not conform to these expectations. More specifically, New Zealand mostly does, and Australia mostly does not. New Zealand 

is more of a regulatory state than Australia is; the expectations mostly hold true 

for New Zealand, but hardly hold true for Australia. The section below explains 

these differences, setting the stage for the next section of this article, which discusses these differences’ implications for the future development of the two countries’ space sectors.
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How do New Zealand’s and Australia’s Space Agencies Compare?

This section has three parts comparing how New Zealand’s and Australia’s space 

agencies intervene to develop their space sectors. The first part assesses the extent to 

which New Zealand and Australia hold true to their theorized mission: removing 

barriers to doing business in the space sector. The second part assesses the extent to 

which New Zealand and Australia hold true to intervening in their space sectors via 

the theorized mechanism: business support services. The third part assesses the extent to which New Zealand and Australia hold true to their theorized preferences: 

channeling support toward firms with strong business cases. These are the three 

indications—about missions, mechanisms, and preferences—from the literature 

about how the agencies are likely to support their space sectors’ development.

Mission: Do New Zealand’s and Australia’s space agencies remove barriers 

to doing business?

Regarding the first indication, New Zealand’s space agency very much aligns 

with expectations about removing barriers to doing business. On its website, the 

agency highlights its regulatory functions: issuing permits, meeting international 

obligations, and managing liability.25 The purpose of these various regulatory 

functions is to remove barriers to doing business: “Our laws minimize unnecessary prescription, by including detailed requirements in regulation. Compliance 

costs are also minimized, by enabling overseas licenses to satisfy New Zealand 

requirements.”26 The first sentence is quintessentially what one would expect of a 

regulatory state: its mission is to create clear rules that reduce transaction costs 

and “level the playing field” for all firms about understanding what the rules are 

for doing business.

The second sentence similarly focuses on reducing costs, but it is quite stunning 

when one considers it; it allows companies to use other governments’ licensing to 

facilitate doing business in New Zealand. This lowers the cost of doing business 

in New Zealand for firms by allowing them to, at least partially, secure permits 

from their home governments to do business in New Zealand. In what other instance does a government outsource permit processes to enable rocket launches? 

This author is not aware of any other instances. These regulations primarily benefit Rocket Lab, which can secure launch licenses from America’s Federal Aviation Administration and then use those licenses to launch in New Zealand.27

As expected, since New Zealand is a regulatory state, the New Zealand Space 

Agency (NZSA) does not indicate it “transforms” or “leads” business activity, which 

is what one would expect to find in a developmental state. It instead describes itself 

as a facilitator, not as a leader. The agency characterizes New Zealand as being “an 
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ideal location for New Space” because of geographical and cultural factors.28 Growth 

in the space sector is only natural, in other words. The role of New Zealand’s space 

agency is to enable firms to work in the space sector, not to lure them in.

Turning to the Australian Space Agency (ASA), there is a significant contrast: 

the agency’s mission does not appear to be removing barriers to doing business. 

Instead, its stated purpose is to “transform the space industry”; it has a plan for 

how the market should grow and it intends to influence firms to work in ways that 

align with that plan.29 When summarizing its role, the agency highlights its “industry programs and funding” more than its regulatory activities, thus emphasizing its role of incentivizing certain types of planned business behavior.30 The 

agency describes itself as “coordinating Australia’s domestic civil sector activities . 

. . supporting the growth of Australia’s space industry and the use of space across 

the broader economy . . . leading civil space engagement . . . [and] inspiring the 

Australian community and the next generation of space entrepreneurs.”31 This all 

sounds very much like the verbiage one would expect to hear from a developmental state, not a regulatory state. Whereas the New Zealand agency is a facilitator 

that enables business, the Australian agency is a leader that guides it.

The ASA makes a few nods to free-market principles. For instance, in order for 

firms to access financing under its International Space Investment initiative, firms 

must show their projects “target a gap in the market, market failures, and 

inefficiencies.”32 And the agency describes its regulatory role as ensuring “regulations meet technology advances and don’t unnecessarily inhibit innovation”; like 

New Zealand, the stated purpose of the agency’s regulatory function is to give 

firms greater freedom.33 Generally, though, despite these nods to neoliberal values, the ASA emphasizes how its function is to incentivize particular types of 

business activities. The emphasis of its self-described mission is not facilitating 

business. It is instead leading business. In this sense, the agency’s mission is similar to what one would expect to see for government entities in developmental 

states like Japan and Singapore.

Mechanism: Do New Zealand’s and Australia’s space agencies give 

business support services?

The second indication from the literature is that New Zealand’s and Australia’s 

space agencies are likely to intervene primarily via business support services. Unlike developmental states, which primarily intervene via financial incentive 

schemes, regulatory states are expected to help firms refine their business strategies. Is this the case? In fact, neither the New Zealand nor Australian agencies 

align with expectations. The NZSA does not provide any significant business sup-
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port services; the agency instead primarily restricts its intervention to regulatory 

matters. The ASA, on the other hand, primarily intervenes in the space sector 

through financial incentive schemes, as one would expect of a developmental state.

Turning to the NZSA first, the agency rarely works directly with firms in the 

space sector; it provides little assistance in terms of financing or research and development support, for instance. There are government programs for space-sector 

firms, but these programs do not pertain to the NZSA—instead, the agency’s parent ministry, the Ministry of Business, Innovation, and Employment (MBIE), 

manages such programs. The American space debris management firm LeoLabs, 

for instance, received support via MBIE’s Innovative Partnerships program, which 

gives access to investment, research-and-development (R&D) support, tax breaks, 

commercialization assistance, and special visas. 34 The New Zealand satellite 

thruster company Dawn Aerospace, on the other hand, received financial assistance via MBIE’s Catalyst Fund.35 MBIE is also cofinancing a methane-detecting 

satellite to be launched in 2022 (most financing will be from the American nongovernmental organization the Environmental Defense Fund).36 Another entity 

supporting firms is Callaghan Innovation, which is another MBIE daughter organization and thus a sister entity to the NZSA. The only support coming from the 

space agency itself toward specific recipients is a small internship program that 

funds students to go to the United States and gain work experience with NASA.37

The literature indicates a regulatory-state agency will primarily intervene by 

helping firms to refine their business strategies, but the NZSA is not involved in 

such activities. The agency focuses almost exclusively on regulatory support and 

helps students go abroad on internships. It is true that the government provides 

some firm-specific support, but this support comes mostly from the space agency’s 

parent organization MBIE. That support includes business support services, 

which one would expect of regulatory states (i.e., R&D support and commercialization assistance), but it also includes financial incentives, which one would expect of developmental states (i.e., grants and tax breaks).

The ASA also intervenes in unexpected ways, though differently than the 

NZSA. The ASA conforms to expectations one would have for a developmental 

state, not a regulatory state—the space agency’s favored mechanism for intervention is financial incentive schemes, not business support services. The ASA oversees three major financing schemes: the International Space Investment initiative, 

the Space Infrastructure Fund, and the Moon to Mars initiative. The first two are 

elements of the Australian Civil Space Strategy, which is the Australian government’s overarching plan for developing the space sector and which is implemented 

“through the [space] agency.”38 The Moon to Mars initiative was formed after the 
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creation of the Australian Civil Space Strategy and is thus not mentioned in the 

strategy, but the space agency is described as having “launched” it.39

The Mars to Moon initiative is not yet fully implemented, but the International 

Space Investment initiative and the Space Infrastructure Fund have both been 

underway for some time and they have already begun distributing funds. The International Space Investment initiative provides grants to firms that range from 

$100,000 to $4 million AUD.40 In total, the initiative is providing $15 million 

AUD in such funding over three years.41 The Space Infrastructure Fund, in turn, 

is investing $19.5 million AUD in seven space-related infrastructure areas.42 There 

is little indication on the ASA’s site that it provides the business support services 

that one would expect of a regulatory state’s government agency. Australia’s agency 

is not, for instance, providing R&D support, nor is it helping firms strategize 

about how to go about commercializing their technology. Rather, the agency’s 

main mechanism for intervening is financial incentive schemes, precisely the favored mechanism used by developmental states.

Preference: Do New Zealand’s and Australia’s space agencies prefer 

helping competitive firms?

The third indication from literature regards preference; according to the literature, regulatory states prefer supporting competitive firms—the firms that can 

prove they are most likely to achieve business success are those which government 

prefers to support. This is unlike in developmental states, where government prefers supporting firms that align with economic development plans; the most important criterion in developmental states is alignment with development plans. On 

this third matter, the NZSA behaves as expected—it supports competitive firms. 

Australia’s agency, on the other hand, acts like a developmental state agency—its 

main preference criterion is how much firms align with development plans.

Turning to the NZSA first, as previously discussed, it sticks mostly to regulatory oversight as opposed to firm-specific support, but even so, it has preferences 

about which firms should benefit from its regulations. This is abundantly clear in 

the case of Rocket Lab, which is prominently featured on the agency’s website as 

the most notable company in New Zealand’s space sector. Rocket Lab launches 

from the Mahia Peninsula, but it is only able to do this because of agreements 

made among the New Zealand government, Rocket Lab, and the United States 

government. In June 2016, the two governments agreed to allow US launch vehicles to launch from New Zealand.43 In September 2016, the New Zealand government and Rocket Lab agreed to allow Rocket Lab to launch from New Zealand; the launches needed to hold “a US license and all other necessary licenses, 
Comparing Space Sectors Down Under

 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 43

approvals, authorisations and consents required under the laws and policies of the 

United States of America.”44 In May 2017, the US Federal Aviation Administration permitted Rocket Lab to carry out launches from New Zealand.45

All these agreements were made shortly after the NZSA was established in 

April 2016. The space agency administers the main piece of legislation that guides 

oversight of launch activity in New Zealand, including requirements related to 

the treaty with the United States.46 On its website, the space agency advertises 

how these agreements let firms launch from New Zealand by using “overseas licenses to satisfy New Zealand requirements.”47

Rocket Lab very much fits the mold of the sort of company that one expects 

government agencies in a regulatory state to support; it had a strong business case. 

Although Rocket Lab had not yet provided launch services when the agreements 

were put in place, the company had already received millions of dollars in American government financing.48 Rocket Lab was at the time indicating that it wanted 

to return to New Zealand to set up launch operations; Rocket Lab was originally 

registered as a New Zealand company before it re-registered in the United States, 

and the founder, Peter Beck, repeatedly stated he would like the firm to launch 

from New Zealand.49 Rocket Lab likely re-registered in the United States to gain 

access to larger sources of private financing and also contracts with the American 

government.50 With close ties to the United States military–industrial complex, 

the largest demander of launch services in the world, Rocket Lab was a firm with 

strong commercial potential. The NZSA made a typically regulatory-state decision to put agreements in place to facilitate this promising firm’s ability to do 

business in New Zealand. No other space firm has benefited as much from New 

Zealand government support as has Rocket Lab.

Compared to its New Zealand counterpart, the ASA has different support 

preferences that are very akin to what one would expect of a developmental state. 

The agency does not facilitate business for large firms with solid prospects like 

Rocket Lab, as New Zealand’s space agency did. The ASA instead has a vision 

about which business activities it would like to see grow in Australia, and the 

agency targets its support to firms in such business areas. It prefers channeling 

support toward firms that align with economic development plans.

The ASA has a clear preference, for example, to spur the growth of local smalland medium-sized enterprises (SMEs). Of the Space Infrastructure Fund’s seven 

tracks, for instance, four of their descriptions highlight roles for SMEs.51 To be 

eligible for financial assistance on such projects, applicants must be active Australian (i.e., not foreign) firms.52 The space agency has signed several memoranda 

of understanding (MOUs) with international corporations like Airbus and with 

state governments. These MOUs often mention benefits for Australian SMEs 
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and startups.53 Intervention is, in other words, designed to spur the SME portion 

of the space ecosystem.

In terms of specific functional business areas, the International Space Investment initiative has several priorities: position, navigation, and timing; Earth observation; communications technologies and services; space situational awareness 

and debris monitoring; leapfrog R&D; robotics and automation on Earth and in 

space; and access to space.54 This is a specific list of functional areas in which firms 

must be active to access government financial support. This is quite unlike the 

NZSA, which essentially facilitated regulatory requirements in response to Rocket 

Lab’s intention to launch from New Zealand. The NZSA, unlike the ASA, does 

not have a list of aspirational business areas that it is trying to make more attractive through the creation of regulatory frameworks.

One last preference for the ASA worth noting is its push for firms to deepen 

ties to the American space sector. The International Space Investment initiative 

invests in “strategic space projects that grow the Australian space industry and 

build collaboration with international space agencies.”55 Though this does not 

specifically mention the United States, NASA is the best-funded space agency in 

the world and already has an established presence in Australia, which clearly 

makes it the most likely “international space agency” with which applicants will 

collaborate.56 The agency’s Moon to Mars initiative, on the other hand, explicitly 

focuses on linking Australian firms with the American space program.57

What Do the Differences Mean?

The preceding section shows that New Zealand’s and Australia’s space agencies 

intervene differently to develop their respective national space sectors. The NZSA 

behaves more or less as one would expect a regulatory-state government entity to 

behave. The ASA, on the other hand, behaves more unexpectedly like a developmental state government entity. The table below summarizes the differences:

Table 1. Differences between the two agencies

New Zealand Space Agency Australian Space Agency

Mission Regulatory; mission is to remove barriers 

to doing business

Developmental; mission is to plan and 

coordinate business activity

Mechanism Unexpected; refrains from providing firmspecific support

Developmental; favors using financial incentive schemes

Preference Regulatory; prefers supporting firms with 

competitive business cases

Developmental; prefers supporting firms 

that align with plans

What does this mean in terms of how New Zealand’s and Australia’s space 

sectors will evolve? Given the above differences in terms of the space agencies’ 

missions, mechanisms, and preferences, the two space sectors seem bound for 
Comparing Space Sectors Down Under

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different trajectories. The rest of the section is broken down into four parts: the 

first three parts respectively address the implications of each of the differences, 

and the fourth part outlines areas for future research. A final brief section follows 

with some concluding remarks.

Implications of Mission Difference

The first difference relates to the space agencies’ missions. The NZSA is first 

and foremost focused on removing barriers to doing business in New Zealand’s 

space sector. Two implications arise from this mission focus for New Zealand: (1) 

the space sector will likely see more domestic growth in industries with relatively 

few barriers; and (2) business will come from other countries into industries that 

are relatively barrier-free in New Zealand. In terms of the first implication, wherever barriers are fewest, firms in the domestic market will likely grow faster. For 

instance, if the NZSA focuses on reducing barriers to doing business in the ground 

communications industry, but not for satellite manufacturing, then there will 

likely be more growth in ground communications than in satellite manufacturing. 

If it becomes cheaper to get a permit for operating a ground station, whereas the 

price of getting a permit to manufacture satellites remains the same, then all else 

being equal, there will be a proliferation of ground station operators compared to 

what there would have otherwise been. Where the agency focuses on reducing 

barriers, therefore, will shape the sector’s growth.

In terms of the second implication about attracting foreign business into industries with relatively few barriers, this means that for some industries, the relative absence of barriers compared to barriers in other countries will lure in foreign 

business. Rocket Lab’s history in New Zealand is a case in point. Peter Beck 

wanted to launch from New Zealand, but he only ended up doing so because the 

NZSA designed and implemented agreements to facilitate launches. If the New 

Zealand government had not allowed US permits to facilitate launches in New 

Zealand, then this would have made New Zealand a significantly more difficult 

place to work for Rocket Lab—the firm would have had to deal with more bureaucratic processes to secure authorization. Given that the NZSA continues to 

advertise it allows other countries’ permits to facilitate launches, New Zealand 

likely will continue to attract launch service providers from other countries. If a 

foreign launch service provider is looking for a country from which to launch, 

New Zealand will be relatively attractive compared to other jurisdictions where 

governments require meeting multiple sets of regulatory requirements. The relative absence of barriers could occur in other industries, also; in industries where 

the space agency reduces barriers compared to other countries, international business will flow in.
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By comparison, the ASA has a different mission: it plans and coordinates business activity. The implications of this mission for Australia’s space sector are twofold: (1) domestic business growth is most likely to occur in industries that the 

agency plans to grow; and (2) business from abroad will be attracted to industries 

in Australia where government incentives are more abundant compared to incentives elsewhere. The first point is relatively straightforward. The government will 

sustain support for certain industries, and it is in these industries where local firms 

will grow more than they would otherwise. If the ASA, for instance, commits to 

supporting Earth observation (as indeed it does according to its International 

Space Investment initiative), but it is not committed to supporting space resource 

extraction, then there will be more business growth in the first industry.

The second implication is that, in the industries in its space sector where the 

ASA is offering relatively abundant incentives, international firms will come to 

Australia more than they otherwise would. The more resources Australia commits 

to supporting growth in an industry, relative to the overall amount of resources all 

governments around the world are committing to that industry, then there will be 

more inflows of international business. If Australia, for instance, doubles the 

amount of resources it commits to supporting the growth of the Earth observation industry, but no other governments increase their resource commitments to 

that industry, then more international business will flow into Australia’s Earth 

observation industry. The industries that the agency plans to grow, in other words, 

will grow faster than they otherwise would, both due to domestic and international business activity.

Implications of Mechanism Difference

The second difference between the two countries regards their mechanisms for 

intervening. Unexpectedly, the NZSA does not favor using firm support services. 

Rather, it focuses on designing and implementing regulations. There are two implications that stand out from this regarding the likely future trajectory of New 

Zealand’s space sector: (1) there will be relatively few government-financed firms; 

and (2) growth will concentrate in industries where there is clear market demand. 

The first implication is fairly obvious. If the government refrains from providing 

support to specific firms, then there will be few government-financed firms. There 

will be few firms, in other words, that depend on government finance, whether 

directly (e.g., via up-front funding) or more indirectly (e.g., via government contracts on the backend).58

The second implication is growth will likely be in industries with clear market 

demand; business will grow in industries where other market actors seek goods or 

services. If, for instance, supply of launch services exceeds demand—a possibility 
Comparing Space Sectors Down Under

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given the likely impending global recession due to COVID-19—then there will 

be little incentive for launch services firms to build up their business in New 

Zealand. If, however, there is clear demand for services based on satellite-provided 

data, then there would be a growth in related business areas—firms using satellite 

imagery to provide precision farming support services, for instance. This responsiveness to markets will be more than it otherwise would be if the government 

were actively intervening with financial incentive schemes. If that were the case, 

its incentives schemes would distort demand—government incentives would increase demand for certain types of business.

The ASA, on the other hand, favors intervening with financial incentive 

schemes. As such it seems likely that Australia’s space sector will evolve as follows: 

(1) there will be relatively many government-financed firms; and (2) growth in 

the sector will depend on government support. The first point is that there will be 

many firms that directly or indirectly depend on government financing. To use 

launch services as an example, if the government provides significant financial 

incentives to facilitate “access to space,” as is indicated in its International Space 

Investment initiative, then there will likely be more firms in the launch services 

industry that depend on government financing than there otherwise would be. 

This dependence could come up front in the form of loans or grants or tax breaks. 

It could also come at the backend—the government could be a customer that 

purchases launches, or it could subsidize other entities’ buying launches. In both 

cases, firms depend on government financing.

The second implication, tied to the first, is that growth in the sector will depend 

on government support. Financial incentives essentially amount to subsidies, and 

a well-known shortcoming of subsidies is that they lead to dependence. In some 

cases, government subsidies can spur particular industries’ growth, and then government financing can be scaled back to form a self-sustaining industry. This has 

arguably happened in Brazil, for instance, with the production of plant-based fuel 

alternatives for vehicles.59 It will therefore be of interest to anyone participating in 

a growing industry in Australia’s space sector to monitor the ASA’s associated financial incentive schemes. There will be a risk that if those schemes are shrunk, 

then the industry’s growth will slow significantly. If, for instance, the ASA incentivizes growth in Earth observation and this leads to a proliferation of Earth observation firms, then those firms should be wary of what will happen if the agency 

shrinks incentive schemes.

Implications of Preference Difference

The third major difference between the two agencies relates to their preferences—how they decide where to channel their support. The NZSA prefers sup-
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porting firms with strong business cases that appear likely to succeed. As such, 

New Zealand’s space sector will likely: (1) be defined by large successful firms; 

and (2) be difficult to enter for latecomers. The two implications are related. The 

first one is simply highlighting the fact that removing barriers to doing business 

for strong firms has the potential to have a multiplier effect on their success. In 

another unrelated sector in New Zealand’s economy, the primary goods industry, 

one can arguably see this is the case with Fonterra, which is a powerful producer 

of dairy products that disproportionately benefits from government intervention 

to facilitate the exports of dairy products.60 The same possibility holds true for the 

space sector. Reducing barriers to doing business in New Zealand’s launch industry, for instance, has clearly benefited Rocket Lab more than other aspiring launch 

providers like Dawn Aerospace, a Christchurch-based satellite thruster firm that 

is also developing technologies to provide launch services.61

The second implication relates to the first. As the government removes barriers 

to doing business, this primarily benefits firms that are already successful and 

paradoxically grows barriers to entering the industry for latecomers. Again, the 

Rocket Lab–Dawn Aerospace comparison is illustrative. It may be that Dawn 

Aerospace becomes a successful launch company, but it now faces a steep uphill 

battle to win market share from Rocket Lab. This is due to economies of scale—

the more market share a firm has, the better it can defend that market share. This 

is especially so in capital-intensive industries, which the launch services industry 

certainly is. The NZSA enabled Rocket Lab’s growth and entrenched the firm’s 

market position. Furthermore, the agency’s neoliberal ideology means it may 

hesitate to intervene to prevent monopolization; government should not, after all, 

from a market rational perspective, be hindering successful business.62 The end 

result of all this is that the NZSA’s preference for supporting successful firms may 

make certain industries more difficult to access for newcomers.

Australia’s space agency differs from New Zealand’s in that the ASA prefers 

supporting firms that align with economic development plans. This preference 

seems likely to have two implications for the future evolution of Australia’s space 

sector: (1) the sector may come to be defined by firms that specialize in accessing 

government incentive schemes; and (2) for firms that do not align with government plans, it will be difficult to succeed. The first implication means that if large 

financial incentives schemes become important enablers of success, firms will 

naturally tailor their activities to increase their chances of accessing those incentive schemes. The more firms succeed in accessing incentive schemes, the greater 

will be their ability to succeed in accessing future incentives; they will build up 

specialization in accessing incentives schemes.
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The second implication relates to the first. If a key determinant of success in 

Australia’s space sector is accessing financing schemes, and if specialization for 

accessing them concentrates in a select number of firms, then it will be difficult for 

all other firms to access the incentives. Thus, it will be difficult for the nonspecialists to succeed. As stated in the previous section, the International Space Investment initiative provides grants to firms that range from $100,000 to $4 million 

AUD. If the Australian government continues to regularly put out grant offerings 

for which firms must compete, some firms will start to specialize. The more incentives a firm succeeds in accessing, the better it will become at accessing such 

schemes in the future—a firm that successfully wins three grants knows better 

than a firm with no experience how to win an upcoming funding round.

Areas for Future Research

The implications described above are not certain. To better understand if these 

trajectories are likely, there must be more research done regarding comparative 

space-sector development. Four areas stand out as potentially fertile grounds for 

research. First, more countries need to be studied to better understand the differences between space agencies in terms of their missions, mechanisms, and preferences. As mentioned early in this article, several governments have created space 

agencies in the last decade. How do these space agencies compare to their counterparts in New Zealand and Australia? By focusing on New Zealand and Australia in this article, differences between them are stark. But perhaps in comparison to space agencies in the Philippines and Turkey, for example, the New Zealand 

and Australian space agencies’ approaches to intervention will appear more similar. 

The more countries’ space agencies that are examined, the better one can identify 

the characteristics that make each of them unique, and thus the better one can 

identify implications for how their space sectors will develop.

Second, research ought to be done to monitor the evolution of space sectors to 

understand if the implications listed above have any validity. While the differences between New Zealand and Australia in terms of missions, mechanisms, and 

preferences are backed by empirics, the implications of these differences for the 

future development of their space sectors are speculative. Will it actually turn out 

to be the case that New Zealand’s space sector will be dominated by private firms, 

whereas Australia’s space will feature more state-subsidized firms? To know 

whether these implications about trajectories are valid requires monitoring the 

situations in both countries. What is to be monitored will, of course, depend on if 

more countries are studied—as discussed above, if a greater number of countries 

are examined, then understanding of their differences and the implications of 

those differences will likely change.
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A third area for research is studying historical cases of space-sector development. The theorized differences discussed in this article are based on developmental state scholars’ analyses of political economies. Those scholars, however, do not 

specifically examine space sectors; instead, they focus on other sectors like renewable energy and consumer electronics.63 Perhaps by looking at historical cases of 

space-sector development, especially in well-known developmental and regulatory states like Japan and the United States, clearer implications will emerge for 

how the space sectors of New Zealand, Australia, and other countries will evolve.

A fourth area of research is to compare New Zealand and Australia again, but 

to this time focus on more than just their space agencies. The literature clearly 

indicates that in developmental states there are lead agencies that intervene, but 

there is less certainty about the importance of lead agencies in regulatory states 

like New Zealand and Australia.64 In either case, it is not necessarily the case that 

the space agencies are in fact the lead agencies. As noted in this article, for instance, Callaghan Innovation, a sister organization to the NZSA, intervenes with 

firm-specific support in the space sector. Perhaps the differences between New 

Zealand and Australia would be different if more than just their space agencies 

were examined. It is thus worth comparing the two countries’ intervention in allof-government terms rather than solely in terms of the space agencies.

Conclusion

This article started with the question of whether New Zealand and Australia’s 

space sectors are likely to develop along similar trajectories. Will they end up occupying similar niches, or will they occupy different positions in the global economy? Will they complement or compete with each other? The findings of this 

article are admittedly tentative, but they indicate that New Zealand’s and Australia’s space sectors will indeed diverge in terms of their future development. More 

research should be done to confirm that this will be the case, in line with the 

suggestions above. It seems safe to assume that if the global economy can sustain 

growth in both of their national space sectors, New Zealand and Australia will 

not be occupying the same niche.

A bigger outstanding question, though, is whether the global space sector will 

indeed be large enough to sustain growth in the national space sectors of New 

Zealand, Australia, and other countries. This was already an open question, but 

now that the COVID-19 pandemic indicates the global economy is set for a recession, many sectors will likely experience limited growth for many years to 

come. It is easy to imagine the space sector will be especially hard-hit, given its 

benefits to society are not widely appreciated. Just as individual space-sector firms 

are about to undergo a “great winnowing” as a result of the pandemic, so too will 
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national space sectors.65 The fate of New Zealand’s and Australia’s space sectors, 

therefore, depends on more than just their ability to occupy unique niches—which 

this article indicates will likely be the case—but also on whether the global economy will be big enough to provide them with niches to fill. 

Nicholas Borroz

Nicholas Borroz is a doctoral candidate at the University of Auckland’s Department of Management and International Business, where he compares how different governments intervene to support business internationalization. He 

also consults for firms in the space sector and furthermore manages a website, Filling Space, which features weekly 

interviews with experts in the space sector: https://filling-space.com/.

Notes

1. Michael Sheetz, “Space companies raised a record $5.8 billion in private investments last year,” CNBC, 

14 January 2020, https://www.cnbc.com/.

2. Amy Thompson, “SpaceX launches 60 Starlink satellites into orbit, misses rocket landing,” Space.com, 

18 March 2020, https://www.space.com/.

3. Theresa Hitchens, “Space Launch & Sector Employment Jumps in 2019: Space Foundation,” Breaking 

Defense, 31 March 2020, https://breakingdefense.com/.

4. Neel V. Patel, “There has never been a better time to start a small space agency,” MIT Technology Review, 26 November 2019, https://www.technologyreview.com/.

5. This is in Australian dollars. For further information, see: “Australia’s space industry crosses $5 billion 

revenue mark,” Consultancy.com.au, 17 February 2020, https://www.consultancy.com.au/.

6. This is in New Zealand dollars. This value and the value of Australia’s space sector were calculated by 

different entities, so their comparability is not exact. Nevertheless, they show that New Zealand’s space sector 

is quickly growing and that it is still likely smaller than Australia’s space sector, as one would expect given the 

relative sizes of the two countries’ overall economies. For further information, see: Luke Malpass, “NZ space 

economy reaches take off, totaling $1.69 billion,” Stuff, 14 November 2019, https://www.stuff.co.nz/.

7. “Completed Missions,” Rocket Lab, https://www.rocketlabusa.com/.

8. Nicholas Borroz, “Australia Should Coordinate with New Zealand in Space,” The Diplomat, 26 July 

2019, https://thediplomat.com/.

9. Stephen Clark, “Rocket Lab successfully launches NRO satellite,” Spaceflight Now, 31 January 2020, 

https://spaceflightnow.com/; and Jeff Foust, “Australia to cooperate with NASA on lunar exploration,” SpaceNews, 23 September 2019, https://spacenews.com/.

10. Darrell Etherington, “Rocket startup Gilmour Space gets a $3M grant to develop lighter fuel tanks,” 

TechCrunch, 14 February 2020, https://techcrunch.com/.

11. Peter Evans, Embedded Autonomy: States and Industrial Transformation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press 1995), 55.

12. As indicated in the title of Chalmers Johnson’s book, MITI and the Japanese Miracle: The Growth of 

Industrial Policy, 1925–1975 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1982).

13. Johnson, MITI and the Japanese Miracle, 26.

14. Johnson, MITI and the Japanese Miracle, 19–21

15. Meredith Woo-Cumings, “Introduction: Chalmers Johnson and the Politics of Nationalism and 

Development,” in The Developmental State (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1999), 2.

16. Peter Evans and Alice H. Amsden each wrote about developmental states in South Korea, respectively 

in Embedded Autonomy: States and Industrial Transformation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press 1995) 

and Asia’s Next Giant: South Korea and Late Industrialization (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989).
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17. Developmental states’ emphasis on using financial incentives was well summarized by Alice H. Amsden in Asia’s Next Giant, where she stated that developmental states intervene by “providing private investors 

with a battery of incentives that, simplified, boil down to subsidies” (13). Peter Evans provided extensive accounts of developmental states’ focus on channeling support to firms in desired business areas in Embedded 

Autonomy. He described this focus as developmental state governments openly embracing “midwife” or “husband” roles; government’s proper function is to cultivate business areas that align with developmental goals 

(80–81). In fact, there are other key characteristics to developmental states’ approaches to intervention besides 

these three. However, it is these three characteristics that stand most in contrast to the characteristics of socalled “regulatory states” like Australia and New Zealand. It is these three characteristics that are thus worth 

highlighting in this paper.

18. These findings parallel similar discussions in public administration scholarship. As the public administration scholars put it, liberalization’s spread is not so much a “retreat of the state,” but it is rather “public 

authority . . . expanding by colonizing new areas with more formalized regulation” (Magetti 2014, 281). Put 

succinctly, “What is observed in practice is never a dismantling of all regulation – a return to a situation of 

laissez-faire which in fact never existed” (Majone 1996, 2). In other words, neoliberalization does not mean 

less intervention. It just means a different sort of intervention. Regulatory state scholars agree. See the following for reference, Martino Magetti, “Institution change and the evolution of the regulatory state: evidence 

from the Swiss case,” International Review of Administrative Sciences 80, no. 2 (2014): 276–97; and Giandomenico Majone, “Introduction,” Regulating Europe (New York: Routledge 1996), 1–5

19. This summation of the characteristics of regulatory state intervention is based off reading of three 

primary texts: Fred Block, “Swimming Against the Current: The Rise of a Hidden Developmental State in 

the United States,” Politics & Society 36, no. 2 (2008): 169–206; Robert MacNeil, “Seeding an Energy Technology Revolution in the United States: Re-conceptualising the Nature of Innovation in ‘Liberal-Market 

Economies’,” New Political Economy 18, no. 1 (2013): 64–88; and Linda Weiss, America Inc.? Innovation and 

Enterprise in the National Security States (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2014). It is worth noting that 

there is no consensus about these characteristics defining regulatory state intervention. Unlike the core developmental state literature, the offshoot that studies regulatory states is still nascent. There is a notable absence of review articles summarizing consensus views about regulatory states. There are many such articles for 

developmental states.

20. The three authors mentioned in the previous note—Fred Block, Robert MacNeil, and Linda Weiss—

all focus on the United States. A notable exception to the focus on the United States is Seán Ó Riain, who 

wrote about Ireland’s “developmental network state” in The Politics of High-Tech Growth: Developmental Network States in the Global Economy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). Ó Riain is an intellectual 

inspiration for the others; Block and MacNeil both directly respond to Ó Riain, and Weiss indirectly does, 

since she directly responds to Block.

21. Peter A. Hall and David Soskice, “An Introduction to Varieties of Capitalism,” in Varieties of Capitalism: The Institutional Foundations of Comparative Advantage (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 1–68.

22. Weiss, in her aforementioned 2014 book, studies the United States. She quite forcefully states that 

the liberal market economy category in the varieties of capitalism literature, just like the regulatory states in 

the developmental state literature, underestimates the extent of state intervention: “[Varieties of capitalism] 

theorists link US success in transformative innovation to the predominance of the free market. . . . This makes 

sense, of course, only if you fence off a large part of the system. . . . This is precisely what the [varieties of 

capitalism] approach has done” (12). The United States is the most often referenced regulatory state in the 

developmental state literature (including in the founding text written in 1982 by Chalmers Johnson). The 

United States is also the quintessential liberal market economy as described in the varieties of capitalism 

literature (including in the founding text by Peter A. Hall and David Soskice—see next endnote).

23. Peter A. Hall and David Soskice, Varieties of Capitalism: The Institutional Foundations of Comparative 

Advantage (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 1–68.

24. As mentioned above, Weiss, in her book America Inc.?, indicates the liberal market economy category is 

a proxy for the regulatory state.
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25. Ministry of Business, Innovation & Employment, “New Zealand Space Agency,” https://www

.mbie.govt.nz/.

26. Ministry of Business, Innovation & Employment, “Space-related opportunities in New Zealand,” 

https://www.mbie.govt.nz/.

27. Federal Aviation Administration, “Commercial Space Transportation License – License Number: 

LLS 17-095 (Rev 2),” https://www.faa.gov/.

28. Ministry of Business, Innovation & Employment, “New Zealand is the ideal location for New Space,” 

https://www.mbie.govt.nz/.

29. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “Transforming our space industry,” https://

www.industry.gov.au/.

30. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “Strategies for the Future,” https://www

.industry.gov.au/.

31. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “Strategies for the Future.”

32. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “International Space Investment initiative,” 

https://www.industry.gov.au/.

33. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “Regulating Australian space activities,” 

https://www.industry.gov.au/.

34. “Central Otago base for US space tracker LeoLabs,” New Zealand Herald, 30 September 2018, https://

www.nzherald.co.nz/; and Ministry of Innovation, Business & Employment, “Innovation partnerships,” 

https://www.mbie.govt.nz/.

35. Ministry of Business, Innovation & Employment, “Catalyst: Strategic – Space 2019,” https://www

.mbie.govt.nz/.

36. “Govt invests $26m in methane-measuring satellite,” Radio New Zealand, 6 November 2019, https://

www.rnz.co.nz/; and Ministry of Business, Innovation & Employment, “Catalyst: Strategic – MethaneSAT 

atmospheric science project,” https://www.mbie.govt.nz/.

37. Ministry of Business, Innovation & Employment, “NASA internships and New Zealand Space 

Agency scholarships,” https://www.mbie.govt.nz/.

38. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “Space Infrastructure Fund,” https://www

.industry.gov.au/; and Australian government, “Advancing Space: Australian Civil Space Strategy 2019–

2028,” https://publications.industry.gov.au/.

39. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “Australia to support NASA’s plan to return 

to the Moon and on to Mars,” https://www.industry.gov.au/.

40. business.gov.au, “Grants to unlock opportunities and expand Australia’s space sector,” https://www

.business.gov.au/.

41. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “International Space Investment initiative,” 

https://www.industry.gov.au/.

42. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “Space Infrastructure Fund,” https://www

.industry.gov.au/.

43. New Zealand Treaties Online, “Agreement between the Government of New Zealand and the Government of the United States of America on Technology Safeguards Associated with United States Participation 

in Space Launches from New Zealand,” https://www.treaties.mfat.govt.nz/.

44. Ministry of Business, Innovation & Employment, “Agreement between the NZ government and 

Rocket Lab,” https://www.mbie.govt.nz/.

45. Federal Aviation Administration, “Commercial Space Transportation License.”

46. Ministry of Business, Innovation & Employment, “Our regulatory regime,” https://www.mbie.govt.nz/.

47. Ministry of Business, Innovation & Employment, “Space-related opportunities in New Zealand,” 

https://www.mbie.govt.nz/.

48. Ollie Neas, “What lies inside Rocket Lab’s secret US military contracts?,” The Spinoff, 20 November 

2018, https://thespinoff.co.nz/.
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49. Eleanor Ainge Roy, “Aiming for the stars: how New Zealand’s space industry is causing turbulence,” 

The Guardian, 24 January 2020, https://www.theguardian.com/.

50. See the following two citations respectively for accounts of the access to finance and the access to 

government contracts: Grant Bradley, “Rocket Lab founder Peter Beck blasts lack of NZ venture capital for 

other firms,” New Zealand Herald, 22 April 2018, https://www.nzherald.co.nz/; and Neas, “What lies inside 

Rocket Lab’s secret US military contracts?.”

51. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “Space Infrastructure Fund,” https://www

.industry.gov.au/.

52. business.gov.au, “Funding to establish a Mission Control Centre in Adelaide, South Australia,” 

https://www.business.gov.au/.

53. Australian Government, “Joint Statement of Strategic Intent and Cooperation Between Australian 

Space Agency and Airbus,” https://www.industry.gov.au/.

54. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “International Space Investment initiative,” 

https://www.industry.gov.au/.

55. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “Australian Space Agency,” https://www

.industry.gov.au/.

56. Loren Grush, “The Trump administration calls for big budget increases for NASA to fund Moon-toMars program,” The Verge, 10 February 2020, https://www.theverge.com/; and National Aeronautics and 

Space Administration, “History of Tracking Stations in Australia,” https://www.cdscc.nasa.gov/.

57. Department of Industry, Science, Energy and Resources, “Moon to Mars: Program Design,” https://

consult.industry.gov.au/.

58. This implication is based on a comparative analysis of the two space agencies. As will be discussed in 

the final section of this article, if one takes an all-of-government perspective, an entirely different set of implications may emerge. As has already been discussed, the space agency’s parent entity MBIE and its sister 

entity Callaghan Innovation both provide firm-specific financial support. Comparing New Zealand and 

Australia in terms of their total government intervention, not just the intervention of their space agencies, 

could lead to a different set of implications.

59. Daneil Gallas, “Brazil’s biofuel industry finds new sweetspot,” BBC, 23 June 2015, https://www.bbc.com/.

60. Gerard Hutching, “Fonterra claims top spot in dairy imports in China,” Stuff, 31 August 2018, 

https://www.stuff.co.nz/.

61. Caleb Henry, “Satellite propulsion startup Dawn Aerospace developing small launch vehicle,” SpaceNews, 21 January 2020, https://spacenews.com/.

62. Kean Birch, “What exactly is neoliberalism?,” The Conversation, 3 November 2017, https://the 

conversation.com/.

63. Robert MacNeil, “Seeding an Energy Technology Revolution in the United States: Reconceptualising the Nature of Innovation in ‘Liberal-Market Economies’,” New Political Economy 18, no. 1 

(2013); and Peter Evans, Embedded Autonomy: States and Industrial Transformation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton 

University Press 1995).

64. Chalmers Johnson emphasizes the importance of a lead agency in developmental states in his book, 

MITI and the Japanese Miracle. The “MITI” in the book’s title is short for the name of the lead agency for 

Japan: the Ministry of International Trade and Industry. Regulatory state scholars problematize the idea of 

a lead agency. See Fred Block’s discussion of the regulatory state’s “decentralized structure” in “Swimming 

Against the Current: The Rise of a Hidden Developmental State in the United States,” Politics & Society 36, 

no. 2 (2008), 174.

65. Fred Kennedy, “Space Startups Are About to Go Through A Great Winnowing,” Forbes, 2 April 

2020, https://www.forbes.com/.
JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 55

FEATURE

Chasing the Chimera of the 

Indigenous Jet Fighter

China’s Stealth Fighters and the 

Lessons of Recent Aviation History

Owen L. Sirrs

Abstract

China has demonstrated an apparent capability to develop stealth fighters. 

While Chinese aviation technology should not be underestimated, this essay 

strikes a cautionary note. Using historical examples from Argentina, Egypt, and 

India, the author contends that Chinese stealth fighters are being unveiled in part 

to highlight China’s arrival as a global power; however, future Chinese jet fighter 

development will be hindered by technical challenges such as the development of 

indigenous engines—not to mention advanced weapons and sensors.

Introduction

In recent years China has unveiled two stealth fighters on the eve of visits to 

Beijing by two US secretaries of defense. These apparent stealth projects generate obvious concern in Washington, yet US officials concede they know little 

about China’s stealth capabilities and how they fit into that country’s overall 

force modernization.1

At first glance, the development of China’s stealth fighters appears to be motivated by the US deployment of similar aircraft for more than two decades; from 

Beijing’s perspective American capabilities must be matched if China is to maintain a credible air force. Yet, behind military need, other forces seem to be at work 

too: according to one observer, stealth fighters reveal China’s ambitions to become 

more than just a regional power armed with “Soviet hand-me-down” weapons.2

Still, questions linger: Are these aircraft technology demonstrators or prototypes 

intended for eventual production? Are they mainly political symbols, and if so, 

will they ever enter service? How indigenous are they? Will China rely solely on 

Russian engines to power these aircraft, or are viable domestic alternatives in the 

offing? What about advanced radars, avionics, and weapons systems?3

History can help answer some of these questions. While historical cases never 

exactly parallel current realities, there are certain boundaries imposed by physics 

and technology that offer pointers in evaluating China’s stealth capabilities. For 
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instance, we know that few countries have successfully developed and produced 

their own jet fighters with indigenous resources and technology. Indeed, other 

than the United States, Russia, France, the United Kingdom, and a few others, 

many indigenous fighter programs failed, compelling their sponsors to obtain 

combat fighters from abroad.4

This essay explores why some states engage in costly aviation projects and analyzes the reasons behind numerous aviation failures. In doing so we examine the 

failed jet fighter programs of Argentina, Egypt, and India.5 These countries were 

selected in part because they are regional powers, albeit in different parts of the 

globe. During the Cold War, these nations were led by ambitious leaders who 

shared the notion of “non-alignment” between the superpowers and a belief that 

aviation was a potent symbol of technical prowess, strength, and political legitimacy.6

 All three were at similar levels of aviation development when they embarked on their jet fighter projects, and each relied on German design teams led 

by Kurt Tank or Willy Messerschmitt. In the end, all three failed. This paper attempts to explain why they failed and then applies those lessons to the more recent Chinese case.

Argentina’s Pulqui-II

Argentina’s Pulqui-II was inspired by the expansive vision of Juan Domingo 

Perón, who first governed the country from 1946 to 1955. Essentially a political 

totem, the Pulqui-II’s fortunes were closely tied to those of its promoter. When 

Perón was ousted in a 1955 coup, the dreams of an Argentine jet fighter were over.

Context

At the end of World War II, Argentina was a rising power with strong regional 

leadership aspirations. Few were able to express those ambitions in a more charismatic manner than Juan Perón, an army officer who was elected president in 1946. 

In Perón’s view, Argentina deserved to be one of the world’s great powers because 

of its natural resources, young population, national will, and his dynamic leadership.7

 Perón was equally convinced that only a neutral Argentina could avoid the 

catastrophic nuclear war between the superpowers that he believed was imminent.8

Motivations

Economic autarky was essential to Perón’s “Third Way”: Argentina must nationalize infrastructure, pursue import substitution, and promote state industry to 

augment her status as an independent actor in world affairs. Above all, Argentina 
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eventually had to be self-sufficient in supplying her military needs, and that meant 

weaning her armed forces off their traditional British and American suppliers.9

From 1938–1940, Perón had served as a military attaché in Mussolini’s Italy, 

where he developed a lifelong interest in fascism.10 Like Il Duce, Perón viewed 

indigenous aviation as a propaganda symbol that extolled national progress, pride 

and strength: “It was only recently that we considered aviation as the means of 

transport of the future. To-day that dream has materialized. Aeroplanes are no 

longer a future promise but the miracle of the present. . . . In the war waged 

against time and distance, aviation represents a victory.”11

Argentine officers were impressed by aviation-related technologies unleashed 

during World War II such as atomic bombs, long-range bombers, radar, jet fighters, and rockets. Aviation represented the cutting edge of the scientific frontier, 

and Perón made the development of a national aeronautical industry a top priority in Argentina’s first five-year plan.12 Indeed, for Perón, aviation symbolized the 

import substitution approach; it would spur industrial development and provide 

political legitimacy to the government.13

Aviation offered potent images of progress, technological advancement, and 

national strength, but above all, it conferred legitimacy to regime policies.14 In 

1948, the government issued a lavishly illustrated study of Argentina’s aviation 

potential, which established bold objectives in grandiose terms: “[N]ational aviation is created on the basis of courage and fortitude, a nest of condors where civilians and military officers alike, united by the same ideals, are forging the nascent 

‘aeronautical conscience’ . . . imbued with progress and well-being while leaving 

the past behind.”15

Jets also symbolized speed. According to one account the genesis for the Pulqui-II lay in the regime’s desire to break a world speed record recently set by a 

British Gloster Meteor.16 If there was a military requirement for the Pulqui-II, it 

lay in the fact that the Argentine Air Force (Fuerza Aérea Argentina or FAA) 

wanted to replace its own British-origin Meteors.17

Program History

Argentina enjoyed advantages in finance and technology when she embarked 

on the Pulqui-II. During the war, the country was a major creditor to the United 

Kingdom and built substantial sterling reserves based on exports of wheat, beef, 

and other goods.18 Indeed, as part of Britain’s postwar debt payments, London 

delivered Rolls Royce Derwent 5 and Nene II engines to Buenos Aires.19 Argentina also possessed a small aeronautical institute in Córdoba dedicated to the licensed production of foreign aircraft designs, although it also developed a jet 

prototype called the Pulqui-I.20 Underpowered and hampered by design defects, 
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the Pulqui-I nonetheless sustained Argentina’s claim to be the eighth country to 

design and fly its own jet aircraft.21

The Pulqui-I’s failures motivated the Argentines to recruit Kurt Tank, a German aviation expert who had designed the Luftwaffe’s FW-190 fighter and longrange FW-200 Condor reconnaissance airplane during World War II. Tank was 

an ideal candidate: his expertise in aviation design, testing, and production management were crucial to the Pulqui-II’s success.22

Shortly after Tank’s arrival in Argentina, he met Perón, and throughout the 

remainder of his stay in Argentina, Tank enjoyed direct access to the president. 

Not only did this show Perón’s personal interest in the Pulqui-II, it also helped 

Tank overcome the bureaucratic obstacles thrown in front of him.23 After signing 

his contract, Tank recruited some 60 German aviation experts who helped him 

refine his incomplete paper design for a jet fighter called the Ta-183.24 With a 

swept wing and all-metal construction, the Ta-183 evolved into the Pulqui-II, a 

revolutionary plane for its time and a rough equivalent to the Soviet MiG-15 and 

the American F-86 Sabre.25

Five prototypes were built between 1950 and 1959. The first was a glider to test 

aerodynamic properties, while the second flew for the first time on 16 June 1950, 

powered by a Rolls Royce Nene II engine. This second prototype crashed the 

following year, along with the third and fourth in 1952 and 1954 respectively. The 

fifth first flew on 18 September 1959 and was later transferred to the National 

Aviation Museum in Morón.

26

Reasons for Failure

Why did the Pulqui-II never enter production even though most of its developmental problems were eventually resolved? One answer lies in the aircraft’s 

poorly defined mission requirements. As noted earlier, this program was built 

mainly as a status symbol, and by 1951, it had become a propaganda tool in Juan 

Perón’s reelection campaign and a symbol of his “new Argentina.”27 On 8 February 1951, Perón hosted an air show in Buenos Aires in which Kurt Tank put the 

Pulqui-II through its paces in front of the president, senior officials, and a large 

crowd of onlookers.28 For Perón and his supporters, this was heady stuff: “It was 

truly a day of joy with the public converging in large numbers from all parts of the 

city. Expectations were very high for this proud model of aeronautical engineering 

which had influenced national public opinion and extended beyond our borders.”29

Yet the Pulqui-IIs’ future remained in doubt, and Argentina sponsored another 

jet fighter program that competed with it for scarce funding and technical resources. Reimar Horten, a German aviation designer, led a much smaller team in 

researching a supersonic, delta-winged fighter. While Tank occasionally assisted 
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Horten’s projects, the two otherwise did not work together.30 The existence of two 

competing and underresourced jet programs suggested a lack of coordination and 

poor management by the government.

Cultural and professional differences presented additional difficulties for the 

Pulqui-II team. When Tank started work on his project, the bulk of the Argentine engineers who had worked on the Pulqui-I were transferred out.31 For those 

native experts who remained, there were frequent clashes with the Germans over 

design flaws and engineering deficiencies. The Germans were perceived by some 

as “closed,” “arrogant,” and generally reluctant to share their knowledge with their 

employers.32 For their part some of the German experts also recorded differences 

with the Argentines: “Their temperament was of course different from [Tank’s] 

own. There was a mercurial quality in their thinking which contrasted oddly with 

his own more thorough methods.”33

Air force skepticism was another hurdle. The FAA was mulling a replacement 

for its obsolete Meteors, but it preferred the American F-86 over a risky, domestic 

alternative.34 This suspicion was compounded by a 1951 accident with a Pulqui-II 

prototype that resulted in the death of an air force test pilot.35

Then there was the issue of cost. From the outset, the government was determined to produce as many Pulqui-II components domestically as possible. This 

insistence on relative autarky—the Rolls Royce engine was a major exception—

meant that development costs were very high, even when research costs were 

excluded.36

Cost was not the only consequence of “national content.” The Pulqui-II was 

also plagued by delays imposed by shoddy parts and inexperienced technicians, 

which deterred prospective customers like Egypt and the Netherlands from making firm commitments to buy.37 Even when North American Aviation, the builder 

of the rival F-86, expressed interest in purchasing the Pulqui-II design, the Perón 

government refused to sell for “nationalist” reasons.38 Thus, the costs of aircraft 

development were borne by Argentina alone.

Whether that country could fund the Pulqui-II on its own became increasingly 

doubtful as the program limped on. Unlike the early postwar years when Argentina was flush with foreign currency, the picture had changed dramatically by the 

early 1950s due to global economic forces and government policies. There was a 

decline in demand for Argentina’s exports, and declining exports meant shrinking 

foreign currency earnings, even as the government spent heavily on social welfare 

and nationalization.39 In the end, the Pulqui-II could not ride out the economic 

shocks that crippled the country and helped trigger the 1955 coup against Perón.

The vicissitudes of Argentine politics were the final blow. First was an illadvised attempt to merge the Pulqui-II with the national automobile industry, 
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which diluted an already small pool of scientists, engineers, and technicians.40 But 

the death knell came with the September 1955 anti-Perón coup that removed the 

Pulqui-II’s most fervent backer and promoted some of the project’s greatest skeptics. Even Tank was briefly arrested for possessing a false passport (given to him 

by Argentine intelligence when he first traveled to Argentina in 1949), and this 

only hastened the disintegration of the Pulqui-II team.41 Shortly afterward, Tank 

departed for West Germany and then India. In December 1956, the FAA announced that it had selected the F-86 over the Pulqui-II.42 The dream of an Argentine jet fighter was dead.

Long-term Consequences

Argentina went from the vanguard of combat aviation in the early 1950s to 

purchasing all its jet fighters from abroad by the end of the decade.43 Although 

the Córdoba plant went on to design and produce a small number of turboprop 

combat aircraft like the Pucará, Argentina never exported a single plane.44 There 

is nostalgia for the Pulqui-II among those Argentines who remember a brief period in their country’s turbulent history when things seemed to be going right. In 

2007, for example, a movie was released in Argentina with the telling title, Pulqui: 

An Instant in a Country’s Happiness. As one reviewer put it, the film was about “lost 

dreams,” an attempt “to resurrect an artifact that represented the once powerful 

rise of Argentina as an industrial player on the post-World War II landscape.”45

Egypt’s HA-300

While Argentina’s hopes of producing indigenous fighters were fading by the 

mid-1950s, Egypt was laying the foundations for its own fighter called the HA300. Just like Perón before him, Gamal Abd al-Nasser used the HA-300 as a 

propaganda tool for regime legitimacy.

Context

In July 1952, army officers ousted the monarchy and set Egypt on an ambitious 

course of land reform, industrialization, and rearmament. Their leader was Gamal 

Abd al-Nasser, a charismatic army colonel who intended to make Egypt the leading power in a newly independent Middle East and North Africa.46 Nasser believed that Egypt must avoid entanglement in superpower struggles, and he became an early adherent to the Non-Aligned Movement (NAM) forged by India’s 

Jawaharlal Nehru and Yugoslavia’s Josip Broz Tito.47 Yet, the NAM alone would 

not give Nasser the autonomy he craved. Just as Perón pursued economic autarky, 
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so too did Nasser eventually nationalize industry, create import substitutes, and 

expropriate property owners.48

Motivations

Self-sufficiency helped drive Egypt’s jet fighter project. During the 1948–49 

Arab–Israeli War and the 1956 Suez conflict, British and American arms embargoes hampered Egyptian military operations. As a result, Egypt sought long-term 

self-sufficiency in weapons production, but for the short term, she diversified her 

arms suppliers to include the Soviet Union.49

The symbolic importance of aviation for Nasser’s regime cannot be underestimated.50 Much as the Soviets did with their annual May Day and October Revolution parades, the Egyptians used the anniversary of the 23 July 1952 coup to 

showcase military hardware. For instance, in 1960, four “Egyptian-made” (they 

were actually Spanish) HA-200 jet trainers flew above Cairo; three years later, the 

HA-300 jet fighter was rolled out for public viewing.51 Finally, just as Argentina 

had proudly announced that it was only the eighth country to build an indigenous 

jet fighter, so too did Egypt declare that it was the sixth country to design and 

build a supersonic jet when the HA-300 conducted its maiden flight in 1964.52

The military rationale for the HA-300 was rather vague. In 1960 discussions 

with American diplomats, Nasser made the case that Egypt was losing the arms 

race with Israel in part because the latter was acquiring supersonic aircraft from 

France. Nasser admitted he was seeking the Soviet MiG-19 to correct this imbalance; however, this confession undercut a military argument for investing scarce 

resources in a costly supersonic domestic fighter when cheaper, more reliable imports were available.53 While a domestic fighter might have eventually saved 

money that would otherwise have been spent on imports, it certainly did not 

mean that the overall cost per plane would be lower—rather the contrary. Egypt 

may have been counting on export sales to other Arab states to keep unit costs 

down. For example, Algerian president Ahmed Ben Bella considered purchasing 

the HA-300 but opted for Soviet aircraft instead.54

Program History

Egypt embarked on its indigenous fighter quest with a basic aircraft design and 

license production capability. Built in 1950, Helwan’s Aircraft Factory 36 was 

originally intended to produce the British de Havilland Vampire; however, that 

project foundered due to fraying UK–Egypt relations in the 1950s.55 In 1959, the 

factory was retooled for production of Spain’s HA-200 Saeta jet trainer.56 Next 
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door to Factory 36 was a separate plant dedicated to designing and producing jet 

engines based on the reverse engineering of several French models.57

This infrastructure was meager when measured against the daunting requirements of designing and eventually producing a viable supersonic fighter. For starters, Egypt lacked experts, tools, materials, and wind tunnels. To correct some of 

these shortcomings, the Egyptians recruited Willy Messerschmitt, who had designed the first operational jet fighter, the Luftwaffe’s Me-262.58 Messerschmitt 

had been in Spain working on a delta-winged fighter capable of Mach 2, but 

Madrid cancelled the project in 1960 because of spiraling costs and cheaper 

American alternatives. Cairo, which had just purchased the rights to produce the 

HA-200, now acquired the plans and tooling for the HA-300 as well.59

Originally, the HA-300 was built around the British Orpheus 703 engine, but 

British production ceased before the HA-300 prototypes were completed, and 

Egypt had only a few on hand.60 In any case, the Egyptians had decided to produce their own jet engines, even though this was an ambitious undertaking itself. 

However, Cairo was not deterred by the formidable challenges involved in designing and producing jet engines. To this day, few countries have consistently and 

successfully developed their own jet engines, and Egypt is not one of them. Even 

so, the Egyptians recruited some outstanding foreign talent, such as the Austrian 

Ferdinand Brandner, who had developed engines for Nazi Germany and the Soviets.61 Once Brandner’s contract was inked, he recruited some 250 German and 

Austrian engineers, technicians, and scientists to work alongside the Egyptians at 

Helwan. In June 1963, this team conducted its first static engine test of the new 

E-300 power plant—the engine intended for the HA-300.62

Engine development costs posed a major challenge, but fortune intervened 

when Brandner learned of Indian interest in the E-300.63 As will be seen Kurt 

Tank was helping India design a supersonic fighter called the HF-24 Marut, 

which lacked an adequate engine. In March 1963, Brandner led a delegation to 

India, where he met Tank and negotiated a deal under which India would share 

E-300 costs, donate a modified HF-24 capable of carrying the E-300, train 

Egyptians as test pilots, and contribute a senior Indian test pilot to assist in HA300 development.64

Egypt and India trumpeted the symbolic value of their new association. After 

all, these were two NAM giants working together on a shared dream of producing 

combat jets outside the superpower monopoly. As the Indian test pilot Kapil 

Bhargava commented later, “The Indian press was still full of euphoria generated 

by this. On seeing a hint of collaboration between India and Egypt, they wrote 

learned editorials about the emergence of a third military bloc, of the non-aligned 

and its impact on the global balance of military power.”65
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The HA-300 first flew on 7 March 1964, and a total of 135 test flights were 

completed before the program was halted in May 1969.66

Reasons for Failure

Nasser’s political fortunes peaked between 1957 and 1961, and this period coincided with Egypt’s pursuit of indigenous jet fighters and ballistic missiles. 

Nasser thrived on “power symbols” during these years, and the most prominent of 

these was the High Dam being built at Aswan. However, the dam was not alone, 

for every anniversary of the 23 July 1952 coup featured a new weapon such as the 

HA-200 jet trainer (1960) and the two-stage Al-Ra’id ballistic missile (1963).67

On 23 July 1963, the Egyptians unveiled yet another “triumph” to highlight 

their progress in national defense, when Indian test pilot Kapil Bhargava taxied 

the HA-300 in front of Nasser, Anwar al-Sadat, and others. According to Bhargava’s later account, when the Egyptian president asked him for his opinion of the 

plane, Bhargava replied that the plane was an “interesting research project,” but it 

would never enter production. In response, Nasser “just smiled. I concluded that, 

despite any difficulties that might hinder the project, he had his reasons for persisting with it and that too under the control of foreigners. He obviously believed 

that a successful flight test would be sufficient to strengthen his hand in international negotiations.”68

None of Nasser’s indigenous weapons ever achieved military success. The ballistic missile program was a costly failure, while the HA-300 limped along until 

the 1967 Arab–Israeli War put an end to it. Yet, as Bhargava observed, Naser did 

not view the HA-300 as a military priority but rather as a useful (if costly) symbol 

that buttressed his regime’s claims to legitimacy.

We have already seen how German aviation experts encountered cultural differences with their Argentine colleagues, and the same was true in Egypt, where 

Messerschmitt’s reputation for being an opinionated perfectionist grated on 

Egyptian and Indian sensitivities as well.69 Matters only got worse when Messerschmitt fired some of his staff, and the Egyptians failed to pay salaries on time.70

The promising Egyptian–Indian partnership was also marred by discord. At 

least some Indian officials erroneously believed that Egypt would eventually buy 

the HF-24 Marut along with the E-300 power plant. However, the Egyptians had 

no intention of doing so, and their problems with the Indians were aggravated by 

technical difficulties that plagued and ultimately killed the E-300 project.71

Moreover, while Cairo made much of its “Egyptian-made” fighter, the fact remained that it was designed by a German, tested in European wind tunnels, employed foreign parts, and relied on a British engine.72 Unlike the Argentines, who 
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made a spirited bid to ensure that the Pulqui-II used domestically produced components, the same could not be said for the Egyptian’s efforts with the HA-300.

Cost was always a major issue for the Egyptians, who were committing scarce 

foreign currency reserves and technical talent to several projects like the High 

Dam, steel factories, and ballistic missiles. According to one estimate the HA-300 

program cost over 100 million Egyptian pounds—or the equivalent of Egypt’s 

total investment in its civilian industry throughout the 1960s.73

The June 1967 war, which began with a preemptive Israeli air raid that destroyed much of the Egyptian Air Force on the ground, doomed the HA-300. In 

the aftermath of that humiliation, Nasser needed a new air force and fast. He 

could not afford to pour more money into a white elephant jet fighter that was 

already obsolete. Only the Soviets could address the immediate needs of the devastated Egyptian Air Force, and the result was cancellation of the HA-300 in 

return for procuring the superior MiG-21 at favorable prices.74

Long-term Consequences

Egypt never designed and produced jet fighters. According to one source, the 

Helwan aviation plants were forced to lay off 5,000 workers, hundreds of skilled 

experts fled to aviation programs in North America, and Helwan resorted to producing parts for Egypt’s Soviet-built fighters.75 As for the HA-300, all that remains is a static display at a German aviation museum.

India’s HF-24 Marut

Argentina’s decision to cancel the Pulqui-II was India’s gain, for in late 1955 

Kurt Tank moved to Bangalore to help the Indians develop a supersonic fighter 

called the HF-24 Marut. While there are numerous similarities between the Indian, Argentine, and Egyptian fighter projects, one important distinction separates India from the others: the HF-24 entered production even though it never 

met its design objectives.

Context

Modern India was born out of a protracted struggle for independence from the 

United Kingdom followed by a bloody partition that created a hostile neighbor: 

Pakistan. The country’s founding fathers were not only committed to independence through passive resistance, they also espoused an economic philosophy of 

self-sufficiency known as swadeshi.

As India’s first prime minister, Jawaharlal Nehru sought to make his country a 

vibrant democracy that could overcome its sectarian, ethnic, and linguistic divides 
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and thereby become a great power in its own right.76 After all, India possessed a 

considerable land area, large population, legacies of achievement in math and science, and a substantial natural resource base.77 Indian leaders emphasized the 

value of science and technology in developing India’s full potential, and Nehru 

framed this perspective in a 1958 speech: “Science has developed at an everincreasing pace since the beginning of the century, so that the gap between the 

advanced and backward countries has widened more and more. It is only by 

adopting the most vigorous measures and by putting forward our utmost effort 

into the development of science that we can bridge the gap.”78

Motivations

Nehru and his confidant, Defense Minister V.K. Krishna Menon, were convinced that India must be self-reliant in weapons research and production. Indeed, 

shortly after Indian independence Nehru sought advice on defense matters from 

a British physicist who recommended India develop its own aviation industry.79

When Nehru joined Tito, Nasser, Indonesia’s Sukarno, and others at Bandung, 

Indonesia, in 1955 to form the nucleus of the NAM, he was trying to position 

India as leader of a “third bloc” of nations that would stay neutral in the Cold 

War.80 In this context, a domestic arms industry in general and an indigenous jet 

fighter in particular were the sine qua non of Indian prestige. In fact, Nehru and 

Menon ordered this fighter more with an eye to self-sufficiency and national pride 

than meeting military requirements.81

Nehru and Menon also concluded that the HF-24 could spur India’s industrialization by stimulating research and development in other sectors of the economy. 

Knowledge gained in Bangalore could be shared with other technology-intensive 

industries and thereby facilitate India’s modernization.82

India did have a military requirement for a supersonic fighter in the late 1950s. 

To New Delhi’s consternation, the United States sold Pakistan F-86s and F-104/

Starfighters, which upset the regional balance of power—at least from India’s 

perspective.83 Rather than approach the United Kingdom, France, or Soviet Union 

for additional jet fighters, Nehru and Menon opted for a domestic program aimed 

at producing an indigenous, multirole jet fighter capable of high-altitude interception and strike missions. The specifications called for a maximum speed of 

Mach 2, combat radius of 500 miles, and an airframe that could be modified for 

all-weather, aircraft carrier, and advanced trainer missions.84
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Program History

India had a small aviation infrastructure that maintained, repaired, and overhauled Allied warplanes during World War II. After the war, this facility near 

Bangalore was renamed Hindustan Aviation Limited (HAL) and produced the 

de Havilland Chipmunk, the Vampire, and the Folland Gnat.85 What HAL 

lacked, however, were aviation designers, testing infrastructure, and experienced 

production engineers.86 In the words of one expert, the research-and-development 

shop was “woefully inadequate.”87 Not only was there no hangar space for building prototypes, India also lacked tools, test stands, and runways for flight testing.88

In other words, India faced many of the same technical challenges that plagued 

Argentina and Egypt when they embarked on their respective jet projects.

The Indian government sought German experts to help bridge the gap between 

ambition and reality. As early as 1948, Willy Messerschmitt was approached for 

advice on establishing a national aviation industry.89 Since Messerschmitt was 

content at that time with his work in Spain, the Indians searched for another 

aviation designer of equal stature, and eventually found Kurt Tank, who had departed Argentina after the September 1955 coup. In August 1956, Tank visited 

HAL, accepted the Indian job offer, and began recruiting assistants.90

Eventually Tank hired 18 German designers to work on the HF-24, a much 

smaller number than the 60 or so employed in Córdoba. In fact, Tank agreed to a 

division of labor, whereby his European team was employed strictly for design, 

while the Indians focused on prototype construction and eventual production.91

Concurrent with Tank’s hiring was a major expansion of HAL’s domestic labor 

force to handle the new requirement.92

Work on the Marut began in June 1957, and four years later, the first jet-propelled 

prototype commenced flight testing.93 At the end of 1962, orders were placed for 

Maruts, although the plane still lacked viable engines after the British firm backed 

out of the project.94 As a consequence, HAL had to switch to the less powerful 

Orpheus-703, which could not meet the Marut’s performance requirements.95

The engine impediment refused to go away. First, the Indians failed to convince 

the Orpheus-703 builder to add an afterburner.96 Then the Soviets were approached with a proposal to modify an existing engine for use on the HF-24, but 

this was rejected for technical reasons.97 Then the Indians cooperated with Egypt 

on the Brandner E-300, an engine whose projected capabilities were adequate for 

the Marut; however, trials in Egypt proved that even this engine could not power 

the plane past Mach 1.1. On 1 July 1969, the Indian team was recalled from 

Egypt and cooperation ceased.98 Failure to obtain a suitable engine meant that the 

Marut was never able to meet its designed speed. Still, 145 Maruts were eventu-
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ally produced, of which 130 entered service with the Indian Air Force (IAF). The 

last HF-24s were retired in 1990.99

Reasons for Failure

Unlike the other cases, the HF-24 raises the question of what constitutes failure. After all, this aircraft entered production and served in the IAF for more than 

two decades. Moreover, as one observer put it, the Marut could hardly be called a 

failure when “its accident rate was unbelievable—just one accident and no aircraft 

lost in combat.”100 Others were less charitable, with one judging the Marut to be 

a “long drawn-out failure.”101 So how do we explain these discrepancies? If the 

measuring stick is production for its own sake, then the Marut was a success when 

compared with the Pulqui-II and the HA-300. On the other hand, if performance 

criteria laid down by the Indian Air Staff are selected, such as speed or aircraft 

carrier operability, then the Marut was a failure.

Although the original Air Staff specifications were intended to fill a military 

need, it was equally apparent that political forces were driving a project that exceeded Indian capabilities. One observer later noted, “As the project proceeded it 

passed from the hands of politicians to the military and finally to industry. Or, to 

put it another way, the politicians defined the possibilities, the military defined 

the problem and industry was left to define the answer.”102

Poor management hindered the Marut as well. When the aircraft failed to reach 

its performance objectives, the IAF ordered design changes, even as production was 

underway. This inevitably caused delays and increased costs. The engine fiasco in 

particular highlighted an ad hoc approach to a problem that was never resolved.103

From a cost-benefit analysis, the HF-24 was an embarrassment. Not only did 

the IAF receive an aircraft incapable of performing several intended missions, it 

did so at a cost greater than superior aircraft offered by the Soviets.104 Furthermore, excessive production costs, frequent delays, and disappointing performance 

meant that India could not attract foreign buyers.105

For an aircraft touted as “Indian-made,” the Marut was surprisingly cosmopolitan when it came to its designers, parts, and tools.106 One expert put it this way: 

“India remained dependent upon external design sources for all vital systems and 

materials. Lacking a significant commercial-industrial base, it also remained dependent on foreign sources for high-grade steel and aluminum for aircraft production.”107

Still, India had to start somewhere, and the costs and delays plaguing the HF24—even its relatively poor performance—were not unusual for a first effort. Unfortunately, there are few indications that India used the lessons learned from the 

Marut to build better aircraft in the future. This point is discussed further below.
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Not surprisingly, the IAF had its doubts about the HF-24. The Air Staff preferred foreign aircraft and, if given the choice, would have selected imports like 

the MiG-21 or Mirage III instead.108 However, the IAF did not have options in 

a matter already decided by the politicians and was forced to settle for an aircraft 

incapable of fulfilling many of its design requirements.109

As with any new aircraft, the HF-24 had its share of design faults, many of which 

were not adequately addressed as the aircraft was rushed into production. For instance, the Marut suffered from excessive aerodynamic tail drag, and it was incapable 

of firing all four of its 30-mm cannons at once.110 Finally, constant redesign, plus an 

over-burdened production shop, resulted in chronic parts shortages early in the 

HF-24’s career; many became “hangar queens” awaiting delivery of parts.111

Meanwhile, the Soviets were marketing the superior MiG-21 fighter at an attractive price. This was an offer that could not be refused, and in August 1962—

only one year after the first Marut test flight—India signed a MiG-21 contract 

with favorable financing and licensed production of this aircraft at home.112

Long-term Consequences

India never achieved Nehru’s dream of self-sufficiency in combat aviation, despite the vast sums poured into the HF-24. During the 1971 war with Pakistan, 

40 percent of India’s air order of battle was of Soviet origin. Twenty years later, the 

picture had not improved: 75 percent of India’s interceptors and 60 percent of its 

strike aircraft were of Soviet origin.113 Moreover, license production of the MiG21 was not equivalent to designing and producing domestic combat jets. Unlike 

Argentina and Egypt, however, India never lost the desire to develop her own 

fighters. In the early 1980s, the IAF issued a requirement for a light combat aircraft that would be designed and produced domestically. Nearly three decades 

later, and after numerous delays and cost overruns, those requirements crystalized 

in HAL’s Tejas fighter—an aircraft that may be obsolete before it has been built.114

Others point to the Tejas’s American engine and question the aircraft’s claim to 

indigenous origins.115 Still, a country embarking on the road to self-sufficiency in 

combat jets has to start somewhere. While the HF-24 Marut was essentially stillborn, perhaps the Tejas will be the start of a promising future for India’s military 

aviation industry.

Conclusions

At the beginning of this article we proposed to examine indigenous jet fighter 

development through two key questions: (1) what motivates some states to pursue 

domestic fighter jets? (2) Why do many of these projects fail? The scope was nar-
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rowed to Argentina, Egypt, and India, each of whom pursued indigenous fighters 

for similar motives and with disappointing results.

Motivations

In each case, ambitious political leaders shared the goal of non-alignment and 

decreased reliance on the superpowers for weapons. They viewed aviation as a 

symbol of status, prestige, and power or, as one historian puts it, “nation-building 

experiments.”116

Why aviation? During the Cold War, aircraft, missiles, and satellites represented the cutting edge of science, and as such, they were not only status symbols 

but also measuring sticks used in comparisons with rivals. The Soviet Union’s 

launch of Sputnik in 1957 represented a highly visible advance in the superpower 

competition that triggered a national drive for science education in the United 

States. Yet, the superpowers were by no means unique in exploiting the symbolic 

value of aerospace. In his study of aviation in Mussolini’s Italy, Federico Caprotti 

encapsulates the airplane’s attraction for regimes searching for legitimacy: “Almost every visible part of the aeroplane was fetishized, in some form or other, by 

the time the fascist regime took power in Italy. Aeroplanes, wings, engines and 

flight were used as metaphors both in the political and economic sphere.”117

This study shows how Perón, Nasser, and Nehru used aviation to enhance regime legitimacy. From the beginning, Argentina’s Pulqui-II was very much a political device, whose impetus was breaking a speed record and building popular 

support for Perón’s policies. The public exhibition of the Pulqui-II was very much 

in line with traditions established by other countries like Mussolini’s Italy. According to Caprotti, “One of the characteristics of propaganda flights which 

should be highlighted is that the aeroplane, technology and the ebbrezza (thrill) 

of flight were to be as central as mass participation by crowds of onlookers in the 

spectacle of aviation and, by corollary, in the spectacle of fascism.”118

A similar example is found in Egypt, where Nasser used “Egyptian-made” missiles and jets to celebrate important anniversaries, highlight scientific achievement, and build support for government policies.119 Indeed, other countries like 

the USSR appreciated the utility of aviation to celebrate national holidays. As 

Soviet aviation expert, K.E. Bailes writes, “The twentieth anniversary of the October Revolution in 1937 gave special emphasis to air records as symbolic of the 

regime’s attainments in numerous scientific and technical fields; massive flights of 

aircraft became traditional on this holiday.”120 In the end, whether it was Argentina, Egypt, Italy, or the Soviet Union, aviation often helped confer legitimacy by 

demonstrating that a regime was “progressive” and “modern.”
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Sirrs

So, what about military imperatives? The degree to which national politics overrode military necessity varied from case to case, yet even in the Indian example, 

politicians insisted on a domestic aircraft when their air force chiefs preferred superior foreign alternatives. At bottom, the mixture of political versus military inputs in these cases offers clues to the failure of each of the indigenous jet projects.

Reasons for Failure

In each case, infrastructure available at the start of the aviation project was 

roughly the same. None of the countries in question had any experience in fighter 

jet design, nor did they have a deep bench of native experts. So, they turned to the 

Germans, Kurt Tank and Willy Messerschmitt, to lead their design teams. All 

invested heavily in infrastructure to lay the foundation for their jet fighter efforts. 

This yields another reason for program failure: cost.

For developing countries like Argentina, Egypt, and India, indigenous fighters 

were a questionable expense when measured against competing civilian priorities 

such as a national automobile industry or public works. As noted, jets demand 

large, often prohibitive, outlays in capital for infrastructure, material, tools, and 

trained labor; it was these expenses that ultimately drove Argentina and Egypt to 

cancel their programs before production began. As for India, the HF-24 did enter 

production but was hampered by another hurdle: engines.

Argentina and India chose foreign designs to power their aircraft, raising the 

question of what constitutes true self-sufficiency.121 As for Egypt, a bold attempt 

was made to develop an indigenous jet engine; yet, this project used foreign suppliers for virtually all its parts, tools, and materials. In the end, Egypt’s E-300 jet 

engine was a failure.

Jet engines are a major challenge for any country seeking to develop and produce jet fighters. In most cases, foreign engines are selected, even if this comes at 

the expense of national self-sufficiency. Indeed, the jet engine is the “long pole in 

the tent” of any country seeking true self-sufficiency in indigenous combat jet 

design. Michael Neufeld puts a finer point on this: “Jet engines were the Achilles 

heel of advanced aircraft projects outside the leading powers, as they were complex, expensive and difficult to develop, and much easier to subject to export controls than airframe design expertise.”122

Engines aside, there are other roadblocks in combat jet development, such as 

sensors and weapons. As the fighter jet evolved from the relatively primitive designs of the early 1950s, a veritable revolution in capabilities was taking place. It 

was no longer a matter of fusing together airframes, swept wings, and jet engines 

but now involved the integration of radars, electronic countermeasures equipment, avionics, and missiles. In light of such developments, it is doubtful whether 
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Argentina, Egypt, and India could ever have kept pace with more technologically 

advanced powers.

Indeed, obsolescence haunted each of the cases studied here. Even as Argentina, Egypt, and India struggled with their pioneering efforts, delays were inevitable, and the result was fighters that were increasingly outdated before production. This was the inevitable cost of the “learning curve,” but none of the 

governments seemed to accept it as the necessary price of a long-term, indigenous 

combat jet capability. India is especially noteworthy in this regard by neglecting to 

build on her Marut learning curve to develop new generations of aircraft. Instead, 

several decades were to pass before India once again entered the domestic jet 

fighter business with the Tejas light combat aircraft.

In at least two of the three cases, the domestic fighter failed to overcome the 

skepticism of its air force customer. Neither the Argentine nor the Indian air 

staffs were enthusiastic about the prospect of operating home-grown fighter jets, 

preferring cheaper, superior foreign aircraft such as the MiG-21. In all three cases, 

the services ultimately imported fighters to address most—if not all—of their 

military requirements.

As noted above, politics and symbolism were powerful considerations in each 

of the case studies. In the Argentina and Egypt examples, politics motivated the 

Pulqui-II and HA-300 projects respectively, but politics offered an easy rationale 

to kill them too. After the 1955 coup removed Perón from power, it was relatively 

easy for the new junta to pull the plug on his Pulqui-II. For Egypt, the disastrous 

1967 war with Israel provided cover to terminate the HA-300, which had outlived its usefulness as a political totem anyway.

Chinese Stealth Fighters

So, let’s return to the Chinese J-20 and J-31 “stealth” fighters that introduced 

this discussion. To the extent that history can serve as a guide, we may now examine these fighters more closely.

First: Appearance is not always reality when it comes to indigenous fighter jets. 

As the historical cases demonstrate, regimes often pursue combat aviation more 

for political symbolism than military need. In a characteristically subtle manner, 

China is using its stealth prototypes to demonstrate its growing power and authority on the world stage. Still, opportune “glimpses” of prototypes from a distance should not lead observers to make initial, alarmist conclusions, since much 

about these aircraft is still wrapped in mystery.

Second: China’s development of jet fighters has been uneven. It has made tremendous strides in indigenous aviation design in recent years; yet, to date, its 

frontline operational fighters still rely exclusively on Russian-built jet engines.123
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Both stealth prototypes so far appear to be using Russian engines; yet, by relying 

on Russia for its engine needs, China is still not demonstrably self-sufficient in 

one of the most important technologies in fighter aviation. This lack will affect 

aircraft performance and export potential.124 What about low observability, avionics, weapons systems, electronic countermeasures, and radar? More than ever it 

is the integration of these latter technologies and capabilities that determine the 

true worth of a modern fighter.125 As a leading US aviation journal cautions, “[I]

t’s one thing to develop a prototype or technology demonstrator and test the aircraft. It is an entirely different matter to take such a design and perfect it into a 

multi-mission stealthy aircraft that can be manufactured and is as advanced as, 

say, the F-22 or F-35.”126

Third: Obsolescence is another consideration. As the cases show, aviation technology is extremely time sensitive, and what seems advanced today will, inexorably, be obsolete several years from now (if not sooner). So how advanced will the 

J-20 or J-31 be when and if they enter production eight to ten years from now as 

some anticipate? Recall that these aircraft will be employing technologies that 

were, in some cases, pioneered by the United States more than two decades ago. 

Finally, advances in aviation technology, especially sensors and combat drones, 

could render some of these Chinese stealth capabilities obsolete.

More than 70 years after the first jet fighter took to the skies over Germany, 

only a small handful of countries are capable of designing, testing, and producing 

each of the core technologies necessary for an advanced fighter to enter service.127

The membership of this unique club is unlikely to expand by much in the near 

term for reasons of cost and technological complexity. If anything, the gap between haves and have-nots in the world of combat aviation is expanding rather 

than shrinking, as fighter jets evolve into a “system of systems,” an integrated, 

software-intensive package of sensors, weapons, engines, electronic countermeasures, and avionics. Unlike the historical examples cited above, China is likely to 

one day join this elite given its ample financial, technical, and personnel resources; 

however, numerous obstacles loom on the horizon before we see China’s first 

operational stealth fighter take flight. 

Owen L. Sirrs

Mr. Sirrs (MA, United States Naval War College, 2002; MS, National Defense Intelligence College, 2001; and BS, 

Georgetown University) is an adjunct professor of cultural and regional studies at the University of Montana’s Defense Critical Language and Culture Program. Previously, he served as a senior intelligence officer for the Defense 

Intelligence Agency, specializing in the Middle East. His publications include Nasser and the Missile Age in the Middle 

East (2006), The Egyptian Intelligence Service: A History of the Mukhabarat (2011), and Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence 

Directorate (2017).
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Notes

1. Paul Koring, “China Trumpets Stealth Warplane as New Status Symbol,” Globe and Mail, 6 January 

2011, https://www.theglobeandmail.com/; and David Axe, “Questions Abound as China Unveils another 

Stealth Jet,” 16 September 2012, http://www.wired.com/.

2. Koring, “China Trumpets Stealth Warplane.”

3. David A. Fulghum, Bill Sweetman, Bradley Perrett, and Robert Wall, “Expanded Reach: China’s Power 

Projection and Space Activities are Steadily Increasing,” Aviation Week and Space Technology 173, no. 31 (2011), 

29; and Bill Sweetman, “Out of the Mist,” Aviation Week and Space Technology 173, no. 31 (2011), 18.

4. In addition to the examples discussed in this paper, other failed indigenous jet fighter programs include 

Canada’s CF-105 Arrow and Israel’s Lavi.

5. Studying the cases of Argentina, Egypt, and India also helps fill information gaps identified by Michael Neufeld, “The Nazi Aerospace Exodus: Towards a Global, Transnational History,” History and Technology 28, no. 1 (2012): 49–67.

6. For more on the rich symbolic value of fighter aircraft see, for example, Thomas F. Crowder-Taraborrelli, 

“Evita in Wonderland: Pulqui and the Workshop of Underdevelopment,” CineAction 77, no. 3 (2009), 2; and 

Federico Caprotti, “Technology and Geographical Imaginations: Representing Aviation in 1930s Italy,” Journal of Cultural Geography 25, no. 2 (2008): 181–205.

7. Robert Jackson Alexander, The Peron Era (New York: Columbia University Press, 1951) 171.

8. Ricardo Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos Alemanes,” Todo es Historia 334 (1995): 11–27; Isidoro 

Gilbert, El Oro de Moscú (Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 2007) 175; Jonathan D. Hagood, Hagood, 

“Why Does Technology Transfer Fail : Two Technology Transfer Projects from Peronist Argentina,” Comparative Technology Transfer and Society 4, no.1 (2006), 77; and Alexander, Peron Era, 74.

9. Hagood, “Why Does Technology Transfer Fail,” 75; Alejandro Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en 

Países Emergentes: Aventura del Pulqui II (Buenos Aires: Lenguajeclaro Editora, 2012) 7; and Burzaco, “Perón 

y Los Científicos Alemanes.” Burzaco notes that Argentina relied heavily on wood for its airframes during 

World War II since it was largely cut off from aluminum: Ricardo Burzaco, Las Alas de Perón: La Aeronáutica 

Argentina 1945–1960 (Buenos Aires: Ediciones Eugenio B, 2007) 4–5,21.

10. Stanley G. Payne, A History of Fascism 1914–1945 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1996) 

347–49; and Federico Finchelstein, Transatlantic Fascism: Ideology, Violence and the Sacred in Argentina and 

Italy 1919–1945 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010) 165–66.

11. Government of Argentina, Peron Speaks (Buenos Aires: Office of the Presidency, 1949) 61–62.

12. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 14; Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos Alemanes”; and Burzaco, Las Alas de Perón II, 22.

13. Hagood, “Why Does Technology Transfer Fail,” 80, 89.

14. Hagood, “Why Does Technology Transfer Fail,” 93. The British Air Attaché to Argentina put it this 

way in 1949: “As a political weapon, however, it [Argentine Air Force], is powerful and the effect of persistent 

propaganda has earned for it the esteem of the masses.” British Air Attaché, Buenos Aires, “Annual Report 

on Argentine Air Force: 1949,” FO 371/81210.

15. República de Argentina, La Aeronáutica Nacional al Servicio del País (Buenos Aires: Secretaría de la 

Aeronáutica de la Nación, 1948). This “mission statement” for national aviation is filled with illustrations 

of winged Greek and Roman deities such as Icarus and Victoria as well as evocative symbols linking aviation with progress.

16. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 13 .

17. Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos Alemanes.” In 1949, Argentina had over 90 Meteors in its order of 

battle: British Air Attaché, “Annual Report,” FO 371/81210.

18. Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos Alemanes.»

19. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 13, 27. Under the terms of the Rolls Royce 

agreement, Argentina assembled Derwent 5 engines under license. See British Air Attaché, “Annual Report,” 

FO 371/81210
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20. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 18.

21. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 26; Heniz Conradis, Design for Flight: The 

Kurt Tank Story, translated by Kenneth Kettle (London: Macdonald, 1960) 181–82; Hagood, “Why Does 

Technology Transfer Fail,” 74, 80. According to Artopoulos, the countries and dates of their indigenous jets 

are: (1) Germany - 1938; (2) United Kingdom - 1941; (3) United States - 1942; (4) Japan - 1945; (5) Soviet 

Union - 1946); (6) France - 1946; (7) Sweden – 1948; and (8) Argentina - 1949.

22. Conradis, Design for Flight, 14, 49, 182; Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 13, 

25–26, 37; and Burzaco, Alas de Perón, 29.

23. Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos Alemanes”; and Conradis, Design for Flight 181–84.

24. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 36–37; Conradis, Design for Flight, 185. 

Others suggest a lower number of 45. See Neufeld, “The Nazi Aerospace Exodus,” 53.

25. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 15, 34–35.

26. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 15, 60.

27. Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos Alemanes.”

28. Conradis, Design for Flight, 187; and Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 43.

29. Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos Alemanes”

30. Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos Alemanes”; Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 54–55; and Burzaco, Alas de Perón, 25. The official designation for Horten’s fighter jet was IAe-37.

31. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 35–36.

32. Hagood, “Why Does Technology Transfer Fail,” 76, 84–85; and Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación 

en Países Emergentes, 70.

33. Conradis, Design for Flight, 181.

34. Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos  Alemanes”; and Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países 

Emergentes, 13, 15, 29, 56.

35. Conradis, Design for Flight, 187; and Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 56.

36. Hagood, “Why Does Technology Transfer Fail,” 90.

37. Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos Alemanes.”

38. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 62–63; and Burzaco, Las Alas de Perón, 3.

39. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 50, 58, 69.

40. British Air Attaché, Buenos Aires, “Annual Report on the Argentine Air Force for the Year, 1955,” FO 

371/119893; British Air Attaché, Buenos Aires, “Annual Report on the Argentine Air Force for the Year 

1951,” FO 371/97415; Hagood, “Why Does Technology Transfer Fail,” 91, 94; Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 81, 63; and Burzaco, Alas de Perón, 23, 25.

41. Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos Alemanes.”

42. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 59. Burzaco suggests the FAA had abandoned the Pulqui-II in favor of Horten’s IAe-37 delta-winged fighter, but nothing came of that project either. See Burzaco, Alas de Perón, 25.

43. Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos Alemanes.”

44. Artopoulos, Technología e Innovación en Países Emergentes, 63.

45. Crowder-Taraborrelli, “Evita in Wonderland.”

46. Gamal Abdel Nasser, Egypt’s Liberation: The Philosophy of the Revolution (Washington, DC: Public 

Affairs Press, 1956); and Robert Stephens, Nasser: A Political Biography (New York: Simon & Schuster, 

1971) 141–43.

47. Anthony Nutting, Nasser (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1972) 100–01.

48. Stephens, Nasser, 325–26.

49. Ali Muhammad Labib, Al-Quwah al-Thalitha: Tarikh al-Quwat al-Jawwi yah al-Misriyah (Cairo: alHayah al-Misriyah al-Ammah lil-Kitab, 1977) 119, 217–20; M. Jawadi, Muddakirat Qadaal’Askariya alMisriya 67–72: Fi ‘Aqab al-Naksa (Cairo: Dar al-Khayyal, 2001) 366; R.G. Matthews, “Egyptian Defense Industrialization,” Defense and Security Analysis 8, no. 2 (1992), 119, 129.

50. Owen Sirrs, Nasser and the Missile Age in the Middle East (London: Routledge, 2006) 82–83.
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51. Labib, Al-Quwah al-Thalitha, 221–22; Sanche de Gramont, “Nasser’s Hired Germans,” Saturday 

Evening Post 236, no. 26 (1963), 63; ‘Naher Osten: Rüstung: 36, 135 und 333’, Der Spiegel 19, no. 37 (1963) 

58; “New Arab Steeds,” Flight International 2872, no. 85 (1964) 467–68; and Frank Vann, Willy Messerschmitt: First Full Biography of an Aeronautical Genius (Somerset: Patrick Stephens, 1993) 242.

52. Labib, Al-Quwah al-Thalitha, 119, 221; and “New Arab Steeds,” 467.

53. Telegram from Department of State to American Embassy Cairo, no subject, no. 465 (3 October 

1960) National Archives and Records Administration, Reports Group 59.

54. Labib, Al-Quwah al-Thalitha, 221; ‘Al-Majmua’ 73 Mowarikhin Mashrua’ al-Ta’era al-Qahera 300’, 

https://group73historians.com/.

55. Lon Nordeen and David Nicolle, Phoenix over the Nile (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution 

Press, 2006) 178; Robert R. Ropelewski, “Improvisation Key to Egyptian Growth,” Aviation Week and Space 

Technology (13 November 1978) 38; and Labib, Al-Quwah al-Thalitha, 222.

56. Inge Deutschkron, Bonn and Jerusalem: The Strange Coalition (Philadelphia: Chilton Book Company, 

1970) 223; and Nordeen and Nicolle, Phoenix over the Nile, 178.

57. Michel Bar-Zohar, The Hunt for German Scientists (New York: Avon Books, 1967) 206–07; Ropelewski, 

“Improvisation Key to Egyptian Growth,” 38; and ‘Rüstung: 36, 135 und 333,’ 60.

58. Nordeen and Nicolle, Phoenix over the Nile, 178; Bar-Zohar, Hunt for German Scientists, 203; and 

Neufeld, “The Nazi Aerospace Exodus,” 54.

59. Vann, Willy Messerschmitt, 238; “New Arab Steeds,” 468; Kapil Bhargava, “Messerschmitt’s HA-300 

and Its Indian Connection,” https://web.archive.org/; ‘Al-Majmua’ 73 Mowarikhin Mashrua’ al-Ta’era alQahera 300’; and Labib, Al-Quwah al-Thalitha, 222.

60. Vann, Willy Messerschmitt, 242; and ‘Al-Majmua’ 73 Mowarikhin Mashrua’ al-Ta’era al-Qahera 300.’

61. Labib, Al-Quwah al-Thalitha, 222; ‘Al-Majmua’ 73 Mowarikhin Mashrua’ al-Ta’era al-Qahera 300’; 

Bar-Zohar, Hunt for German Scientists, 202–03; Deutschkron, Bonn and Jerusalem, 232; and ‘Rüstung: 36, 135 

und 333,’ 57–58.

62. ‘Maudua: al-Muqattila al-Misriya Helwan 300 al-Nasr al-Misria la thimina’amin al-Tahliq,’ https://

web.archive.org/.

63. ‘Rüstung: 36, 135 und 333,’ 60; and Bar-Zohar, Hunt for German Scientists, 206–207.

64. ‘Rüstung: 36, 135 und 333,’ 60; Kapil Bhargava, “Eyewitness to the Six-Day War,” https://web.archive.

org/; Nordeen and Nicolle, Phoenix over the Nile, 178–79; and ‘Maudua: al-Muqattila al-Misriya Helwan 300 

al-Nasr al-Misria la thimina’amin al-Tahliq.’ Under a July 1957 agreement, India was to train up to 1,000 

Egyptian pilots, although this number was never achieved. See British National Archives, FO 371/125495.

65. Bhargava, “Eyewitness to the Six-Day War.”

66. Clarence A. Robinson, “Nation Seeks Larger Production Base,” Aviation Week and Space Technology (4 

January 1982) 41; Bhargava, “Messerschmitt’s HA-300”; Ropelewski, “Improvisation Key to Egyptian 

Growth,” 38; and ‘Maudua: al-Muqattila al-Misriya Helwan 300 al-Nasr al-Misria la thimina’amin al-Tahliq.’

67. Sirrs, Nasser and the Missile Age, 82–83. As a 1967 CIA intelligence assessment put it: “Although troublesome, time consuming, and costly, the problems associated with the [missile] program apparently have not 

been considered critical enough by [Egypt] to override the regime’s desire for a domestically produced advanced 

weapons status symbol.” See Central Intelligence Agency, Intelligence Report, Soviet Military Aid to the United 

Arab Republic, 1955-66, RR IR 67-9, March 1967, originally classified Top Secret, https://www.cia.gov/.

68. Bhargava, “Messerschmitt’s HA-300.”

69. Vann, Willy Messerschmitt, 240–41.

70. Wolfgang Lotz, The Champagne Spy (New York: St. Martin’s, 1972) 120–21; Bhargava, “Messerschmitt’s HA-300”; and Sirrs, Nasser and the Missile Age, 155.

71. Bhargava, “Messerschmitt’s HA-300.”

72. De Gramont, “Nasser’s Hired Germans,” 63; “New Arab Steeds,” 468; Vann, Willy Messerschmitt, 238; 

and ‘Rüstung: 36, 135 und 333,’ 59.
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73. Matthews, “Egyptian Defense Industrialization,” 121. Egyptian sources report the total amount of 

the HA-300 exceeded 135 million Egyptian Pounds. See ‘Maudua: al-Muqattila al-Misriya Helwan 300 alNasr al-Misria la thimina’amin al-Tahliq.’

74. Robinson, “Nation Seeks Larger Production Base,” 41; Nordeen and Nicolle, Phoenix over the Nile, 

178–79, 227; “New Arab Steeds,” 468; Neufeld, “The Nazi Aerospace Exodus,” 58; and Central Intelligence 

Agency, Soviet Military Aid to the United Arab Republic, 5.

75. Ropelewski, “Improvisation Key to Egyptian Growth,” 38; and Matthews, “Egyptian Defense Industrialization,” 120. Some believe the Soviets killed the HA-300 in order to monopolize jet fighter sales to the 

Middle East and Africa and make Cairo more dependent on Moscow for combat aviation. See Labib, Al-Quwah 

al-Thalitha, 219; and ‘Maudua: al-Muqattila al-Misriya Helwan 300 al-Nasr al-Misria la thimina’amin al-Tahliq.’

76. Raju G.C. Thomas, “Nonalignment and Indian Security: Nehru’s Rationale and Legacy,” Journal of 

Strategic Studies 2, no. 2 (1979), 156–58; and Stanley Wolpert, Nehru: A Tryst with Destiny (New York: Oxford 

University Press, 1996) 466.

77. M. Pardesi and R. Matthews, “India’s Tortuous Road to Defence-Industrial Self-Reliance,” Defense 

& Security Analysis 23, no. 4 (2007), 419.

78. Quoted in N. Jayapalan, Indian Political Thinkers: Modern Indian Political Thought (New Delhi: Atlantic 

Publishers, 2003) 286.

79. Pardesi and Matthews, “India’s Tortuous Road,” 419–20.

80. Ibid.

81. K. Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF-24 Marut; Part I: Building India’s Jet Fighter,” https://web.

archive.org/; and Chris Smith, India’s Ad Hoc Arsenal: Direction or Drift in Defense Policy? (Stockholm: SIPRI, 

1994) 160–62.

82. Pardesi and Matthews, “India’s Tortuous Road,” 419–21.

83. Smith, India’s Ad Hoc Arsenal, 160–62.

84. Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF-24 Marut”; Timothy D. Hoyt, Military Industry and Regional 

Defense Policy (London: Routledge, 2007) 32-33; Robert Guttman, “India’s HAL HF-24 Confounded Detractors with Its Respectable Combat Record,” Aviation History 12, no. 5 (2002): 6–19; and Pardesi and 

Matthews, “India’s Tortuous Road,” 419–21.

85. Kapil Bhargava, “Early Design & Development of the HF-24,” 24 November 2010, https://marutfans.wordpress.com/; Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF-24 Marut”; Hoyt, Military Industry and Regional 

Defense Policy, 32–33; Polly Singh, “When the Wind Blows,” https://web.archive.org/; Guttman, “India’s 

HAL HF-24,” 16–19.

86. Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF-24 Marut.”

87. Guttman, “India’s HAL HF-24,” 16–19.

88. Conradis, Design for Flight, 198–99; and Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF-24 Marut.”

89. Pardesi and Matthews, “India’s Tortuous Road,” 421–23.

90. Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF-24 Marut”; Singh, “When the Wind Blows”; Conradis, Design 

for Flight, 194–95; and Hagood, “Why Does Technology Transfer Fail,” 81–82.

91. Hagood, “Why Does Technology Transfer Fail,” 85, 88; and Conradis, Design for Flight, 198–99.

92. Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF-24 Marut.”

93. Burzaco, “Perón y Los Científicos Alemanes”; and Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF-24 Marut.”

94. Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF-24 Marut.”

95. India was counting on the Bristol Orpheus 12 to power its Marut; however, the British firm cancelled 

development. See Hoyt, Military Industry and Regional Defense Policy, 32–33; and Chatterjee, “Hindustan 

Fighter HF-24 Marut.”

96. Smith, India’s Ad Hoc Arsenal, 160–62.

97. Hoyt, Military Industry and Regional Defense Policy, 32–33; and Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF24 Marut.”

98. Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF-24 Marut.”

99. Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF-24 Marut.”
Chasing the Chimera of the Indigenous Jet Fighter

 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 77

100. Arun Dev, “Pilots, Engineers Relive Their Tryst with Marut,” Times of India, 18 June 2011, https://

timesofindia.indiatimes.com/.

101. Smith, India’s Ad Hoc Arsenal, 160. Pardesi and Matthews label the HF-24 a “complete failure.” See

Pardesi and Matthews, “India’s Tortuous Road,” 426.

102. Smith, India’s Ad Hoc Arsenal, 161.

103. Smith, India’s Ad Hoc Arsenal, 161.

104. Hoyt, Military Industry and Regional Defense Policy, 32–33; and Pardesi and Matthews, “India’s 

Tortuous Road,” 423.

105. David A. Brown, “India’s Aircraft Industry Grows,” Aviation Week and Space Technology, 17 January 

1977, 14.

106. Hoyt, Military Industry and Regional Defense Policy, 32–33; and Smith, India’s Ad Hoc Arsenal, 160–62.

107. Pardesi and Matthews, “India’s Tortuous Road,” 424.

108. Pardesi and Matthews, “India’s Tortuous Road,” 426; and Smith, India’s Ad Hoc Arsenal, 160–62.

109. Smith, India’s Ad Hoc Arsenal, 161.

110. Hoyt, Military Industry and Regional Defense Policy, 32–33.

111. Chatterjee, “Hindustan Fighter HF-24 Marut.”

112. Pardesi and Matthews, “India’s Tortuous Road,” 424.

113. Pardesi and Matthews, “India’s Tortuous Road,” 425–26.

114. Neelam Matthews, ‘Troubles for Tejas and...’, Aviation Week and Space Technology, 17 January 2001, 

26; and Pardesi and Matthews, “India’s Tortuous Road,” 427.

115. Matthews, “Troubles for Tejas,” 26. The Tejas is powered by American-designed GE-404 and GE414 engines.

116. Neufeld, “The Nazi Aerospace Exodus,” 49.

117. Caprotti, “Technology and Geographical Imaginations,” 187.

118. Caprotti, “Technology and Geographical Imaginations,” 195–96.

119. The term “Egyptian-made” features prominently in Labib’s history of the Egyptian Air Force: Labib, 

Al-Quwah al-Thalitha.

120. Kendall E. Bailes, “Technology and Legitimacy: Soviet Aviation and Stalinism in the 1930,” Technology and Culture 17, no. 1 (1976), 66.

121. According to a 1955 report by the British Air Attaché, Argentina could not machine its own parts 

for the British-Derwent 5 engine let alone design, test and produce its own engines. See British Air Attaché, 

“Annual Report,” FO 371/119893.

122. Neufeld, “The Nazi Aerospace Exodus,” 57–58.

123. Bill Sweetman, “I Spy,” Aviation Week and Space Technology, 5 November 2012, 72.

124. Bradley Perrett, Robert Hewson, and Reuben Johnson, “Stealth Bazaar,” Aviation Week and Space 

Technology, 19 November 2012, 26.

125. Perrett, Hewson, and Johnson, “Stealth Bazaar”; Editorial, “Remain Watchful of China’s Ascent,” 

Aviation Week and Space Technology, 10 January 2011, 58.

126. “Remain Watchful of China’s Ascent.”

127. Among those producers, we find the United States, Russia, France, and various European consortiums consisting of the United Kingdom, Germany, Italy, and Spain.
78 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020

FEATURE

A Footprint of Unfreedom

The Future of Naval Support Facility Diego Garcia

Dr. Peter Harris

For over 50 years, the United States has maintained a military base on Diego 

Garcia, the largest island of the Chagos Archipelago in the central Indian 

Ocean.1 The United Kingdom (UK) governs Diego Garcia and the rest of 

the Chagos Islands as the British Indian Ocean Territory (BIOT), a colonial jurisdiction created in 1965 for the sole purpose of facilitating the militarization of 

Diego Garcia.2 In February 2019, the International Court of Justice (ICJ) ruled in 

an advisory opinion that the UK’s occupation of the Chagos Islands is illegal 

under international law and that the islands rightfully belong under Mauritian 

sovereign control.3 The ICJ further advised that all members of the United Nations (UN) are obligated to work toward the decolonization of Chagos. Three 

months later, 116 states voted in the UN General Assembly (UNGA) to endorse 

the ICJ’s decision and call upon the UK government to transfer the Chagos Archipelago to Mauritius. Only four states joined with the UK and United States to 

oppose the resolution.4

What do these legal and political developments mean for the future of UK 

sovereignty over the Chagos Islands? What are the implications for the continued 

use of Diego Garcia by the US military? Because London has been dedicated to 

governing the BIOT in a way that privileges the military interests of the United 

States, it has long been assumed that continued UK sovereignty over Chagos is 

critical to the success of Naval Support Facility Diego Garcia. In what follows, I 

challenge this conventional wisdom to argue that the ICJ’s ruling, the UNGA 

vote, and other related developments show that UK control has become an unnecessary strategic liability for the United States. I argue that the historical (colonial) origins of the BIOT as a discrete administrative unit have encumbered the 

territory with some damaging political pathologies. These problems cannot be 

remedied by decision makers in London or Washington and will only worsen over 

time.5 I conclude that the United States should now back Mauritian sovereignty 

over the Chagos Islands—not only because supporting decolonization is the 

ethical and legally required thing to do (although these motivations ought to 

weigh heavily on US decision makers) but also because there is a hardheaded 

strategic rationale for preferring Port Louis over London as a landlord.

To be sure, there will be costs to the United States if Diego Garcia and the rest 

of the Chagos Islands come under Mauritian control. Namely, the archipelago 
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would no longer be contained within a jurisdiction purpose-built for the conduct 

of US military operations (as is the case with the BIOT). It will take careful 

diplomatic work to ensure that the transition from UK to Mauritian sovereignty 

does not impose new burdens upon Naval Support Facility Diego Garcia. However, as I describe below, even the UK government recognizes that Mauritius will 

assume control over the Chagos Islands at some point—an undertaking that is 

binding upon the UK under international law. There is even a nontrivial possibility that the UK could initiate a handover of sovereign authority to Mauritius 

without US consent. Combined with mounting international pressure for decolonization, these political uncertainties create a strong rationale for the United 

States to acknowledge Mauritius’s claims sooner rather than later with a view 

toward securing an enduring say over the future of the territory. To do otherwise 

would be to risk being overtaken by events and perhaps losing access to Diego 

Garcia altogether.

Background: Political Pathologies in Britain’s Last Colony

The island of Diego Garcia was first identified as the potential site of a US 

military base in the 1950s, in the context of the intensifying Cold War between 

the United States and the Soviet Union.6 Serious discussions over the creation of 

a base began in the early 1960s, with the United Kingdom and United States 

signing a formal agreement to open up the territory for military purposes in 1966.7

Construction began in March 1971, and just two years later Diego Garcia was 

home to a fully operational communications facility charged with monitoring 

Soviet naval activity in the Indian Ocean.8 Over the course of the 1970s and 

1980s, a series of geopolitical events—especially the Iranian Revolution and the 

Soviet invasion of Afghanistan—prompted the United States to greatly expand 

the base. The island’s lagoon was dredged to create a ship channel, turning basin, 

and berthing space for warships, and its runway and hangar space were expanded.9

By the end of the 1980s, Diego Garcia had become a vital hub for pre-positioned 

air and naval forces in the Indian Ocean region. The base played key roles in the 

First Gulf War (1990–1991), Operation Desert Fox (1998), and the post–9/11 

invasions of Afghanistan (2001) and Iraq (2003).

Naval Support Facility Diego Garcia has been a successful military base for two 

main reasons. Geographically, the island of Diego Garcia occupies a strategically 

valuable location in the center of the Indian Ocean—almost exactly equidistant 

between the east coast of Africa and the Indonesian island of Aceh, making it indispensable as a staging post for operations in the entire Indian Ocean region—

and boasts natural features that make it capable of hosting large numbers of naval 

vessels and aircraft.10 Just as important as its geostrategic assets is the island’s 
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Harris

unique political situation: the BIOT is the only fully discrete (albeit nonsovereign) 

territorial jurisdiction in the world to have been created for the sole and explicit 

purpose of housing a military base. Up until 1965, Diego Garcia and the rest of the 

Chagos Archipelago had been part of the UK-controlled Crown Colony of Mauritius. At the Lancaster House Constitutional Conference in September 1965, 

however, UK officials convinced a delegation of Mauritian independence leaders to 

allow the British Empire to retain control over the Chagos Archipelago even after 

Mauritius became a fully sovereign state. The UK’s negotiators acknowledged that 

the islands would be returned to Mauritian control once they were no longer required by the United Kingdom (and, by extension, the United States) for military 

purposes.11 Weeks later, Queen Elizabeth II approved an order in council to create 

the BIOT—a new jurisdiction and the last colony ever created by the British Empire.12 Mauritius duly obtained its independence in 1968 without the Chagos Archipelago as part of its internationally recognized territory.

The reason for excising Chagos from the Crown Colony of Mauritius to form 

the new Crown Colony of BIOT was that both London and Washington wanted 

to avoid a situation where any new military base would be dependent upon a 

postcolonial landlord.13 If the archipelago had remained part of Mauritius and 

had thus been under the sovereign authority of Port Louis from 1968 onward, the 

concern among American strategists was that the territory might easily come 

under the sway of communist or otherwise anti-US groups. These were reasonable 

fears: numerous postcolonial states in Africa and Asia took anti-US positions in 

the Cold War era, with some, such as Iran, switching from being stalwart US allies 

to implacable adversaries. In the mid-1960s, nobody in London or Washington 

could be sure that Mauritius would remain tightly aligned with the United Kingdom and United States after it gained independence. Given these geopolitical 

uncertainties, keeping the Chagos Archipelago under the direct control of the UK 

government was viewed as a prudent way to provide the United States with guaranteed long-term access to Diego Garcia—effectively creating a legal-political 

umbrella beneath which the islands would be sheltered from the vicissitudes of 

postcolonial and anti-imperialist politics.

In the event, the BIOT’s creation did not provide as clean a break with Mauritius as strategic planners in London and Washington had anticipated. In 1980, 

the government of Mauritius formally laid claim to Chagos on the basis that, 

when the BIOT was created, prevailing international law had prohibited colonizers from carving up their existing imperial possessions into new jurisdictions.14 In 

1983, a select committee of Mauritian parliamentarians further concluded that 

their country’s leaders prior to independence had been under duress when they 

agreed at Lancaster House to the excision of Chagos.15 From this view, the sepa-
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ration of Chagos from Mauritius had been improper and should be regarded as an 

ongoing violation of international law—an argument subsequently endorsed by 

international political bodies such as the Organization for African Unity, the African Union, and the UNGA before being confirmed by the ICJ’s advisory opinion in February 2019.16 Every Mauritian leader since the early 1980s has made it 

clear that Chagos is an integral part of Mauritius—a commitment enshrined in 

the country’s constitution—placing considerable strain on Mauritius’s bilateral 

ties with both the United Kingdom and United States.

Archival documents show that UK diplomats in the 1960s knew full well that 

excising Chagos from Mauritius was in violation of international rules and, if not 

done carefully, would draw unwanted scrutiny from the UN’s Special Committee 

on Decolonization (“Committee of 24”).17 However, violating the territorial integrity of Mauritius was hardly the worst crime knowingly perpetrated by British 

officials as part of the creation of the BIOT. Between 1965 and 1973, around 

1,500 indigenous Chagos Islanders were forcibly expelled from their homes to 

satisfy the needs of Diego Garcia’s new military occupants.18 The islanders were 

misrepresented to external audiences as migrant laborers, despite the authorities’ 

clear knowledge that many Chagossian families had lived on the islands for generations. The rationale for the expulsions was that the Chagos Islands had to be 

made rid of a permanent population if they were to play host to a US military 

base. As one UK official wrote: “We must surely be very tough about this. The 

object of the exercise is to get some rocks which will remain ours. There will be no 

indigenous population except seagulls who have not yet got a committee (the 

Status of Women Committee does not cover the rights of birds).”19

The Chagossians never acquiesced in their exile. They fought back—protesting 

vigorously in both Mauritius and the United Kingdom.20 These efforts produced 

some important victories: financial compensation from the UK government,21

recognition of UK citizenship (and thus the ability to migrate onward to the 

United Kingdom),22 and even—if only briefly—the technical right to return to 

the Chagos Islands (discussed in more detail below). In Mauritius, the left-wing 

political parties Lalit and Mouvement Miliant Mauricien made the Chagossians’ 

plight part of their electoral platforms. The fate of the islanders even became an 

issue in US domestic politics for a brief time, with lawmakers in the House of 

Representatives raising the issue of the islanders’ mistreatment during a 1975 

hearing on whether to expand the base on Diego Garcia.23

In the United Kingdom, the Chagossians’ cause has never been a high-profile 

political issue—but neither has it been entirely buried. In the late 1970s and 

1980s, left-wing members of the Labour Party such as Tam Dalyell and Robin 

Cook made intermittent efforts to raise the issue with government ministers. Be-
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Harris

ginning in the late 1990s and early 2000s, a larger number of parliamentarians 

began to work together to support the islanders—eventually coming together to 

form the All-Party Parliamentary Group on the Chagos Islands in 2008.24 Between 2010 and 2015, the Chagossians could even count several members of the 

UK Cabinet as (at least nominal) supporters of their right of return—including 

Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg. In 2015, a longtime ally of the Chagossians—Jeremy Corbyn—became leader of the Labour Party and thus leader of the 

official opposition in Westminster. Corbyn has continued to speak out in favor of 

the Chagossians since becoming the UK’s nominal prime minister in waiting.

Up until now, no amount of campaigning by Mauritius, the Chagossians, or 

their supporters has been enough to shake UK political control over Chagos. Officials in London admit that the expulsion of the Chagos Islanders was regrettable 

and even illegal in its original manner of execution but always couple their professions of contrition with the twin insistences that (1) the islands will revert to 

Mauritian control once they are no longer needed for military purposes but will 

be treated as sovereign UK territory until that time; and (2) the current ordinances 

preventing the islanders’ return to Chagos are legal and, in any case, resettlement 

of the archipelago would be prohibitively costly.25

London as Landlord: Diminishing Returns, Emerging Threats

The sole purpose of the BIOT’s creation was to furnish London and Washington with a territory that could be made exclusively available for military purposes. 

Judged against this criterion, the BIOT has been a resounding success. The United 

Kingdom has ensured that there is no permanent civilian population in the Chagos Islands (thus, no representative government and no adjacent communities to 

accommodate), provides little meaningful oversight of US military activities, and 

extends few laws to the jurisdiction. As Peter H. Sand has argued, Diego Garcia 

is essentially a “legal black hole” in the Indian Ocean—the perfect place for a 

military base to exist in near-total seclusion.26 Moreover, the United Kingdom 

does not charge rent for the base.27 For all these reasons, Anglo–American cooperation over Diego Garcia can be judged to have been a worthwhile arrangement 

from the perspective of the United States.

Governing the BIOT in service of US interests has required the UK government to be active along two fronts: (1) to oppose Mauritius’s claims to sovereignty; 

and (2) to oppose the exiled Chagossians’ fight for a right to return to the islands. 

For a long time, Whitehall found itself busiest on the second of these fronts. As 

already mentioned, the Chagossian community won a High Court victory in 2000 

that technically restored their right to return in UK law.28 At the time, the UK 

foreign secretary was Robin Cook—a longtime supporter of the Chagossians since 
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his days as a backbench Labour MP. After losing to the islanders before the High 

Court, Cook undertook on behalf of the UK government to accept the ruling in 

full and investigate the possibility of facilitating a return to the outer Chagos Islands (that is, those islands other than Diego Garcia).29 It was not until 2004, in the 

aftermath of the invasion of Iraq, that Cook’s successor, Jack Straw, used new orders in council to exile the islanders afresh. These legal instruments—a form of 

primary legislation made by UK ministers using royal prerogative30 rather than a 

piece of legislation promulgated by the BIOT commissioner—had to be defended 

in court against robust challenges from the Chagossians and their lawyers, resulting in eight years of litigation that cost the British taxpayer millions of pounds and 

placed a bright spotlight on the US military’s activities on Diego Garcia.31

Fighting to keep the Chagossians in exile was a public relations disaster for the 

UK government. Human rights groups and news organizations have been scathing in their coverage. One of the first in-depth reports into the territory was 

published in 1982 by the Minority Rights Group, which excoriated the UK government for its failure to uphold the Chagossians’ rights despite being willing to 

wage war against Argentina in defense of the Falkland Islanders.32 Two decades 

later, the investigative journalist John Pilger produced a TV documentary (Stealing a Nation) to chronicle the Chagossians’ story. In 2008, activists from Greenpeace tried to land on Diego Garcia to protest the islanders’ treatment.33

Also in 2008, the UK government was forced to admit that Diego Garcia had 

been used by the US military for extraordinary rendition flights—despite having 

earlier assured Parliament that no such flights had visited the territory.34 This 

admission fueled a string of allegations that the United Kingdom had made itself 

complicit in the operation of a Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) “black site” on 

Diego Garcia.35 And in 2010, the news media reported that the UK government 

had “manipulated” the results of a 2002 feasibility study into resettlement of the 

Chagos Islands in an attempt to stymie the efforts of the exiled islanders to return 

home.36 Taken together, these two developments—reports of a CIA detention 

facility and allegations that the UK government was using underhand methods to 

keep the Chagos Islanders in exiled—gave rise to the impression that the Chagossians’ mistreatment was entirely at the behest of a US government intent on 

using Diego Garcia for shadowy purposes. It did not help that, some years later, 

UK officials were accused of lying about the availability of flight logs pertaining 

to Diego Garcia.37

Even withstanding this torrent of negative publicity, it still could be argued that 

the BIOT administration provided the United States with a relatively secure political unit within which to house its base on Diego Garcia. However, from 2010 

onward, even this advantage of the BIOT framework began to unravel after Lon-
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Harris

don decided to create a Marine Protected Area (MPA) in the Chagos Archipelago. 

An international coalition of conservationist organizations including Pew Environment first put forward the idea of creating an MPA in Chagos was in 2009.38

The UK government, especially Foreign Secretary David Miliband, warmly welcomed the proposal, partly because politicians like Miliband wanted to secure a 

“green legacy” for themselves and partly because officials believed that a new layer 

of environmental protections in the Chagos Archipelago would constitute an additional barrier to the islanders’ return.39 Mauritius and most major Chagossian 

organizations argued against the creation of the MPA—or at least, argued for a 

greater say in its formation and management. However, in April 2010 (on a day 

that the UK Parliament was in recess), the Foreign and Commonwealth Office 

announced that it had decided to designate an MPA in the Chagos Islands. At 

the time, it was the largest MPA of its kind in the world—a (green) feather in the 

cap of Miliband and the outgoing Labour prime minister, Gordon Brown.

The creation of a formal MPA in Chagos created new legal and political opportunities for Mauritius and the Chagossians to press their interests against the 

UK government. For their part, the Chagossians leveraged WikiLeaks-released 

diplomatic cables (which suggested that the creation of the MPA had been done 

cynically to thwart the islanders’ hopes of resettlement) to request a judicial review of the MPA decision.40 This effort ultimately failed to overturn the MPA’s 

creation—although it went all the way to the UK Supreme Court. At the same 

time, Mauritius lodged formal protests with the UK government that the manner 

of the MPA’s creation had violated its rights pertaining to the BIOT, including 

certain legal rights deriving from the UN Convention on the Law of the Sea 

(UNCLOS). Finding its diplomatic overtures rebuffed by London, Port Louis 

opted to take its case to the Permanent Court of Arbitration (PCA) in The Hague, 

which has jurisdiction to rule on disputes arising from states’ participation in the 

UNCLOS regime.

Contrary to the wishes of the UK government, the PCA decided to hear Mauritius’s arguments and, in 2015, an arbitral tribunal ruled in a binding decision 

that the manner of the MPA’s creation had indeed contravened international 

law.41 Among other things, the PCA held that Mauritius should have been afforded more of a say in the creation of the MPA because of its abiding interest in 

the governance of the territory, which stems from the repeated undertakings given 

by the UK government that Mauritius will, one day, be awarded sovereignty over 

the islands. The ruling thus established in public international law that Mauritius 

must be consulted on issues concerning the future governance of the islands—not 

just when it comes to marine conservation, but on other matters too. The UK 

government seems to have accepted these findings, subsequently arguing before 
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the UNGA that “we acknowledge Mauritius’s long-term interest in the archipelago” and “we [have] offered . . . a framework for the joint management, in environment and scientific study, of all the islands of the territory except for Diego 

Garcia.”42 In other words, the United Kingdom has accepted in light of the PCA 

decision that its sovereignty over the Chagos Archipelago is not absolute and that 

consultations with Mauritius are an international legal requirement going forward. This is a consequential development, which calls into question London’s 

ability to govern the islands without interference from Mauritius. It was also an 

entirely unforced error—the biggest sign yet that UK sovereignty over Chagos 

will not always be exercised in ways conducive to US interests.

The ICJ’s advisory opinion in February 2019 was even worse for the UK government. Having become frustrated with the UK government’s handling of its claims 

to Chagos in the wake of the PCA decision, the government of Mauritius decided 

in 2017 that it would seek an advisory opinion from the World Court on the question of sovereignty. As per UN rules, Port Louis formally requested that the UNGA 

refer the matter to the ICJ. In June 2017, the General Assembly approved Mauritius’s motion by an overwhelming majority. The United Kingdom lobbied hard to 

prevent the matter from coming before the ICJ, but, when the question of a referral came to be voted upon, London could not even count on the support of most 

European Union member states—a telling indictment of the United Kingdom’s 

declining influence in the world.43 That the UK government could not stop the 

case being referred to the ICJ was a powerful demonstration of how little diplomatic clout London can muster in defense of UK national interests. That the 

United Kingdom lost the ensuing case just served to compound the humiliation. 

For even though the ICJ’s ruling was not binding, its decision was unambiguous 

and damning: that UK control over the Chagos Islands has been illegal under international law ever since 1965 and should be brought to a swift end.

One major implication of the ICJ ruling is that the World Court has now 

formally advised that every UN member, including the United States, has an obligation to decolonize Chagos. Before February 2019, the United States has been 

able to hide behind the fig leaf of insisting that the question of sovereignty over 

Chagos was a purely bilateral matter to be decided between the United Kingdom 

and Mauritius. This position was never entirely watertight, but it helped to shift 

international attention away from the base on Diego Garcia.44 Now, however, the 

ICJ has articulated a powerful legal reality that, in fact, the continued colonization 

of the BIOT is an offense against all—including the United States. This is a difficult recommendation for the US government to dismiss altogether.

Thanks to decisions rendered by the PCA, ICJ, and UNGA, the legal and 

ethical reasons for decolonizing Chagos are plain to see. However, as argued here, 
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Harris

there is also a compelling pragmatic reason for why the United States (and its 

military planners in particular) should support decolonization. In short, the political and legal status quo in the BIOT is becoming unsustainable. On the one 

hand, the PCA’s ruling concerning the Chagos MPA has made it clear that Mauritius has an actionable interest in the territory and must be consulted over major 

changes to the governance of the BIOT—a set of legal rights that the United 

Kingdom has accepted, and which could later be pressed in ways that neither 

London nor Washington approve of. On the other hand, the ICJ has leveraged 

some clear rules on decolonization to show that the United Kingdom should not 

be in Diego Garcia in the first place and that the BIOT should cease to exist as a 

jurisdiction. Meanwhile, an overwhelming majority of the world’s states have expressed a view to concur with the ICJ’s advisory opinion that Mauritius is the 

legitimate sovereign power in the Chagos Archipelago. In short, UK sovereignty 

is being squeezed. In the eyes of American strategists, at what point does London’s stewardship of the islands start to look like a strategic liability?

In addition to these international threats to the political status quo in the BIOT, 

there is also a domestic threat emanating from the United Kingdom that warrants 

mentioning. As noted above, the current leader of the official opposition, Jeremy 

Corbyn, is a longstanding and outspoken supporter of the Chagos Islanders.45 He 

could easily become a future UK prime minister. Such a premiership would constitute an existential threat to the BIOT. In April 2019, Corbyn wrote to Prime 

Minister Theresa May to condemn her decision to ignore both the ICJ ruling and 

the UNGA resolution on the status of the BIOT.46 The implication of Corbyn’s 

letter was that he supported Mauritius’s demands that the BIOT be decolonized—

a position in keeping with his longstanding record on the issue. This suggests that, 

if he ever became prime minister, Corbyn might voluntarily initiate the process of 

ceding the Chagos Archipelago to Mauritius. Other plausible options would be 

for Corbyn to submit the issue to a binding arbitration by the ICJ or to simply 

authorize the resettlement of the islands under UK supervision.47 And as prime 

minister, Corbyn could implement any of these scenarios via the exercise of royal 

prerogative powers. He would not require any new legislation—or even the agreement of the United States.

Even if Corbyn never becomes prime minister, it must now be regarded as at 

least feasible that some other future leader could choose to relinquish UK sovereignty over Chagos or else initiate a resettlement over and above the objections of 

the United States. Indeed, a restoration of the Chagos Islanders’ right of return 

seemed entirely possible during the 2010–2015 coalition government of Conservatives and Liberal Democrats. In September 2010, the Business Secretary Vince 

Cable even released a letter to announce that the government had agreed to allow 
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resettlement to proceed.48 The information contained within the letter turned out 

to be an inaccurate reflection of government policy, but the bizarre circumstances 

surrounding its release were nevertheless suggestive of a high level of support 

enjoyed by the Chagossians in the cabinet at that time.

The bottom line is that the United Kingdom can no longer be considered the 

reliable landlord it once was in Chagos. Its political leaders cannot be trusted to 

indefinitely toe the line for the United States—especially when they incur significant embarrassment from doing so but without any discernible benefits in return. How long will it be before a government in London decides that the legal, 

political, and ethical problems associated with the BIOT are too serious to ignore? 

What will happen if the United Kingdom decides to initiate the transfer of sovereign control to Mauritius before the United States has had an opportunity to 

plan for a change in ownership?49 It makes strategic sense for the United States 

to avoid the grave uncertainties bound up with these questions by simply choosing of its own violation to opt for Mauritian sovereignty.

(US Navy photo by Ensign Victor Obando)

Figure 1. Infrastructure improvements. US Navy Seabees deployed with Naval Mobile 

Construction Battalion (NMCB) 5’s Detail Diego Garcia work with civilian contractors during a concrete placement that will form a pad for the foundation for a tension fabric structure in support of the US Air Force. NMCB-5 is deployed across the Indo-Pacific region, 

conducting high-quality construction to support US and partner nations to strengthen 

partnerships, deter aggression, and enable expeditionary logistics and power projection.
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After Decolonization: Looking to the Future

The United States does not have a direct say over who controls the Chagos Islands—nor should it. However, Washington does have a powerful indirect say. As 

already discussed, the UK government’s position is that it will cede the islands to 

Mauritius upon such a time as they are no longer needed for defense and security 

purposes. And because the US base on Diego Garcia is the only means by which 

any of the Chagos Islands are used for such purposes, it follows that the United 

Kingdom will relinquish sovereignty over the archipelago as soon as the United 

States offers its acquiescence. At least, there would be no reason for London to 

object to Mauritian sovereignty over Chagos if it was something that the United 

States supported.

I have suggested that the United States should use its leverage to bring about 

the transfer of sovereignty to Mauritius. The obvious objection to this proposal is 

that Mauritian sovereignty might prove to be more of a constraint on US military 

activities than the BIOT regime has been. This is a reasonable objection. It is 

difficult to imagine any political ordering that could be more favorable to the US 

military than that which has been provided by the BIOT—not even US sovereignty over the islands. However, the supposed drawbacks of full Mauritian control over Chagos can be managed if US leaders show foresight. And in any case, 

the BIOT is already showing signs of collapse. The jurisdiction belongs to a different era and cannot be expected to last forever. My argument is that decision 

makers in Washington would be best served by accepting the inevitable and shifting their focus toward working with Mauritius to forge a long-term understanding about the US presence on Diego Garcia.

How should the United States seek to shape the future of Diego Garcia and 

the rest of the Chagos Islands? There are several available options. One possibility 

would be to encourage London and Port Louis to agree upon a phased transfer of 

sovereignty over the Chagos Archipelago, beginning with the so-called outer 

Chagos Islands. After all, most of the islets in the Chagos Archipelago are more 

than 100 miles away from Diego Garcia. None of this land has ever been used for 

defense and security purposes and so, even by UK standards, it should be transferred to Mauritius.

It would not be the first time that the BIOT has been dismembered in such a 

way. At the time of the BIOT’s creation in 1965, it comprised not just the Chagos 

Archipelago but also the island groups of Farquhar, Aldabra, and Desroches—

each of which were excised from the then-Crown Colony of the Seychelles. The 

latter three sets of islands were never militarized and, as a result, were handed 

back to the Seychelles in 1976 upon that territory becoming an independent state. 
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Because the United States only uses Diego Garcia for military purposes, Washington has little interest in keeping the outer Chagos Islands under UK control. 

These islands could therefore be returned to Mauritius immediately, pending a 

final agreement on the status of Diego Garcia. While it is unlikely that Mauritius 

will agree to give up its territorial claim to Diego Garcia altogether, Port Louis 

might agree upon an extended timetable for the transfer of sovereign control over 

that island—one that would provide certainty for all concerned, satisfy international demands for decolonization, and give the United States and Mauritius 

enough time to conclude a comprehensive bilateral agreement on the future use 

of Diego Garcia for military purposes.

In the long-term, though, the only option for the United States is to prepare for 

the eventual transfer of sovereignty over Diego Garcia as well as the outer islands. 

This cannot be avoided for several reasons. First, from the Mauritian perspective, 

Diego Garcia is just as much Mauritian territory as the other Chagos Islands. Port 

Louis will not give up its demands for total decolonization. However, as I have 

argued, there are also powerful reasons of self-interest for why the United States 

should prefer Mauritian sovereignty over Diego Garcia. Namely, it is possible that 

a future UK government will decide (or be forced) to decolonize without giving 

much notice to the United States—whether because of unbearable international 

pressure or because of a domestic change in attitudes toward the alliance with the 

United States. It would be better for the United States to cultivate a willing and 

enthusiastic partner in Port Louis rather than be left in the position of having to 

begin talks with Mauritius once decolonization has become a fait accompli.

In 2016, Mauritius assured the United Kingdom and United States that it had 

“no objection” to the continued use of Diego Garcia for military purposes.50 This 

position has been the same since the early 1980s.51 Of course, this does not mean 

that discussions with Mauritius will be straightforward. There will have to be a 

bilateral status of forces agreement, for example, and an agreement over financial 

compensation—items that have never had to be negotiated with the United 

Kingdom because of the nature of the BIOT arrangement. Such talks might prove 

to be somewhat burdensome for the United States. Mauritius might wish to impose limits over the storage of certain weapons, for example (especially nuclear 

weapons),52 and could insist on Diego Garcia not being used for practices such as 

the detention of prisoners. However, there will be silver linings: concluding a 

formal agreement (treaty) with the government of Mauritius would give the US 

base on Diego Garcia a much firmer legal footing than it currently enjoys via the 

United Kingdom and the BIOT.

There is always a remote possibility that Mauritius will decide against hosting 

a US base on Diego Garcia, whether now or in the future. This is the case with 
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every country that hosts a US military installation; foreign governments always 

have the outside option of denying the United States the right to conduct military 

operations on their sovereign territory. Nevertheless, the best outcome for the 

United States would be to convince decision makers in Port Louis that security 

cooperation with the United States is in their national self-interest. A selfenforcing voluntary agreement with Mauritius would be an infinitely more durable foundation for the base on Diego Garcia than continuing to rely upon the 

UK government’s ability to justify its occupation of an illegal colony before domestic and international audiences.

Convincing Mauritius of the benefits of close security cooperation with the 

United States should not be difficult. Mauritius does not have a standing army of 

its own, instead tacitly relying upon others to guarantee its national security and 

a tranquil regional environment. Moreover, there is already some military cooperation between the US and Mauritian governments—especially in terms of antipiracy operations. Hosting a US military base on Mauritian soil would allow 

Port Louis to upgrade its security ties with the United States to a level of a credible military partnership: cooperation over Naval Support Facility Diego Garcia 

would provide American leaders with an enduring stake in the military security 

and political independence of Mauritius—no small thing in the context of a shifting balance of power in the Indian Ocean region.

Once Mauritius assumes sovereignty over Chagos, it is likely that the archipelago will be treated as a discrete subnational jurisdiction. The model for this 

would be Rodrigues, which is an autonomous region of Mauritius and has its own 

regional assembly.53 Talks should begin with Mauritius’s Ministry of Local Government and Outer Islands, then, to see whether there might be the potential for 

different laws and immigration rules to be put in place for Chagos than Mauritius 

proper, with a view to limiting tourism and the size of a permanent resettlement. 

If a new civilian administration in the Chagos Islands can borrow (as can Rodrigues) then this might even open the door to a direct financial relationship between the United States and a new autonomous government in Chagos in terms 

of lending, aid, and investment; the United States would have the chance to become a partner in facilitating the managed resettlement of Chagos rather than an 

impediment. It might even be the case that the unitary island of Diego Garcia 

could be organized into a discrete administrative unit, separate from both Mauritius proper and the outer Chagos Islands. If so, this would create additional opportunities for the base on Diego Garcia to be treated in a distinct fashion.

Talks should begin with the Chagossians, too. Mauritius has a checkered past 

when it comes to its treatment of the Chagossian diaspora, but, at least officially, 

Port Louis supports the resettlement of Chagos by the Chagossians (and, perhaps, 
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other Mauritians).54 US planners must therefore assume that Mauritian sovereignty over Chagos will be accompanied by the civilian resettlement of all or some 

of the islands. This would naturally pose some challenges for Naval Support Facility Diego Garcia. While not all islanders have protested the base in the past,55

some have expressed their opposition to the US military. Others have formed 

political alliances with leftists in Mauritius who call for the shuttering of the base. 

For the most part, these have been “pragmatic” alliances.56 Nonetheless, it means 

that the US government will face something of an uphill struggle to convince the 

islanders that their interests are compatible with those of the Pentagon.

There are several practical appeals that the United States could make to the 

islanders to ensure that resettlement need not compromise the security of the base 

on Diego Garcia. Indeed, it might even be the case that US leaders will have 

significant leverage in any conversations on resettlement. After all, the US military will have unique wherewithal to assist resettled civilians with everyday needs 

such as transport, communications, healthcare, and employment. If it undertakes 

to assist in the practicalities of resettlement, the Pentagon could secure for itself a 

meaningful say in the form and extent of any such efforts. If the United States 

continues to ignore the Chagossians, however—or if it engages with the islanders 

in a way that appears cynical, insincere, or insensitive—then this will only succeed 

in empowering those who wish to see the base closed.57

Of course, it would be absurd to argue that the US base will be unaffected by 

the assumption of Mauritian sovereignty over (and resettlement of ) the Chagos 

Islands. Without question, the base will have to change to accommodate new 

political realities. However, it is worth recapitulating what makes Diego Garcia so 

valuable to the US military in the first place: not just its political seclusion but its 

geographic endowments, too. And while the decolonization of the Chagos Archipelago will obviously undermine the political shelter that London has offered the 

US military since the BIOT’s creation in 1965, the geographic advantages offered 

by Diego Garcia are fixed. The goal of the United States should be to make sure 

that Diego Garcia can continue to be utilized to the maximum extent possible. In 

the current context, this means supporting Mauritian sovereignty instead of attempting to prop up the ailing colonial-era edifice that is the BIOT. The road to 

securing lasting access to Diego Garcia runs through Port Louis, not London.

A Crowded Ocean?

As a final note, it is worth remembering that it is not just US military strategists who have a stake in the future of Chagos. As Mauritian sovereignty over 

Chagos becomes more likely, other groups can be expected to fight for the ears of 

Mauritian politicians to shape the political situation in the islands. The exiled is-
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landers are the most obvious constituency in this regard. And, as I have argued 

here, it is right and proper that the United States begin talks with the Chagossians to discuss ways to coexist in a post–BIOT political environment. However, 

the Chagossians are not the only group with an interest in Chagos. They might 

not even be the most powerful.

First, the international network of environmentalists who campaigned for the 

creation of an MPA in Chagos have a firmly vested interest in the future of the 

islands. After all, it was this group of campaigners who convinced the UK government to create an MPA in Chagos despite stark warnings from UK civil servants 

that such a move would create legal and political problems in terms of the BIOT’s 

long-term governance (as turned out to be the case). It is prudent to expect that 

this same coalition of environmentalists will remain engaged in Chagos during 

and after any transfer of sovereignty. The conservationists themselves have never 

been opposed to the base on Diego Garcia, preferring to work with the UK and 

US authorities to facilitate scientific research and conservation work. Indeed, 

those environmentalists most closely associated with Chagos have viewed the 

base through a positive lens—celebrating the unparalleled seclusion that its existence has brought upon the rest of the Chagos Archipelago.

That said, not all environmentalist groups are at ease with large military bases. 

Some take a dim view of Naval Support Facility Diego Garcia in particular. It is 

therefore possible that conservationist organizations might lobby Mauritian leaders to pursue a green legacy of their own in Chagos rather than continue to be 

associated with the US military. One obvious option would be for Mauritius to 

seek UNESCO World Heritage Site recognition for the Great Chagos Bank—

the largest coral reef structure in the world, and one that has been left in nearpristine condition except for the waters around Diego Garcia.58 Such a proposal 

might be eminently attractive to politicians in Mauritius because it would provide 

a public relations-friendly way to accommodate the Chagossians (as custodians of 

the natural environment),59 attract revenue from ecotourism, and brandish Port 

Louis’s environmentalist credentials, while simultaneously bolstering Mauritius’s 

geopolitical status as a so-called large ocean state.

60

On a more strategic level, it is also possible that Mauritius could be approached 

by China or India (or both) when it comes to deciding the future of the Chagos 

Islands.61 Beijing has made significant efforts to court Indian Ocean states over 

the past decade, and New Delhi has a long history of involvement in Mauritian 

affairs—most recently concluding an agreement to establish coastal radar stations 

on Mauritian territory. Of the two, China would be most eager to see American 

forces evicted from Diego Garcia—but it is not a stretch to imagine that either of 

these Indo-Pacific powers would be interested in establishing naval bases of their 
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own on Diego Garcia. Already, India has inked a deal with the Seychelles to establish a base on Assumption Island (the Seychelles). China, meanwhile, operates 

a military facility in Djibouti. Securing even limited access to Diego Garcia would 

be an enormous boon to either government. Guarding against the influence of 

America’s great power rivals over Mauritius will therefore be a high priority for 

US diplomats in a post-BIOT world. It can be done most easily by supporting 

Mauritian sovereignty as soon as possible and working to ensure that the US–

Mauritian relationship is strong and self-enforcing.

Conclusions

In an article published in 1982, political scientist Joel Larus wrote that the US 

military presence on Diego Garcia might not be quite as durable as imagined by 

the architects of the 1966 executive agreement to establish the base.62 Larus called 

Diego Garcia a “crucial platform for the projection of U.S. military power throughout all sectors of the Indian Ocean, including the Persian Gulf-Arabian Sea”63—

an analysis that many scholars of international security would agree with today. 

However, he feared that the United Kingdom “appear[ed] to have acquired something less than full and unrestricted sovereignty in 1965” owing to Mauritius’s 

claims over the territory.64 Moreover, he noted that domestic forces inside the 

United Kingdom—particularly on the left of the Labour Party—were hostile to 

US military interests and could not be regarded as reliable partners going forward. 

Both points seem prescient considering recent events.

Back then, Larus’s preferred solution was that the United States should seek 

sovereignty over Diego Garcia. This would no longer be feasible. Mauritius would 

never agree to it, and it would provoke uproar in the international community. 

Today, Mauritian sovereignty is the only way to resolve the political pathologies 

that undermine the security of Naval Support Facility Diego Garcia. The BIOT 

must be jettisoned altogether. Fortunately, the decolonization of Chagos is one of 

those rare occasions in US foreign policy where the realpolitik course of action 

also happens to be the moral and legally required thing to do. Even if it was not 

always thus, it is now: America’s long-term strategic interests would be best served 

by supporting the full decolonization of Chagos and working to make sure that 

Mauritian sovereignty over the islands will not jeopardize the longevity of the 

base on Diego Garcia. While there might be some costs associated with consigning the BIOT to history, the long-term benefits of cultivating a lasting strategic 

ally at the heart of the Indian Ocean are well worth it. 
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Notes

1. The Chagos Archipelago comprises around 60 tiny islets totaling nearly 22 squares miles of land. Diego 

Garcia is the largest island, with a land area of around 12.5 square miles, and is the only island with a human 

population (the military and support personnel of Naval Support Facility Diego Garcia). The archipelago is just 

over 300 miles south of the Maldives and roughly equidistant between Indonesia and the east coast of Africa.

2. The British government created the BIOT in 1965 as a crown colony. In 1981, the British Nationality 

Act renamed the UK’s crown colonies as British Dependent Territories and, in 2002, the colonies were renamed again to become British Overseas Territories, which is the current nomenclature. As of 2019, the 

United Kingdom has 14 Overseas Territories, all of which were crown colonies (or part of larger crown colonies) prior to 1981: Anguilla, Bermuda, British Antarctic Territory, British Virgin Islands, the BIOT, Cayman Islands, Falkland Islands, Gibraltar, Montserrat, Pitcairn Islands, Saint Helena, South Georgia and the 

South Sandwich Islands, and the Turks and Caicos.

3. For an analysis of the ICJ’s ruling, see Laura Jeffery, “The International Court of Justice: Advisory 

Opinion on the Chagos Archipelago,” Anthropology Today 35, no. 3 (2019): 24-27.

4. These were Australia, Hungary, Israel, and the Maldives. See Rick Gladstone, “Britain Dealt Defeat at 

U.N. Over Its Control of Chagos Islands,” New York Times, 22 May 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/.

5. Indeed, it has been evident for decades that BIOT is a fundamentally flawed political project. See Joel 

Larus, “Diego Garcia: Political Clouds over a Vital U.S. Base,” Strategic Review 10, no. 1 (Winter 1982): 

44–55; and Joel Larus, “Diego Garcia: The Military and Legal Limitations of America’s Pivotal Base in the 

Indian Ocean,” in The Indian Ocean: Perspectives on a Strategic Arena, ed. William L. Dowdy and Russell B. 

Trodd (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1985): 435–51.

6. David Vine, Island of Shame: The Secret History of the U.S. Military Base on Diego Garcia (Princeton, NJ: 

Princeton University Press, 2009), 61–62; and Peter H. Sand, United States and Britain in Diego Garcia: The 

Future of a Controversial Base (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 2.

7. Subsequent agreements were signed in 1972, 1976, 1982, 1987, and 1999. Each of these agreements 

were handled as exchanges of notes—that is, executive agreements, not treaties—and so did not require legislative approval by either the US Congress or the UK Parliament. See Sand, United States and Britain in 

Diego Garcia, 69–115.

8. Vine, Island of Shame, chapter 7; and Vytautas B. Bandjunis, Diego Garcia: Creation of the Indian Ocean 

Base (San Jose, CA: Writer’s Showcase, 2001).

9. Sand, United States and Britain, 35–37; and Denis F. Doyon, “Middle East Bases: Model for the Future,” in The Sun Never Sets...: Confronting the Network of Foreign U.S. Military Bases, ed. Joseph Gerson and 

Bruce Birchard (Boston: South End Press, 1991), 281–82.

10. On the geostrategic importance of Diego Garcia to the United States, see Andrew S. Erickson, Walter C. Ladwig III, and Justin D. Mikolay, “Diego Garcia and the United States’ Emerging Indian Ocean 

Strategy,” Asian Security 6, no. 3 (2010): 214–37.

11. This was an unwritten undertaking when originally proffered at Lancaster House, but it has subsequently been made in writing and can be considered official UK policy. See Sand, United States and Britain, 3–4. 

For a recent expression of the United Kingdom’s position, see the speech given to the UNGA by Matthew 

Rycroft, London’s ambassador to the UN, in June 2017: “When we no longer need the territory for defence 

purposes, sovereignty will pass.” Matthew Rycroft, “Questions on the British Indian Ocean Territory have 

long been a bilateral matter between the UK and Mauritius,” 22 June 2017, https://www.gov.uk/.

Dr. Peter Harris

Dr. Harris is an assistant professor of political science at Colorado State University, where his research and teaching 

focus on international security, US foreign policy, and international relations theory. He received his PhD in government from the University of Texas at Austin, where he was also a graduate fellow of the Clements Center for National Security, and holds additional degrees from the SOAS University of London and the University of Edinburgh. 

Dr. Harris is widely published in leading international relations journals, magazines, and blogs.
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12. In its original form, the BIOT also incorporated several island groups that had previously been part 

of the Colony of the Seychelles: Aldabra, Farquhar, and Desroches. These were never used for military purposes and were later returned to the Seychelles in 1976 upon the latter becoming an independent state.

13. Peter Harris, “Decolonising the Special Relationship: Diego Garcia, the Chagossians, and AngloAmerican Relations,” Review of International Studies 39, no. 3 (2013), 721, citing Richard Gifford, “The 

Chagos Islands—The Land Where Human Rights Hardly Ever Happen,” Law, Social Justice, and Global 

Development 1, no. 1 (2004), 5.

14. Today, Chapter XI, Article 111 of the Constitution of Mauritius explicitly lays claim to the Chagos 

Archipelago.

15. Stephen Allen, The Chagos Islanders and International Law (Portland, OR: Hart Publishing, 2014), 

90–91; Laura Jeffery, Forced Displacement and Onward Migration: Chagos Islanders in Mauritius and the UK

(Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 2011), 45.

16. Maureen Tong, “Self-Determination in the Post-Colonial Era: Prospects for the Chagossians,” in 

Eviction from the Chagos Islands: Displacement and Struggle for Identity against Two World Powers, ed. Sandra 

J.T.M. Evers and Marry Kooy (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 165-168; and Jeffery, “The International Court of Justice.” For the ICJ’s full decision, see https://www.icj-cij.org/.

17. Vine, Island of Shame, 101–02.

18. Richard Gifford and Richard P. Dunne, “A Dispossessed People: The Depopulation of the Chagos 

Archipelago 1965–1973,” Population, Space and Place 20, no. 1 (2014): 37-49; and Vine, Island of Shame; Jeffery, Forced Displacement.

19. Sir Paul Gore-Booth, quoted in Vine, Island of Shame, 91. Bird is a common slang word for woman 

in British English.

20. Jeffery, Forced Displacement; and Vine and Jeffery, “Give Us Back Diego Garcia,” in The Bases of Empire: The Global Struggle against U.S. Military Posts, ed. Catherine Lutz (New York: New York University 

Press): 191–200.

21. At the time of the Chagossians’ expulsions, the United Kingdom provided Mauritius with £650,000 

to help cover the costs of resettling the islanders. It is commonly agreed that this money was held up by the 

Mauritian government for too long to make a meaningful difference to the lives of the Chagossian refugees. 

In 1982, then, the UK government relented to pressure to provide an additional £4 million to the islanders. 

See Charles Cawley, Colonies in Conflict: The History of the British Overseas Territories (Newcastle-Upon-Tyne: 

Cambridge Scholars, 2015), 158. To this day, Chagossians who were removed to the Seychelles have received 

no financial compensation.

22. Jeffery, Forced Displacement; and Jeffery, ““Unusual Immigrants,” or, Chagos Islanders and their Confrontations with British Citizenship,” Anthropology in Action 18, no. 2 (2011): 33–44.

23. Vine, Island of Shame, 122–25.

24. David Snoxell, “The Politics of Chagos: Part Played by Parliament and the Courts Towards Resolving 

the Chagos Tragedy,” in Fifty Years of the British Indian Ocean Territory: Legal Perspectives, ed. Stephen Allen 

and Chris Monaghans (Cham: Springer, 2018).

25. See, for example, “Update on the British Indian Ocean Territory: Written statement,” 16 November 

2016, https://www.parliament.uk/; and Rycroft, “Questions on the British Indian Ocean Territory.”

26. Sand, “Diego Garcia: British-American Legal Black Hole in the Indian Ocean?” Journal of Environmental Law 21, no. 1 (2009): 113–37.

27. Contrary to what is frequently reported in the news media, the United States does not have a “lease” 

to cover its use of Diego Garcia. There is only an executive agreement between the UK and US governments—a form of international agreement that does not require legislative underpinning in either state. The 

only compensation received by the UK government in return for the provision of Diego Garcia was a USD 

14 million discount off the cost of Polaris missiles in the 1960s. See Sand, United States and Britain, 6–8.

28. In 1965, Queen Elizabeth II had vested legislative authority to one individual: the BIOT Commissioner (an official based in London). In 1971, the BIOT commissioner at the time (Bruce Galbraith) promulgated an immigration ordinance to ban all civilian habitation of the territory, providing legal underpin-
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nings for the expulsion of the Chagossians and for denials of their right of return. In its 2000 decision, the 

High Court ruled that this legislative instrument had been illegal because it is incumbent upon UK colonial 

authorities to govern according to the principles of peace, order, and good governance. Ridding a territory of 

its entire native population cannot be construed as in keeping with these principles, the court ruled.

29. Cook could have appealed to the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council, then the highest court of 

appeal in the UK judicial system. That he chose not to do so called into question London’s willingness and 

ability to keep the BIOT devoid of a permanent civilian population.

30. Ronan Cormacain, “Prerogative Legislation as the Paradigm of Bad Law-Making: The Chagos Islands,” Commonwealth Law Bulletin 39, no. 3 (2013): 487–508.

31. Between 2004 and 2012, the Chagossians fought the UK government all the way to the European 

Court of Human Rights (ECtHR). See Vine, “Decolonizing Britain in the 21st Century?: Chagos Islanders 

Challenge the Crown, House of Lords, 30 June‐3 July 2008,” Anthropology Today 24, no. 4 (2008), 26–28; 

Jeffery, “Chagossians Refused Right to Return Home: A Sequel to Vine (AT 24 [4]),” Anthropology Today 25, 

no. 1 (2009), 24–26; and Harris, “Dead End or Crossroads? The Chagossians Fail in Strasbourg,” Anthropology Today 29, no. 3 (2013), 26. The ECtHR ultimately declined to hear the Chagossians’ case, citing their 

receipt of financial compensation from the UK authorities in the 1980s.

32. John Madeley, “Diego Garcia: A Contrast to the Falklands,” Minority Rights Group No. 54 (London: 

Minority Rights Group, 1985 [1982]).

33. Campbell, “British Campaigners Arrested at Sea in Diego Garcia Protest,” Guardian, 12 March 2008, 

https://www.theguardian.com/.

34. Extraordinary renditions are defined as government-sponsored abductions and extrajudicial transfers 

of a person from one country to another with the intent of circumventing the former country’s laws on interrogation, detention, and/or torture.

35. These allegations intensified after the publication of the US Senate’s report into the CIA’s use of 

torture in 2014. See, for example, Peter Forster, “British Gave ‘Full Co-operation’ for CIA Black Jail on Diego 

Garcia, Report Claims,” Telegraph, 10 April 2014, https://www.telegraph.co.uk/.

36. Catherine Philp and Dominic Kennedy, “Study into Return of Chagos Islanders Was Manipulated, 

Consultant Claims,” Times, 22 April 2010, http://www.thetimes.co.uk/. A subsequent feasibility study conducted by the KPMG auditing firm found that resettlement was indeed possible, contrary to the findings of 

the government’s first study.

37. Oscar Webb, ‘UK Government Changes Its Line on Diego Flight Logs Sought in Rendition Row 

– Again,” VICE News, 12 September 2014, https://news.vice.com/.

38. See Laura Jeffery, “‘We Are the True Guardians of the Environment’: Human-Environment Relations and Debates about the Future of the Chagos Archipelago,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 

19, no. 2 (2013): 300–18.

39. See Fred Pearce, “Chagos Marine Reserve Polluted by Politics,” New Scientist, 24 September 2014, 

https://www.newscientist.com/; and Adam Tomkins, “Environmental Protection Versus the Right of Abode: 

A Case-Study in the Misuse of Power,” in Fifty Years of the British Indian Ocean Territory, ed. Allen and 

Monaghan, 43–54.

40. Jeffery, “Neither Confirm nor Deny: WikiLeaks Evidence and the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations in the Judicial Review of the Chagos Marine Protected Area,” Anthropology Today 30, no. 3 

(2014), 9–13.

41. Harris, “Why Law and Politics Matter for Marine Conservation: The Case of the Chagos Marine 

Protected Area,” Environmental Policy and Law 45, no. 5 (2015), 204–07.

42. Rycroft, “Questions on the British Indian Ocean Territory.”

43. Owen Bowcott, “EU Members Abstain and as Britain Defeated in UN Vote on Chagos Islands,” 

Guardian, 23 June 2017, https://www.theguardian.com/.

44. Sand, United States and Britain, 9.

45. See his “Perspectives of a UK Member Of Parliament: ‘Chagos, Just Plain Injustice,’” in Eviction from 

the Chagos Islands, ed. Evers and Kooy, 217–18.
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46. Owen Bowcott, “Corbyn Condemns May’s Defiance Chagos Islands Ruling,” Guardian, 1 May 2019, 

https://www.theguardian.com/.

47. Lest this be considered unlikely, it should be remembered that Robin Cook chose not to appeal the 

High Court’s 2000 decision restoring the legal right of return. Corbyn has been far more outspoken on the 

issue of the Chagossians’ rights than Cook ever was.

48. Sean Carey, “Government Will Drop Case against Chagos Islanders, Says Cable,” New Statesman, 13 

September 2010, https://www.newstatesman.com/.

49. It might even be possible that the United Kingdom’s withdrawal from the European Union (“Brexit”) 

will lead to the break-up of the kingdom into its constituent parts. How would the United Kingdom’s 14 

overseas territories be distributed among the successor states of the kingdom? Will a rump United Kingdom 

(i.e., England and Wales) want to keep them? The political ramifications of Brexit are impossible to fully predict.

50. Snoxell, “The Politics of Chagos,” 374.

51. Larus, “Diego Garcia: Political Clouds Over A Vital U.S. Base,” 54.

52. Mauritius is party to the African Nuclear-Weapon-Free-Zone (Pelindaba) Treaty, which, among 

other things, bans the stockpiling, possession, or stationing of nuclear weapons.

53. The island of Rodrigues is around 400 miles east of Mauritius. Although part of Mauritius since 

1968, it became an autonomous region in 2002. Unlike the Chagos Archipelago, Rodrigues does have a 

permanent civilian population (of over 40,000).

54. The Chagossians’ right to return to Chagos formed part of Mauritius’s submission to the ICJ.

55. Vine, “What If You Can’t Protest the Base? The Chagossian Exile, the Struggle for Democracy, and 

the Military Base on Diego Garcia,” South Atlantic Quarterly 111, no. 4 (2012): 847–56.

56. Jeffery, Forced Displacement, chapter 2; and Jeffery, “Victims and Patrons: Strategic Alliances and the 

Anti-Politics of Victimhood among Displaced Chagossians and their Supporters,” History and Anthropology 

17, no. 4 (2006): 297–312.

57. Engagement will need to be done carefully, learning from past mistakes made by the UK government. 

See Rebecca Rotter and Laura Jeffery, ““We No Longer Have Faith and Trust in Anyone”: Misadventures in 

Community Consultation on the Future of the Chagos Archipelago,” International Development and Planning Review 38, no. 4 (2016): 383–403.

58. The idea of turning the Great Chagos Bank into a UNESCO World Heritage Site is an old one. See, 

for example, Rodney V. Salm, “Coral Reefs in the Western Indian Ocean: A Threatened Heritage,” Ambio 12, 

no. 6 (1983): 349–353.

59. Jeffery, “‘We Are the True Guardians of the Environment’: Human-Environment Relations and Debates about the Future of the Chagos Archipelago,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 19, no. 2 

(2013): 300–18.

60. The United Kingdom claims an exclusive economic zone of over 245,000 square miles around Chagos.

61. See Erickson, Ladwig, and Mikolay, “Diego Garcia: Anchoring America’s Future Presence in the Indo 

Pacific,” Harvard Asia Quarterly 15, no. 2 (2013), 25–27.

62. Larus, “Diego Garcia: Political Clouds over a Vital U.S. Base.”

63. Ibid., 44.

64. Ibid., 53.
98 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020

DIGITAL-ONLY VIEW

China’s Rising Missile and Naval 

Capabilities in the Indo-Pacific Region

Security Implications for India and Its Allies

Thangavel K. Balasubramaniam

Ashok Kumar Murugesan

China’s military rise is a stepping stone toward China’s dream for global 

power, which inevitably poses a security threat to nations in the IndoPacific region.1

 This study uses the theoretical base of structural realism’s 

component of “offensive realism and defensive realism.”2 China’s doctrine of “offshore waters defense” with “open seas protection” enhances its comprehensive 

defense, counterattack, and deterrence capabilities near its territory and overseas 

maritime domain. However, China’s naval modernization, establishing overseas 

naval base, and militarization of ports represents security threats to countries in 

the Indo-Pacific region.

China’s military deployments in the South China Sea (SCS) and its missile 

capabilities pose security threats to India’s mainland and maritime security in the 

Indo-Pacific region. China’s energy requirements rely on the import of oil and 

natural gas through the Indian Ocean and Eastern Siberia–Pacific Ocean (ESPO) 

pipelines from Russia, but Beijing’s major energy transportation and maritime 

trade route transits through the Indian Ocean region. Therefore, to protect sea 

lines of communication (SLOC), China has established ports across the IndoPacific in addition to its overseas naval base in Djibouti.

China’s Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) provides benefits to the countries along 

its route. Additionally, the initiative fulfills Beijing’s global trade ambitions and 

energy requirements and supports China’s establishment of overseas military 

bases. To generate maritime connectivity, over the last decade China financed 35 

ports around the world, out of which 14 ports are located throughout the Indian 

Ocean region and three ports are in the Pacific Ocean.3 More than 85 percent of 

China’s oil import is transported across the Indian Navy–guarded Indian Ocean 

and passes through the Straits of Malacca. China’s Maritime Silk Road (MSR) 

mainly involves the SCS region and the Indian Ocean region. China needs to 

protect its SLOCs across these regions.

To build a powerful navy for the protection of seaborne transportation, strategic passageway for energy supplies, and exploitation of resources in international 

waters, the People’s Liberation Army Navy (PLAN) has pursued a rigorous re-
China’s Rising Missile and Naval Capabilities in the Indo-Pacific Region

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gime of modernization.4 India’s maritime influence in Indian Ocean region starts 

from the Gulf of Aden to the Straits of Malacca. To gain parity in the region, 

China has established an overseas military base in Djibouti and developed a port 

in Hambantota, Sri Lanka. China also developed the port of Kuantan port on the 

east coast of Malaysia, which connects the SCS and the Indian Ocean. These 

ports and overseas military bases are strategically located on the sea lane of the 

MSR, encroaching upon India’s maritime domain. This causes greater strategic 

deterrence for India’s maritime security in the Indian Ocean.

China’s Defense and Offensive Capability to Secure the Maritime 

Silk Road in the Indo-Pacific Region

The state of advancements in technology is the vital point of offense as well as 

defence for attrition and strengthening China’s security. To secure its global trade 

and exploit energy resources, Beijing is building its military’s offensive and defensive powers in the Indo-Pacific region and expanding it blue water naval 

might. Hence, China is determined to increase its number of nuclear-powered 

submarines, ballistic missile launch submarines (SSBN), aircraft carriers, surface 

combat ships, intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBM), medium-range ballistic 

missiles (MRBM), and combat aircraft to strengthen its comprehensive security 

in the Indo-Pacific region. This section investigates Chinese deployments in the 

SCS and its arms capabilities that deter New Delhi and India’s allies in the IndoPacific region.

The militarization of artificial islands in the natural resource–rich SCS through 

the establishment of air force bases and naval dockyards in the Spratly Islands 

(Subi Reef, Fiery Cross Reef, and Mischief Reef ) and Paracels (Woody Island) 

pose security threats to neighboring countries in the region. In May 2016, the 

PLAN conducted extensive naval deployments in the SCS, Western Pacific, and 

in the eastern Indian Ocean. Also, a PLAN task force conducted maritime interdiction training in the Indian Ocean region.5

 In December 2016, the PLAN’s first 

aircraft carrier, Liaoning, conducted a task-group integration training exercise in 

the SCS region. To increase maritime capability, China commissioned a domestically designed and produced aircraft carrier, the Shandong, which entered service 

in 2019.6 Additionally, the PLAN’s first nuclear-powered aircraft carrier will 

likely enter service by 2025.7 This latter aircraft carrier will greatly enhance China’s 

naval capability for blue water naval operations, strengthening its maritime defense power to protect its MSR initiatives in the Indo-Pacific and Arctic regions. 

Eventually, China plans to field four aircraft carriers into PLAN service by 2030, 

with an advanced electromagnetic catapult to launch aircraft from the carrier 
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deck.8 China is significantly ahead of India’s aircraft carrier program; although, 

India’s three aircraft carriers currently under construction will probably come into 

operation roughly the same time as China’s new carrier are slated to roll out for 

the PLAN.

To protect natural resources and promote Beijing’s stance on the many maritime territorial dispute with China’s neighbors in the SCS, the PLAN deployed 

more naval forces in the South Sea fleet equipped with Jin-class SSBNs, Shang 

I-class nuclear attack submarines, and missile patrol craft, when compared to its 

North and East Sea fleets.9 Also, the PLAN categorizes its theater missile defense 

(TMD) as a layered maritime defensive system to provide offensive and defensive 

security challenges in the East China Sea and SCS regions. Beijing’s defensive 

layer ranges from 540 to 1,000 Nautical miles (nm), which covers Japan, the SCS, 

the Philippines, Brunei, and the Straits of Malacca strait. These regions are patrolled by submarines and occasionally engaged by anti-ship ballistic missiles for 

long-range maritime strike in this region to strengthen China’s antiaccess/area 

denial (A2/AD) capability in the SCS region.10

As part of China’s military exercises and practice of militarizing islands in the 

SCS, the People’s Liberation Army Air Force (PLAAF) landed a H-6K nuclearcapable, long-range strategic bomber on Woody Island.11 This bomber carries six 

electro-optic or infrared imaging guided air-launched cruise missiles capable of 

precision striking.12 The H-6K’s strike range is enhanced from the base 3,500 

km–range to a heightened 5,000 km–range by the incorporation of the CJ-20 

air-launched Land-Attack Cruise Missile (LACM) for conventional/nuclear 

strike. From the SCS, the CJ-20 is capable of reaching Singapore, Thailand, the 

Philippines, Vietnam, Indonesia, and Malaysia in the first island chain. The missile plays a vital role for China in the SCS region, as it helps to overcome refuelling of combat aircraft from its nearest air bases from outposts in the SCS. It also 

strengthens the offensive capability of China through the air without flying over 

air defence identification zones (ADIZ) of other countries; thus, avoiding the 

need for authorization of overflight rights and evading missile defense systems, 

such as Vietnam’s Russian-made surface-to-air S-300 antiaircraft missile system. 

Additionally, China’s man-made islands in the SCS equipped with DF-15 shortrange ballistic missiles, HQ-9B surface-to-air missiles, and a ground-launched 

variant of the YJ-12B missile, which, along with H-6K strategic bomber, pose 

significant threats to India’s maritime trade with Association of Southeast Asian 

Nations (ASEAN) countries across the region.

To strike highly secured and military significant targets, China developed the 

DF-ZF hypersonic glide vehicle (HGV), through ballistic missile boosters. 

HGVs can pull-up after reentering the atmosphere and approach the target in a 
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relatively flat glide, lessening the time it can be detected, fired at, or reengaged if 

an initial attack fails. Gliding makes the weapon more maneuverable and extends 

its range. The People’s Liberation Army Rocket Force (PLARF) tested the DF17 MRBM for carrying the DF-ZF to deliver both conventional and nuclear 

payloads against targets. The DF-ZF is expected to become operational in 2020.13

This weapon system is capable of reaching the Andaman Sea and Straits of Malacca, if it strategically operated from Hainan Island in China’s southern theater 

command.14 It could also reach Visakhapatnam and the Bay of Bengal region if it 

strategically operated from Xizang in China’s Western theater command. THE 

HGV travels with hypersonic speed and could reach a maximum terminal velocity of Mach 10, which makes it challenging for conventional missile defense systems to intercept at the terminal phase of flight. With high impulse, it is capable 

of penetrating to intercept aircraft carriers or unmanned warships and ultimately 

destroy the targets accurately and quickly, before command and control, battle 

management, and communication (C2BMC) reacts to determine its optimized 

trajectory for target destination. This HGV will deter India’s naval presence across 

the Indo-Pacific region.

China deployed the DF-26 intermediate-range hip ballistic missile for conventional or nuclear strike within the range of 4,023 km,15 which is capable of a 

precision strike on surface combatants far from the Chinese coast. This weapon 

strengthens China’s theater missile defense in the Pacific region. If this dual-use 

DF-26 is strategically operated from Hainan Island to attack land targets, it is 

capable of reaching the central region of India, the entire eastern coast of India, 

the Straits of Malacca, and Guam in the Pacific Ocean. China’s advanced hyperspectral imaging satellite (able to scan the different nature of object using a wide 

band of the electromagnetic spectrum) with incorporation of command, control, 

communications, computers, intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance 

(C4ISR) will support ballistic, cruise missiles, and antiship ballistic missiles 

(ASBM) for precision-strike on moving targets (aircraft carriers and surface combatants) in the Indo-Pacific region. To strengthen long-range offensive striking 

capabilities, China developed the strategic CSS-X-20/Dong Feng 41 (DF-41) 

ICBM with a range of 12,000km to 15,000 km. It is capable of carrying 10 multiple independent re-entry vehicles (MIRV) with a conventional or nuclear payload capacities of 2,500 kg. Its nuclear warheads can yield up to 150 Kiloton on 

each MIRV.16 The DF-41 operated from China’s Western theater command is 

capable of reaching the central part of India in less than five minutes or striking 

any location in India and the Indo-Pacific region. Furthermore, China is developing next-generation tactical nuclear weapons,17 which are capable of devastating 

designated targets in the Indian Ocean littoral region.
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PLAN Submarines and Surface Combat Capability 

to Protect MSR in the Indo-Pacific Region

The PLAN modernized its Type-093 nuclear-powered attack submarines to 

carry YJ-18 submarine-launched antiship cruise missiles to countermeasure enemies’ destroyers and missile threats. Additionally, China has deployed more PLAN 

submarines to patrol and secure its SLOCs. The PLAN currently has two Shang 

I-class (Type-093) SSNs, four Shang II-class attack submarines (Type-093A) 

with acoustic quietening technologies to reduce the noise for stealth mode of 

operation, and four Jin-class (Type-094) SSBNs. According to a United States 

Department of Defense report, the latter sub can carry 12 JL-2 nuclear-armed 

SLBMs and has a strike range of 7,400 km. With this striking range, the JL-2 is 

capable of reaching any location in India, Australia, and naval bases in the Indian 

Ocean region, as well as certain parts of Alaska.

Next, the PLAN’s next-generation Type-096 SSBN will likely be commissioned in 2020 and is expected to be armed with armed with next-generation 

JL-3 SLBMs. Thus, in 2020, the PLAN submarine inventory is expected to include 58 submarines, of which 48 are SSK-Diesel-electric power submarines and 

10 are nuclear-powered submarines.18 Compared to China, India has less than 

half the number of conventionally powered and nuclear-powered submarines. To 

avoid human errors and enhance faster response under crucial situations, China 

is developing artificial intelligence for navigation and combat-control actions for 

its submarines, aimed at making appropriate decisions without human intervention. By 2020, most of the PLAN’s submarines will be armed with advanced 

long-range ASBMs.19

The PLAN has a plethora of surface combatants to patrol and protect its aircraft 

carriers, including Type-054A frigates; Type-056 and Type-056A corvettes; and 

Type-052B, Type 052C, and Type-052D destroyers. Nevertheless, to prove China’s 

maritime superiority in the Indo-Pacific region, Beijing developed Asia’s largest 

surface combat vessel: the Type-055 destroyer, a class of stealth guided missile 

destroyers designed for multimission roles, including area air defense and antisubmarine warfare capabilities surpassing previous Chinese surface combatants. At 

present, four Type-055 destroyers are in service. The PLAN has equipped these 

ships with 112 universal canister-based vertical launch missile modules to strike 

targets at various ranges from hundreds to thousands of kilometers, utilizing YJ-18 

long-range ASCMs (with up to a 500 km-range to strike the target at supersonic 

velocity of Mach 3), HHQ-9 surface-to-air missiles (with a maximum 100 kmrange), and CJ-10 land-attack cruise missiles (with target maximum range of 2,000 

km), and torpedo-carrying antisubmarine missiles. To destroy the target in the 
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range of 100 nautical miles, China is looking to incorporate electromagnetic rail 

guns into warships to fire the warheads with the hypersonic velocity of Mach 7, 

enabling them to destroy targets with high momentum at a longer distance. This 

hypersonic naval gun will likely be fielded on the Type-055A destroyer, which is 

expected to enter service by 2025.20 To compete with global maritime powers, 

China has announced plans to build 500 warships by 2030,21 this could elevate the 

PLAN to be the strongest naval power in Indo-Pacific region.

Though China’s neighbors are increasing their A2/AD capabilities,22 China 

keeping pace with its commitment to develop advanced military technologies. 

The PLAN is improving its over-the-horizon (OTH) radar,23 which uses lowfrequency electromagnetic waves to reflect off the ionosphere and travel over a 

long distance beyond the horizon with less attenuation to detect long-range targets. OTH radar can support China’s early warning systems. Additionally, the 

PLAN is developing reconnaissance satellites, which are capable of locating the 

target over thousands of kilometers and support China’s long-range precision 

strike of targets from its mainland. Development of the DN-3 exo-atmospheric 

HGV hit-to-kill missile interceptor, real-time surveillance capabilities, reconnaissance, cruise missiles, PL-15 long-range air-to-air missile, ASBMs, multi-kilowatt 

fiber optic strategic laser weapons, new-generation surface combatants, and microwave weapons strengthen China’s A2/AD capability to defend threats from 

neighboring regions.

In addition to the aforementioned defense technology developments, China is 

committed to developing quantum information technology for unhackable data 

transfer in cyberspace for secure communications. In August 2016, China launched 

the world’s first quantum satellite: the Quantum Experiments at Space Scale 

(QUESS).24 The following year, China successfully carried out the first communication by using quantum encrypted messages with entangled photons for secure 

communication. This pioneering work led to the building of the world’s first 

quantum network between Beijing and Shanghai for secure communication. 

Quantum encryption ensures that efforts to tamper with communications are 

instantly known by sender and receiver alike, using quantum key distribution, and 

alters the content of the message being sent. China aims to build its quantum key 

distribution for quantum communication network by 2020 and for global communication by 2030.25 Additionally, QUESS will be a useful to perform spacescale tests on photon teleportation experiments, establishing quantum networks 

at space-scale to transfer entangled photons for unhackable secure communication around the globe. Chinese defense agencies will probably implement these 

developments in advanced quantum technology in the Strategic Support Force 
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(SSF), combat control, ballistic missile defense (to identify the nature of warheads), and maritime navigation for naval ships.

Stealth Breaking Quantum Technological Capabilities of China

By overcoming the challenge of decoherence of entangled photons in the turbulent atmosphere over a long distance, China can construct “quantum radar” to 

locate stealth objects at great distances—potentially thousands of kilometers.26

Quantum radar can unmask stealth fighter aircraft and stealth missiles at long 

ranges, essentially rendering stealth technology obsolete, including “cyber stealth” 

that causes virtual disappearance of aircraft in radar by an onboard sophisticated 

software program that nullifies the image of aircraft in the opponent radar network systems.

China’s Indo-Pacific Maritime Strategy in Sri Lanka

Sino-Sri Lankan defense relations were established during the presidency of 

Mahinda Rajapaksa. From Beijing’s perspective, the Liberation Tigers of Tamil 

Eelam (LTTE) terrorist organization was a potential threat and hindrance to 

China’s future investments in Sri Lanka. Additionally, the LTTE’s sea control 

capability irked China. In April 2007, Sri Lanka signed an agreement with China 

to purchase the 37.6 million USD worth of weapons,27 including Jian fighter jets, 

antiaircraft guns, and 3D surveillance radars.28 In the final years of the island’s 

civil war, China delivered weapons to warehouses in Galle, on the southern coast 

of Sri Lanka. These were immediately distributed to battlefields in the northeastern part of the island to support the Sri Lankan military.29 China granted 1564 

million Sri Lankan Rupees to construct an auditorium at the Sri Lanka Military 

Academy at Diyathalawa.30 In addition, Sri Lanka procured six MA-60 aircraft 

from China, worth of 105.4 million USD.31

When the civil war persisted in Sri Lanka, the United States declared the 

LTTE as a deadly terrorist organization, hoping to curb its terrorist attacks and 

strangle its global criminal network.32 The United States provided more military 

equipment to improve Sri Lanka’s maritime security against the LTTE, including 

sophisticated maritime radar and training Sri Lankan soldiers counterterrorism 

tactics in Sri Lanka.33 However, according to Beijing, it was China’s aid that led 

to the annihilation of LTTE and secured China a position for preferred partnership in future investments. China influenced Sri Lanka through infrastructure 

development projects, offering economic “support” in the form of loans, which 

instead of helping the island rebuild on a stable financial foundation, seduced Sri 

Lankan leaders into a “debt trap.” Then, when the Sri Lankan government was 
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unable to make payments, China took over its assets to establish its MSR infrastructure project in Sri Lanka.

The construction of the Hambantota port commenced in 2008. By 2010, Beijing 

had invested 1.5 billion USD in the project. In December 2017, Sri Lanka, unable 

to make its payments on the port, handed over the Hambantota Port to China for 

99 years. Additionally, Sri Lanka allowed China to construct special economic 

zones. The strategic location of this port is only a few nautical miles from the main 

sea lane of the MSR in the Indian Ocean, which connects the Straits of Malacca 

to China. Sri Lanka decided to move its Southern Naval command to Hambantota Port to protect its special economic zone in the southern province of Sri Lanka.34 Though, currently, it is used as commercial port, in the future, the Hambantota 

port could act as a naval dockyard for China in the Indian Ocean. This would give 

China an easy means to move its fleet in the Indian Ocean very near to India’s 

sphere of influence in the southern part of India, posing a serious security threat to 

southeastern India. Moreover, another Sino–Sri Lankan venture, the Colombo 

Port City Project (CPCP) would be a transit trade hub for China in the IndoPacific region, and once again poses a serious debt trap for the island.

China’s Indo-Pacific Strategy in Pakistan

China is developing a China–Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) as a BRI 

infrastructure development project. India has long objected to the CPEC, as a 

portion of the project’s route passes through Pakistan-occupied Kashmir.

Additionally, China has built the largest deepwater seaport at Gwadar, Pakistan, as a part of the SLOCs for the MSR. To contain China, India built Chahabar Port in Iran on the Gulf of Oman, as part of an India–Iran–Afghanistan 

partnership. To secure the Gwadar port, China decided to build an overseas naval 

base in Jiwani, near Gwadar port, in Pakistan’s Balochistan province. The strategic 

location of this naval base places it near both Chahabar and Gwadar.

Aside from the development of infrastructure projects in Pakistan, China provides conventional weapons, including warships, fighters, short-range missiles, 

and diesel submarines to Pakistan, which serves to contain India, China’s giant 

competitor on the Asian continent. China sold Pakistan 48 units of Wing Loong 

II medium-altitude long-endurance multirole drones, which are designed to 

carry air-to-surface missiles and laser-guided bombs.35 This multirole drone can 

be utilized for combat and surveillance operations against India. Additionally, 

China provides military support to Pakistan to maintain regional strategic 

stability,36 which protects China’s strategic plan in Pakistan for its BRI project. 

India tested the nuclear-capable Agni-V ICBM, which has a strike range of 

5,000 km and is capable of reaching the Chinese mainland. To deter India’s mis-
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sile development, China provides technical assistance to Pakistan for its missile 

development programs.

Pakistan is engaged in developing MIRVs and, in January 2017, successfully 

conducted its first test launch of its nuclear-capable Ababeel surface-to-surface 

MRBM with MIRV. To identify the missile, high-quality imaging optics are essential for gathering visual information of missile from its launch to different 

phases of flight and reentry of warhead into the atmosphere. This optical tracking 

system with an integrated telescope will track the MIRV at a different phase of 

flight and trace the trajectory of the terminal phase projection of its warheads.37

The tracking system is an essential component to accelerate the missile development program to support Pakistan’s program. China sold optical tracking and 

measurement systems to Pakistan that were developed by the Chinese Academy 

of Sciences’ Institute of Optics and Electronics. China’s assistance will accelerate 

Pakistan’s missile developments, which inevitably raise security threats to India 

and help Pakistan to monitor India’s space defense programs.

North Korea’s Missile Threats in the Indio-Pacific Region

In addition to China’s rising missile threat, Sino–North Korea relations also 

threaten regional stability in the Indo-Pacific. Although, Beijing condemns 

Pyongyang’s nuclear arms and missile tests, both countries maintain diplomatic 

relations under strain. China calls for lifting international sanctions on North 

Korea to avoid the collapse of Kim Jong-un’s regime,38 because China’s investments in the Korean Peninsula depend on North Korea, Pyongyang’s political 

and economic stability is an important concern for China. In addition, North 

Korea’s financial requirements depends on Beijing’s aid. Beyond this, both countries want to deter the US presence in the Korean Peninsula. The US military’s 

demoployment of the Terminal High Altitude Area Defense (THAAD) ballistic 

missile interceptor in South Korea hinders North Korea and Beijing’s ballistic 

missile tests.38 Beijing’s goal in leveraging its influence in North Korea is for a 

quid pro quo to weaken US alliance in this region. On May 2017, North Korea 

successfully tested its Hwasong-12 mobile intermediate-range ballistic missile 

(IRBM), which has a maximum strike range of 4,500 km.39 When fully operational, this missile will have the capability of reaching northeastern India, the 

northern part of the Bay of Bengal, and the western entrance to the Straits of 

Malacca if it is strategically operated from South Hwanghae Province in western 

North Korea. Furthermore, North Korea developed long-range nuclear-capable 

missiles, testing two Hwasong-14 (KN-20) ICBMs in July 2017, which traveled 

on highly lofted trajectories that over the Sea of Japan, east of North Korea.40

These ICBMs have a strike range of 10,000 km, enabling Pyongyang to strike 
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India and as far away as Hawaii, including the US Pacific Missile Range Facility, 

Barking Sands. North Korea’s commitment to developing long-range nuclearcapable missiles and IRBMs pose security threats to the countries and military 

assets in the Indo-Pacific Region.

Are India–Indonesia Bilateral Relations a Game Changer 

in Indo-Pacific Region?

On 29–30 May 2018, Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi visited Indonesia. 

During his visit, Modi and Indonesian president Joko Widodo discussed the 

views of two countries regarding maritime cooperation for promotion of peace, 

and economic development (including defense manufacturing) in the IndoPacific. The bilateral relationship between these two countries and the creation of 

a naval base for India at Sabang Island represent a significant strategic deterrent 

and vulnerable choke point to China in the Straits of Malacca.41 Sabang lies at a 

strategic location near the straits, meaning Chinese vessels would have to pass 

through Indian Navy–controlled waters in the Andaman Islands.

Sabang’s port is ideal for military vessels, including submarines, serving as a 

naval dockyard for India and Indonesia to establish a combined naval base in this 

region.42 India’s naval base in the Andaman Islands and maritime involvement in 

Sabang Port will create a vulnerable choke point for China to access the western 

approach to the Straits of Malacca in the Indian Ocean, potentially forcing China 

to seek alternate sea lanes of transportation for its trade and energy requirements. 

One alternative might be the proposed Kra Canal in Thailand, which, if realized, 

would connect the Gulf of Thailand with the Andaman Sea.

Conclusion

China’s commitment to develop new naval, avionics, missiles, direct energy 

weapons, artificial intelligence technologies and advanced materials for state-ofart technology and quantum communications will raise China’s comprehensive 

(land, air, maritime forces, and cyber space) defense capabilities and further Beijing’s intent to become a global superpower. The advances also strengthen China’s 

abilities to protect its SLOCs in the Indo-Pacific region and expand its blue water 

naval capabilities—including aircraft carriers, nuclear-powered submarines, and 

SSBNs—and improve its global trade and hunt for energy resources.

Besides weapons developments, China’s military strategy in other countries, 

particularly in Sri Lanka and Pakistan, also plays a vital role in deterring its adversaries in the region. To strengthen India’s maritime security, it is necessary to analyze China’s strategy in Sri Lanka and Pakistan. In the future, the strategic loca-
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tion of these two countries supports China’s ability to project immediate offense 

force against India, greatly deterring India’s security strategy in Asia and the Indian Ocean region. North Korea’s threat in the Indo-Pacific is also a great concern 

for the United States, its allies, and friends.

The rise of China as a superpower will govern the geo-economics and geopolitics of the BRI in the Indo-Pacific. Thus, it is necessary for other actors in the 

region to seek balance for the trade and military power in the region to assure a 

free-and-open Indo-Pacific region.

Security Implications and Policy Prescriptions

The eastern part of India is prone to be highly insecure due to its proximity to 

China’s strategic launch locations and missile capabilities, specifically China’s new 

HGV, which is capable of reaching vital Indian naval assets in Visakhapatnam 

and air force assets in Hyderabad. The DF-26 is also capable of reaching any portion of India’s eastern coast—as is the JL-2, which could launch from anywhere in 

Chinese waters. China’s surveillance activity in the South Pacific from its optical 

tracing system in Vanuatu, Beijing’s ensnaring of Sri Lanka and control of that 

island’s ports, and the PLAN’s increasing maritime activity in the Indian Ocean 

endangers southeastern India.

India’s naval capability should be increased in eastern and southeastern of India 

to deter the Chinese maritime threat. Doing so will also ensure the maritime security of the Bay of Bengal region. The Eastern Naval Command at Visakhapatnam is insufficient to protect the entire eastern coast of India. We suggest the 

establishment of an additional naval command at Chennai and two new naval-air 

bases in that eastern naval command to confront Chinese threats to Chittagong 

Port in Bangladesh, Sittwe Port in Myanmar, and the future Kra Canal region. 

The exiting Indian Air Force training base at Kodiyakarai should be upgraded to 

a Naval Air Base, as it is a strategically important location for containing Sri 

Lanka’s Palaly Military Base formerly Jaffna International Airport, which was 

recently converted to a Sri Lankan Air Force base. Other naval-air bases would be 

appropriately located between Thoothukudi and Kanyakumari in the Indian state 

of Tamil Nadu to confront tactical multidirectional attack and undermine the 

first-strike capability of China. Also, the Ministry of Defense must strengthen 

INS Parundu naval air base at Uchipuli, (Tamil Nadu), and Thanjavur Air Force 

Station (Tamil Nadu) to thwart the growing Chinese presence near the Sri 

Lankan island of Katchatheevu and Northern Province of Sri Lanka. To deter 

China’s maritime strategy in Thailand, India must establish a combined naval base 

with Thailand in Surat Thani province to strengthen India’s future maritime security and to choke the PLAN’s fleet in the Indian Ocean region.
China’s Rising Missile and Naval Capabilities in the Indo-Pacific Region

JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 109

It is appropriate to establish integrated three-layer missile defense in the northeastern and southeastern parts of India to strengthen missile defense against security threats from the Chinese mainland, South Pacific, and Indian Ocean. We also 

call for the establishment of a multitier missile defense along with direct energy 

weapons in northern India to deter missile threats from China’s western theater 

command. These latter measures will also defend the Eastern Naval Command 

and northern part of the Bay of Bengal from the threat of China’s new HGV.

China’s advanced ballistic missile technology challenges India’s ability protect 

its land and maritime domains. It is appropriate to incorporate Indian navy 

battleships with free-electron lasers to defend against existing and future ballistic 

missile threats.

To deter against China’s stealth-breaking Quantum technology, India’s stealth 

aircraft must be improved—possibly through the use of multicolor entangled 

photon cloaking with additional quantum-state processes—to attain air superiority over China in the Indo-Pacific.

To deter China in Sri Lanka, we propose establishing joint air force bases in 

Trincomalee and Batticaloa, creating greater defense cooperation between Indian and Sri Lankan Air Forces and weaning the island from its dependence on 

China and Pakistan. Moreover, India and the United States must put diplomatic 

pressure on Colombo to reach a federal solution to the island’s prolonged 

ethnoreligious conflict.

Finally, we argue for the need to develop an architecture of comprehensive security not just for balancing but collective security measures for maintaining order 

and security in the Indo-Pacific region by India and its allies. 

Thangavel K. Balasubramaniam

Mr. Thangavel is a doctoral candidate at the Department of Politics and International Studies, Pondicherry University, India. He taught public policy analysis and international relations for six years. His areas of interest are China 

in international relations and peace and conflict resolution in Sri Lanka.

Ashok Kumar Murugesan

Mr. Ashok Kumar is a doctoral candidate at the Department of Physics, Pondicherry University, India. His areas of 

research are computational electrodynamics and experimental nonlinear optics. He is additionally interested in defense strategy and policy.

Notes

1. Author Thangavel K. Balasubramaniam acknowledges Professor P. Moorthy, dean of the School of 

Social Sciences and International Studies, Pondicherry University, for his constant encouragement, and author Ashok Kumar Murugesan acknowledges Dr. Alok Sharan, Department of Physics, Pondicherry Univer-
110 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020

Balasubramaniam & Murugesan

sity, for providing the opportunity to carry out this research. Both the authors would like to thank the editor, 

Journal of Indo-Pacific Affairs, and the anonymous reviewers for their comments.

2. John J. Mearsheimer, “Structural Realism,” in International Relations Theories: Discipline and Diversity, 

ed. Timothy Dunne, Milja Kurki, and Steve Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 71–94.

3. Maria Abi-Habib, “How China Got Sri Lanka to Cough Up a Port,” New York Times, 25 June 2018, 

https://www.nytimes.com/.

4. Andrew S. Erickson, “The Growth of China’s Navy: Implications for Indian Ocean Security,” Strategic 

Analysis 32, no. 4 (2008): 655–76.

5. Office of the Secretary of Defense, Annual Report to Congress: Military and Security Developments Involving the People’s Republic of China 2017 (Washington, DC: Department of Defense, 2017), 3, https://dod

.defense.gov/.

6. Kyle Mizokami, “Meet Shandong, China’s Second Aircraft Carrier,” Popular Mechanics, 19 December 

2019, https://www.popularmechanics.com/.

7. Mike Yeo, “China to Develop Its First Nuclear-Powered Aircraft Carrier,” Defense News, March 2018, 

https://www.defensenews.com/.

8. Minnie Chan, “China Has Started Building Its Third Aircraft Carrier,” South China Morning Post, 

January 2018, https://www.scmp.com/.

9. US Office of Naval Intelligence, The PLA Navy New Capabilities and Missions for 21st Century (Washington, DC: Department of Defense, 2015), 11, https://fas.org/.

10. Ibid., 6.

11. Zhenhua Lu, “China Angers US after Landing War Planes, including H-6K Bomber on South 

China Sea Reef,” South China Morning Post, May 2018, https://www.scmp.com/.

12. Office of the Secretary of Defense (OSD), Annual Report to Congress: Military and Security Developments Involving the People’s Republic of China 2018 (Washington, DC: Department of Defense, 2018), 62, 

https://media.defense.gov/.

13. Ankit Panda, “Introducing the DF-17: China’s Newly Tested Ballistic Missile Armed With a Hypersonic Glide Vehicle,” The Diplomat, December 2017, https://thediplomat.com/.

14. OSD, Annual Report to Congress.

15. Harry J. Kazianis, “China’s DF-26 Anti-Ship Ballistic Missile: What Does the Pentagon Really 

Think?,” National Interest, 18 May 2016, http://nationalinterest.org/.

16. Andrew Tate, “China Moves Closer to Commissioning DF-41 ICBM after Latest Test Launch,”

Jane’s Defense Weekly, June 2018, http://www.janes.com/.

17. Ellen Mitchell, “China Pushing New Generation of Nuclear Weapons: Report,” The Hill, May 2018, 

http://thehill.com/.

18. Ronald O’Rourke, China Naval Modernization: Implications for U.S. Navy Capabilities: Background 

and Issues for Congress (Washington, DC: Congressional Research Service, 2018), 18, https://fas.org/.

19. Ibid., 113.

20. Jeffrey Lin and P.W. Singer, “China Launched Two More Massive Type 055 Warships,” Popular Science, July 2018, https://www.popsci.com/.

21. Peter Roberts, “China’s 500-Ship Navy Suddenly Appears on the Horizon,” RUSI, February 2017, 

https://rusi.org/.

22. Michael Beckley, “The Emerging Military Balance in East Asia,” International Security 42, no. 2 (Fall, 

2017): 78–119.

23. OSD, Annual Report to Congress: 2017, 57.

24. Xinhua, “Feature: A Life of Quantum Entanglement,” Xinhuanet, July 2017, http://www.xinhuanet.com/.

25. Tate Nurkin, Kelly Bedard, James Clad, Cameron Scott, and Jon Grevatt, “China’s Advance Weapon 

Systems,” Jane’s by IHS Markit, May 2018, 101, https://www.uscc.gov/.

26. Stephen Chen, “The End of Stealth?: New Chinese Radar Capable of Detecting ‘Invisible’ Targets 

100km Away,” South China Morning Post, 21 September, 2016, https://www.scmp.com/.
China’s Rising Missile and Naval Capabilities in the Indo-Pacific Region

JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 111

27. Malathi D. Alwis, “The China Factor in Post War Sri Lanka,” Inter Asia Cultural Studies 11, no. 3 

(February 2012): 434–46.

28. Jonas Lindberg, Camila Orjuela, Siemon Wezeman, and Linda Akerstrom, eds., Arms Trade with Sri 

Lanka: Global Business, Local Costs (Stockholm: Swedish Peace and Arbitration Society, 2012).

29. Ibid., 45.

30. Sri Lankan Army “Chinese Defense Minster Offers Monetary Grants for Construction of Diyatalawa Academy Auditorium Complex; Secretary Defense Signs Agreement,” https://www.army.lk/.

31. Bandula Sirimanna, “China to Build Military Housing North – East,” The Sunday Times (Sri Lanka), 

November 2012, http://www.sundaytimes.lk/.

32. Bruce Vaughn, Sri Lanka: Background and U.S. Relations (Washington, DC: Congressional Research 

Service, 2011), https://fas.org/.

33. “Sri Lanka Navy Gets US Radar, Boats,” Lanka Business Online, November 2007, http://www.lanka 

businessonline.com/.

34. “Sri Lanka to Shift Naval Base to China-controlled Port City,” Reuters, July 2018, https://www

.reuters.com/.

35. Huang Panyue, “China, Pakistan to Jointly Manufacture Chinese Aerial Drones: Report’, China 

Military Online, October 2018, http://eng.chinamil.com.cn/.

36. Simbal Khan, “Why Did China Announce Its Support for Pakistan’s Missile Development Program?,” Arab News, 16 December 2018, http://www.arabnews.com/.

37. Stephen Chen, “China Provides Tracking System for Pakistan’s Missile Programme’,” South China 

Morning Post, 22 March 2018, https://www.scmp.com/.

38. Eleanor Albert, “The China–North Korea Relationship,” Council on Foreign Relations, 25 June 2019. 

https://www.cfr.org/.

39. Jaganath Sankaran and Bryan Leo Fearey, Missile Defense and Strategic Stability: Terminal High Altitude Area Defense (THAAD) in South Korea, LA-UR-16-21377 (Washington, DC: Department of Energy 

Office of Scientific and Technical Information, 11 April 2017), https://www.osti.gov/.

40. US Department of Defense, Department of Defense Press Briefing on the President’s Fiscal Year 2019

(Washington, DC: Defense Budget for the Missile Defense Agency, 2018), https://www.defense.gov/.

41. Ministry of External Affairs, Government of India, “Shared Vision of India-Indonesia Maritime 

Cooperation in the Indo-Pacific,” May 2018. (New Delhi), https://www.mea.gov.in/.

42. Ankit Panda, “India Poised to Gain Access to Indonesia’s Sabang Island,” The Diplomat, May 2018, 

https://thediplomat.com/.
112 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020

DIGITAL-ONLY FEATURE

Caught in the Middle

An Empirical Assessment of the Impact of the Trade War 

and Beijing’s Taishang Incentive Policies on the Taishang’s 

Movement in and out of Mainland China

Dr. Kelan (Lilly) Lu

Kuan-­Wu Chen

Abstract

What is the impact of the US–China trade war on Taiwanese direct investment 

(TDI) in mainland China, by Taiwanese businesspeople, or “Taishang”? Are the 

Taishang incentive policies issued by Beijing and implemented by the Chinese 

local governments effective in keeping Taishang from withdrawing from mainland China, especially during the trade war period? With the newly available TDI 

data from the Republic of China Ministry of Economic Affairs, we utilized the 

difference-in-difference (DID) estimation upon the monthly data of TDI within 

31 provinces in China in 2018. We found that the third wave of the trade war did 

not have any statistically significant impact on cumulative TDI or monthly manufacturing TDI, despite some negative impact on the nonmanufacturing TDI. 

We also found that the Taishang incentive policies play a significant role in attracting Taishang and was not weakened by the outbreak of the trade war.

Introduction

What is the impact of the US–China trade war on Taishang? Are the Taishang 

incentive policies issued by Beijing and implemented by the Chinese local governments effective in keeping Taishang from withdrawing from mainland China, 

especially during the trade war period? None of the existing studies have empirically examined the effect of the coexistence of the trade war and the Taishang 

incentives policies. Existing qualitative analyses have shared the concern that the 

close trade relationship across the Strait and its important role in global supply 

chain, and the volatile US–China relationship make it unavoidable for Taishang 

to suffer loss in this trade war. Thus, Taishang are expected to be the major losers 

in the US–China trade tensions. Despite this, Taishang have been granted significant preferential policies by the Chinese national and local governments to 

help Taishang maintain sustainable development in mainland China. Therefore, 

during the US–China trade war, Taishang faced both risks and opportunities in 

mainland China. It is important to conduct serious empirical investigation on 
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how the interaction between the risks (i.e., the trade war) and the opportunities 

(i.e., the Taishang-preferential policies) impact the Taishangs’ movement in and 

out of China.

To better explore these questions, we first review the cross-Strait economic relationship and analyze the rationale on the impact of trade war and Taishang incentive policies on Taishangs’ movement in and out of mainland China. Then, we 

utilize the monthly TDI data and conduct empirical analysis on whether Taishangs’ 

movement in and out of China has been affected by the outbreak of the trade war, 

the issuing of the Taishang-preferential policies by the Chinese local governments, 

and the interactions between the two. Next, we analyze our empirical findings. 

Last, but not the least, we summarize this article and make a conclusion.

Review of Cross-Strait Economic Relationship 

and Its Impact on Taishang

The cross-Strait economic relationship has been heavily influenced by the political and economic development on each side of the Strait, by the two countries’ 

bilateral relationship, and by global political and economic developments. Since 

1949, when the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) established the People’s Republic of China (PRC) and the Nationalist Party (KMT) established Taiwan under 

the name of the Republic of China (ROC), each side has claimed to be the sole 

legitimate government of China. During the 1971 United Nations General Assembly, the international community switched its recognition of China from the 

ROC to the PRC. Two decades later, the two sides of the Strait reached an agreement to disagree regarding to the sovereignty issue, which was exemplified by the 

1992 Consensus across the Strait. According to this consensus, both sides agree 

that there is only “One China” and each side can have its own interpretation on 

what that nomenclature means. Under the relatively peaceful environment across 

the Strait, the cross-Strait economic activities became increasingly active in the 

1980s.1 In the late 1980s, when the first group of Taishang moved out of Taiwan 

due to its rising labor cost and structural change, they arrived in mainland China 

to take advantage of the low wages, cheap land, and tax breaks.2 This first group of 

Taishang greatly energized China’s economy under its marketization reforms.3

The Taishangs’ development of mainland China from the 1990s and 2000s continued, and cross-Strait economic ties strengthened, although the legalization of 

the investment across the Strait did not happen until 2008. Despite this, during 

this stage the Taishang faced many more challenges, due to the industrial upgrading made by mainland China, particularly under the pressure of the global financial 

crisis of 2008, China’s improved labor protection policies (e.g., the new Labor 
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Lu & Chen

Contract Law), and the new environmental protection regulations.4 On top of 

these challenges, the Taishang faced a much more competitive market in mainland 

China, particularly given the rising competitiveness of Chinese domestic private 

firms and state-owned enterprises and the inflows of competitive foreign direct 

investment (FDI) from the more advanced economies.5 According to Chun-yi 

Lee, the Taishangs’ privileges at the early stage of Chinese economic openness has 

faded, and the Chinese private firm and state-owned enterprises increasingly are 

gaining more privileged treatments from Chinese local authorities.6

Last, but not the least, since 2016, when the newly elected Taiwanese president, 

Tsai Ing-wen, took office, Beijing suspended official talks with Taiwan due to 

Tsai’s refusal to accept the 1992 Consensus. Since then, the cross-Strait relationship has been tense. This is another major challenge for the Taishang. Given the 

above major challenges faced by Taishang in recent years, has the trade war between the United States and China driven many Taishang to withdraw from 

mainland China? Are Beijing’s Taishang-preferential policies helpful in keeping 

the Taishang from moving out of mainland China? Were Beijing’s Taishangpreferential policies still effective following the outbreak of the trade war? The 

following three sections will address these questions respectively.

The Taishangs’ movement in and out of mainland China has important political implications for the cross-Strait relationship. According to Robert F. Ash and 

Y. Y. Kueh, “economic integration is essentially a process of unification—the 

means whereby coherence is imposed upon previously separate, even disparate, 

geographical regions.”7 As to the Taishangs’ political role, there has been a mainstream argument that Taishang serve as an important constituency in assisting 

with communications across the Taiwan Strait,8 despite the some arguments that 

Taishang are business animals and cannot be depended upon for political purposes.9

 Given the strategic importance of the Taishang, their movement in and out of 

China deserves closer investigation, particularly in light of the recent US–China 

trade war and the new Taishang incentive policies provided by the mainland Chinese national and local governments.

The Impact of the Trade War and Taishang Incentive Policies

Most observers suggest the trade war between the United States and China 

started in early 2018, although there had been a series of tariff increases on certain 

products before that. With many rounds of trade talks between Washington and 

Beijing and claims of victory from both side, there are few signs that this trade 

war has truly run its course.10 Generally, existing studies divided the trade war up 

to now into three rounds. The first round began on 6 July 2018, when the United 

States imposed a 25-percent tariff on 34 billion USD of Chinese goods. The sec-
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JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 115

ond round began on 7 August 2018, when Washington released a revised version 

of tariffs on a final list of 16 billion USD–worth of imports from China and 

planned to implement a 25-percent tariff on them on 23 August. The third round 

started on 17 September 2018, when Pres. Donald Trump announced a 10-percent tariff on 200 billion USD–worth of Chinese goods to begin on 24 September 

2018 and aimed to increase to 25 percent by 1 January 2019. On 2 December 

2019, the United States and China agreed to a temporary truce and reached an 

agreement to refrain from increasing tariffs or imposing new tariffs for 90 days, up 

to 1 March 2019, while the two countries negotiated toward a larger trade deal. 

While the first two rounds of the trade war did not impact Taishang significantly, 

the third wave greatly affected almost all export-oriented Taishang in China due 

to the tariff increase.

Despite the unpredictability of the trade war, the occurrence of the imbroglio 

and the PRC’s issuing of the Taishang-preferential policies in 2018 provide us an 

ideal environment to investigate (1) whether trade war caused the reduction of 

TDI in China; and (2) whether the Taishang incentive policies play a positive role 

in attracting TDI; and (3) whether the impact of the trade war weakened Taishang incentive policies.

Causal Mechanism of Trade War and TDI in Mainland China

In this article we divide Taishang into two categories: Taishang in the manufacturing sector and those in the nonmanufacturing sector. We argue that Taishang in the manufacturing sector are negatively impacted by the trade war, although Taishang in other sectors (especially the service sector) may not be affected 

as much. During the past three decades, about 70 percent of Taishang in China 

operate in the manufacturing sector.11 ROC–PRC–US trade mainly involves 

manufacturing production. This triangular trade relationship has been characterized as the following model: the United States delivers purchase orders to Taiwan 

firms located in Taiwan, which then request the Taishang (i.e., Taiwan-invested 

companies) in mainland China to produce the products ordered by the US market 

given the lower cost of producing in mainland China than in Taiwan. As the 

Taishang in mainland China finish producing the products, they will export these 

products to the United States directly from mainland China. Meanwhile, to produce the products to satisfy the needs of the US markets, Taishang in mainland 

China need to import large amounts of intermediate goods/components/parts 

from Taiwan. This contributed to Taiwan’s high trade balance toward mainland 

China. A majority of Taishang in mainland China are mainly producing for the 

US market and serve as the original design manufacturers (ODM) for US manu-
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Lu & Chen

facturing companies. Therefore, Taishang in the manufacturing sector play an 

important role in mainland China’s exports to the US market.

Given the above trade model, when the trade war occurred, the exporting of the 

final products from mainland China to the United States would decrease due to 

the rise of tariffs. The rising cost would lead to increased prices for the final products sold on the US market. Due to the supply-and-demand equilibrium, the rising 

prices would lead to the decrease of demands of such products imported from 

China and, thus, reduce the number of orders delivered by the US market to the 

Taiwanese companies in Taiwan. This would reduce the number of orders that are 

forwarded to the Taishang in mainland China. As the value-added earned in the 

assembling factories in mainland China are usually small, the major way for them 

to make profits is to export large quantities with relatively lower tariffs. With the 

trade war outbreak, both tariffs and export quantities went up, which made it very 

costly for the manufacturing Taishang to continue their production. Meanwhile, 

when the scale of production by mainland Taishang decreases, the demand for the 

imported intermediate goods/components from Taiwan decreases as well. This will 

lead to the downscaling of the Taiwan firms in Taiwan and reduce Taiwan’s exports 

to mainland China. Due to the above reasons, we expect that the number of new 

TDI investment projects in the manufacturing sector in mainland China would 

decrease and the dollar amount of the TDI investment in mainland China would 

decrease as well, particularly with the outbreak of the third round of the trade war, 

given everything else held constant. In comparison, since the Taishang in the nonmanufacturing sector are less tied to the ROC–PRC–US trade triangle, it is expected they would not be impacted much by the trade war.

Hypothesis 1.1: Trade war has negative impact on Taishang in the manufacturing sector in mainland China.

Hypothesis 1.2: Trade war has no impact on Taishang in the nonmanufacturing sectors in mainland China.

Causal Mechanism of the Impact of Beijing’s Taishang-preferential 

Policies on Taishang during the Trade War

During the trade war period, Taishang played an important signaling role for 

mainland China. TDI mainland China seemed to serve as a positive signal for 

FDI from other source countries. The logic is that, given the tense and hostile 

relationship across the Strait, if the Taishang continue increasing their investment 

in their adversarial economy, it indicates a certain reliability of mainland China as 

an FDI-hosting countries. To the same token, with the trade war escalating, if the 

Taishang had been withdrawing, despite their advanced and established industrial 
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JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 117

chain in mainland China,12 it would send a signal that mainland China is no 

longer a reliable or profitable location for FDI. This can cause a domino effect and 

incentivize other FDI withdrawal from China as well. Therefore, retaining the 

Taishang is not only important politically and strategically but also economically, 

considering the loss of TDI would snowball into further losses of FDI.

As a matter of fact, some serious Taishang incentive policies for retaining TDI 

in mainland China were issued before the outbreak of the US–China trade war. 

Despite the tension across the Strait and the challenges Taishang are facing in 

mainland China in the post-2009 period, mainland China reemphasized its preferential policies toward Taishang at the beginning of 2018. On 28 February 2018, 

the Mainland Taiwan Affairs Office under the State Council issued one of the 

most important Taishang-preferential policies , referred to as “measures to promote cross-strait economic and cultural exchanges and cooperation.” This new 

policy has provided 31 Taishang-preferential policies to benefit Taishang in 

mainland China and has been termed as “the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies.” 

These policies mainly affect Taishang and Taibao (i.e., the Taiwan people living in 

mainland China) in the fields of industry, fiscal policies, land-use policies, finance, 

employment, education, cultural exchanges, medical care, and so forth The major 

theme of the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies was to grant the special status to 

Taishang and Taibao so that they could be treated equally with the mainland 

domestic firms and PRC citizens in mainland China. The first 12 items on the 31 

Taishang-preferential Policies are for the Taishang in mainland China, and the 

latter 19 items are for the Taibao. The English translation of the Taishangpreferential policies (the first 12 items of the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies) 

are in the index.

The issuing of the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies aimed to reduce the cost of 

production for Taishang and assist with their industrial upgrading. It also sought 

to help the Taishang to explore mainland markets and settle down in mainland 

China. Moreover, the policies also provide means to facilitate the Taibao to study, 

start business, find jobs, and settle down in mainland China. The general goal of 

the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies is to increase the economic and cultural integration across the Strait. The width and depth of this openness to Taishang and 

Taibao are unprecedented for mainland China, and Taishang and Taibao seem to 

find mainland China a very attractive location for conducting business and settling 

down. Taiwanese society is concerned about the brain drain, as the nation’s elite, 

high-skilled human capital is flowing from Taiwan to mainland China to take 

advantage of the new policies under the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies, particularly given the oversupply of high-skilled labor in Taiwan. There are also concerns 

that the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies may change the identity of the Taishang 
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Lu & Chen

and Taibao as they settle down in mainland China and enjoy such preferential 

treatment. Following this logic, Taipei perceives the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies as another of Beijing’s mechanizations for cross-Strait reunification.

However, several months after the State Council’s issuing of the 31 Taishangpreferential Policies, the trade disputes broke out in early June and continued escalating until the end of 2018. It is important to investigate whether the 31 

Taishang-preferential Policies played a positive role in attracting Taishang after 

the outbreak of the trade war.

Although Beijing issued the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies in February 

2018, it took the local governments some time to interpret and carry out these 

policies in their jurisdictions. After all, all FDI are local, as such arrangements 

need to work with the local governments in China for their everyday business 

operations. Most provinces in China have broken down the 31 Taishangpreferential Policies into more detailed measures and implemented their local 

versions of the policies at various times following their issuance. For example, 

Shanghai started carrying out the policies on 29 May 2018, which was followed 

by Fujian province on 6 June 2018. Other provinces started carrying out the policies later that year. Some provinces started before the trade war, and others after 

the trade war. By the beginning of 2019, almost all the 31 provincial units in 

China had publicly issued their local version of thepolicies and announced the 

beginning of their application.13 This provides us an ideal opportunity to investigate whether the issuing of the local versions of the 31 Taishang-preferential 

Policies played a positive role in attracting TDI inflows by holding all other social/

economic factors constant for different provinces.

We expect that the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies would play a positive role 

in attracting Taishang in both the manufacturing and nonmanufacturing sectors.

Hypothesis 2.1: the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies had a positive impact on 

Taishang investment in the manufacturing sector in mainland China.

Hypothesis 2.2: the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies had a positive impact on 

Taishang investment in the nonmanufacturing sector in mainland China.

Does the Outbreak of the Trade War Offset the Incentivizing 

Role of the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies?

According to the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies, the first (item 1, 2, and 3) 

and last three items (10, 11, and 12) highlighted the preferential policies granted 

to the Taiwan elites in the research-and-develpment field and the Taishang in 

the finance sector. The Taishang in construction and agriculture sectors, as mentioned in items 4 and 9, are also provided with equal treatment status with the 
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JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 119

mainland counterparts. Items 5, 6, 7, and 8 can apply to any Taishang in mainland China, including those in traditional manufacturing, which account for 

more than 75 percent of the total Taiwanese in mainland China. These preferential policies toward Taishang in the manufacturing sector reduce the land-use 

fees for Taishang, prioritize Taishang in land-use approvals, allow them to make 

government purchases and form joint ventures with state-owned enterprises, and 

help the low-end manufacturing Taishang to relocate, upgrade, and take advantage of the Chinese market.

In other words, although Taishang expected cost increases in producing in 

mainland China, some of the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies were designed to 

reduce the production cost for the Taishang. Moreover, these policies are expected 

to increase the high-tech, service-oriented, and market-oriented Taishang to 

move to China. Therefore, we anticipate that the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies 

may neutralize the negative impact of trade war on Taishang in mainland China. 

Also, since the trade tensions across the Strait is still changing dynamically and it 

is very costly for Taishang to move out of mainland China given the unique and 

irreplaceable huge supply chain in China, we expect the 31 Taishang-preferential 

Policies may neutralize some of the negative impact of the trade war on Taishang. 

Meanwhile, we expect that the strength of the marginal effect of Taishangpreferential policies has weakened with the outbreak of the trade war. Therefore, 

we made the third hypothesis in this article as follows.

Hypothesis 3: with the outbreak of the trade war, the marginal effect of the 31 

Taishang-preferential Policies weakens.

Research Design

To investigate the above theory and hypotheses, we first conducted some descriptive analysis. Then we used the differences-in-differences (DID) with fixed 

effect estimation to empirically test the impact of trade war and the 31 Taishangpreferential Policies on Taishang in general—and manufactural and on nonmanufactural Taishang specifically.

Data Description

To test our theory and hypotheses, we utilized several datasets sourced from the 

ROC Ministry of Economic Affairs (MOEA) Investment Commission. This 

source provides yearly and monthly TDI for Taishang at provincial level in China. 

The social and economic indicator data of the 31 provinces in China are sourced 

from the National Statistics Bureau of the PRC. To empirically test the impact of 

the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies and the third wave of the trade war, we used 
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Lu & Chen

the monthly data at the provincial level for 2018. Our unit of analysis is province–

month. The temporal domain is from 1 January 2018 to 31 December 2018. The 

spatial domain includes 12 provinces14 whose Taishang data have been consistently recorded by the Investment Commission in the ROC.

Empirical Model and Measurements of Variables

To test our theory and hypotheses, we built the following empirical model:

Taishangit = β0 + β1TradeWar3it + β2NewTaishangPoliciesit + β3TradeWar3it*Ne

wTaishangPoliciesit + TradebyFDIit + GDP at provincial levelit + Loss of profits 

by companiesit + Taiwan trade to mainland Chinait + Construction areas for 

commerceit + Retail commdity price indexit + Investment in fixed assetsit + 

Consumer Price Indexit + AddedValuesofIndustriesit + ᶓit

The first set of dependent variables includes the dollar amount (in 100 million 

USD) of (1) the monthly approved TDI in manufacturing sector; (2) the monthly 

approved TDI in the nonmanufacturing sector; and (3) the cumulative dollar 

amount of TDI in a given province up to a given month. To correct the skewness 

of these dependent variables, we took natural log for them. Another set of dependent variables includes the number of cases/projects of (1) the monthly approved 

TDI manufacturing sector; (2) the monthly approved TDI in the nonmanufacturing sector; and (3) the cumulative number of Taishang cases in a given province 

up to a given month. The data for all the dependent variables are from the ROC 

MOEA Investment Commission. The temporal domain of our data is from 1 

January 2018 to 31 December 2018. The spatial domain of our data includes 31 

provinces in China.

Table 1. Descriptive statistics of the variables

Variable Obs Mean Std. Dev. Min Max

Cumulative amount of Taishang 116 13842.9 16088.2 412.4 55725.0

Cumulative cases of Taishang 116 3326.2 3906.7 102 13210

Monthly amount of Taishang 120 63.1 93.2 0 474.7

Monthly cases of Taishang 120 4.8 6.2 0 31

Third wave of trade war 116 0.4 0.5 0 1

New Taishang Policies 116 0.5 0.5 0 1

Monthly provincial GDP 116 10775.4 7598.5 2099.7 32425.9

Investment in industrial equipments 116 9.0 20.1 -26.9 99.4

Monthly export from Taiwan to China 116 8315.7 648.1 7285.5 9767.3

Profit losses by companies 116 12.9 24.9 -43.8 77.9

Construction areas for business 116 -4.7 3.6 -12.5 5.6
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Variable Obs Mean Std. Dev. Min Max

Retail commodity price index 116 101.8 0.7 99.8 103.9

Investment in fixed assets 116 6.8 6.1 -13.9 13.8

Consumer price index 116 102.0 0.5 101.1 103.4

Industry growth rate 116 5.6 4.3 -7 15.7

Month 116 7.6 2.9 3 12

The key independent variables include the trade war treatment, the 31 Taishangpreferential Policies treatment, and the interaction of these two treatments. Trade 

war treatment variable is coded as “1” if the month is larger or equal to “9” and “0” 

otherwise. The reason for this coding is because the first two waves of trade war 

did not influence Taishang that much and the third wave of trade war impacted 

Taishang the most due to the large variety of goods on the tariff lists. The 31 

Taishang-preferential Policies treatment is coded as “1” if a given province started 

issuing and carrying out its local version of the 31 Taishang-preferential Policies, 

and “0” otherwise. The interaction of these two treatments is created by multiplying them. We manually coded this variable based upon the official news reports 

presented by various provincial government websites.

The key control variables are all sourced from the National Statistics Bureau of 

the PRC, except that the Taiwan trade to mainland China data is sourced from 

the ROC MOEA. The first control variable is a given province’s dependence upon 

export-oriented foreign investment, which is measured by the total trade made by 

the FDI in a given province in a given month. We argue that the more a given 

province is dependent upon the export-oriented foreign investment, the more 

manufacturing Taishang it would attract, because most manufacturing Taishang 

are original equipment manufacturers (OEM). The second control variable is the 

GDP at provincial level, which measures the economic development level in a 

given province in a given month. We argue that the more developed a given province is in a given month, the more Taishang it would attract. The third control 

variable is the loss of profits by companies in a given province. We argue that the 

higher the loss of profits by companies in a given province, the less Taishang it 

would attract. The fourth control variable is the dollar amount of trade from Taiwan to a given province in mainland China in a given year. We argue that the 

more Taiwan trades with a given province in a given month, the more Taishang it 

would attract. The fifth control variable is the construction areas for commerce, 

which measures how active the businesses are in a given province in a given month. 

It is expected to have a positive impact on Taishang in a given province in a given 

month. The sixth control variable is the retail commodity price index, which is 

expected to have a positive impact on Taishang investment in mainland China, 
122 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020

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because the higher commodity price could lead to higher profits. The seventh 

control variable is the consumer price index (CPI), which is expected to have 

positive impact on Taishang investment in mainland China, because the higher 

CPI, the higher level of living conditions in a given province in a given month. 

The last control variable is the added value of industries in a given province in a 

given month, which is expected to have a positive impact on Taishang, because the 

high added value of industries indicates more profits and thus could attract more 

Taishang inflows. Table 1 shows the summary statistics for our variables.

Analysis

After conducting DID analysis, we made several findings based on the estimation results presented in tables 2 and 3. Table 2 reports the results based on the 

dollar value of the TDI, and table 3 presents the results based on the number of 

Taishang projects. According to table 2, under the situation where there is no issuing of the new Taishang policies, the third wave of the trade war did not have 

any statistically significant impact on cumulative TDI or monthly manufacturing 

TDI. However, it does have negative and statistically significant impact on nonmanufacturing TDI. This finding is contrary to our hypotheses 1.1 and 1.2. This 

indicates that the monthly changes of the newly approved TDI in the manufacturing sector is not significant. This is possibly because the TDI in the manufacturing sector had already been decreasing over the past three years, and the outbreak of the trade war did not add much more negative impact on the downward 

trend. However, the nonmanufacturing TDI was increasing at the beginning of 

the 2018, and this upper trend was set back by the outbreak of the trade war.

Another important finding according to table 2 is that the new Taishang policies did not have significant impact on the monthly approved new Taishang inflows, but did have positive and statistically significant impact on the cumulative 

dollar amount of the Taishang in mainland China. This indicates that although 

the new Taishang policies did not dramatically encourage the inflows of the newly 

approved Taishang, they did encourage added investment from existing Taishang 

in mainland China. This indicates that the new Taishang policies strengthened 

the confidence of the existing Taishang in mainland China, but the policies’ impact on the new Taishang is still not apparent.

In addition, table 2 also indicates that the impact of the new policies did not 

change significantly with the outbreak of the third wave of the trade war for either 

manufacturing TDI or nonmanufacturing TDI. This indicates that the resilience 

of the new Taishang policies during the post–trade war period.
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Table 2. Differences-in-differences estimation results with dynamic linear panel regression on the dollar amount of Taishang in a given year in a given month

Cumulative 

TDI

 Manufacturing 

TDI

 Nonmanufacturing 

TDI

Variable Names Est. Coef. Est. Coef. Est. Coef.

Trade War 3 -0.1248

(0.1138)

5.575

(19.042)

-46.761*

(26.331)

New Taishang policies 0.0067***

(0.0031)

-0.138

(0.964)

-1.057

(0.670)

Interaction -0.0041

(0.0041)

1.061

(1.240)

1.341

(1.166)

Monthly trade by FDI 0.0006**

(0.0003)

-0.272

(0.157*)

0.398**

(0.179)

Monthly GDP 0.1427**

(0.0723)

2.387***

(0.621)

1.472*

(0.785)

Loss of profits by companies -0.0002

(0.0001)

0.001

(0.013)

-0.003

(0.012)

Taiwan trade to 

mainland China

0.0484

(0.0631)

10.951

(22.039)

-50.773*

(28.486)

Construction areas 

for commerce

0.0010

(0.0020)

0.143

(0.211)

-0.351

(0.270)

Retail commdity price index -0.0050

(0.0038)

0.326

(0.440)

-0.297

(0.573)

Investment in fixed assets 0.0008

(0.0011)

0.056

(0.045)

-0.054*

(0.033)

Consumer Price Index 0.0041

(0.0037)

0.281

(0.502)

-2.084***

(0.649)

Added values of industries -0.0001

(0.0004)

-0.084

(0.068)

-0.022

(0.058)

Significance levels: *p<0.1 **p<0.05 ***p<0.01. Standard errors in this table are in the parenthesis and they are WC-Robust standard errors.

In addition to testing the dollar amount of TDI, we also tested the number of 

cases of Taishang in mainland China. Table 3 shows the results for the cumulative 

cases of Taishang, the cases of manufacturing Taishang and the cases of the nonmanufacturing Taishang, respectively. The result shows that the outbreak of the 

trade war actually increased the number of newly approved manufacturing Taishang and increased the number of cumulative Taishang projects in mainland 

China, despite the trade war’s insignificant impact on the cases of the nonmanufacturing Taishang. This indicates that despite the risks faced by Taishang during 

the trade war, the attractiveness of mainland China as a potential investment 

destination remains. Another possible reason is that the newly approved Taiwan 

are participating more in the “Red Supply Chain” to serve the domestic market 

within China. However, the issuing of the new Taishang policies did not play a 

statistically significant role in attracting more Taishang projects as desired. This is 

possibly because the time range under this study is still too short. Moreover, the 
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impact of the new Taishang policies did not change much with the outbreak of 

the third wave of the trade war.

Table 3. Differences-in-differences estimation results with dynamic panel model for 

count data on the number of Taishang projects in a given year in a given month

Cumulative Cases 

of Taishang

 Cases of 

Manufacturing 

Taishang

 Cases of 

Nonmanufacturing 

Taishang

Variable names Est. Coef. Est. Coef. Est. Coef.

Trade War 3 0.0940*

(0.0510)

9.172**

(3.936)

-7.768

(7.957)

New Taishang policies 0.0005

(0.0007)

0.504

(0.465)

0.069

(0.178)

Interaction -0.0004

(0.0015)

0.592

(1.026)

-0.058

(0.109)

Monthly trade by FDI -0.0001

(0.0002)

-0.098

(0.117)

1.006**

(0.413)

Monthly GDP -0.0031

(0.0283)

1.291***

(0.385)

-0.002

(0.009)

Loss of profits by 

companies

-0.0001**

(0.0000)

0.000

(0.007)

-6.638

(9.357)

Taiwan trade to 

mainland China

0.0871***

(0.0161)

13.555***

(4.369)

-0.050

(0.078)

Construction areas for 

commerce

0.0002

(0.0004)

0.082

(0.086)

-0.007

(0.274)

Retail commodity price 

index

0.0016

(0.0014)

0.229

(0.273)

0.005

(0.020)

Investment in fixed 

assets

0.0007

(0.0006)

-0.011

(0.034)

0.010

(0.590)

Consumer price index 0.0024

(0.0019)

-0.056

(0.322)

-0.044

(0.039)

Added values of 

industries

-0.0003**

(0.0001)

0.003

(0.040)

-0.044

(0.039)

Significance levels: *p<0.1 **p<0.05 ***p<0.01. Standard errors in this table are in the parenthesis and they are WC-Robust standard errors.

Summary and Conclusion

Despite the economic risks under the third wave of the trade war and the political risks across the Taiwan Strait, many Taishang decided to stay, and some new 

Taishang continued to move to mainland China, which makes the total number 

of Taishang in mainland China increase in the recent several years. Our empirical 

findings show that the third wave of the trade war did not have any statistically 

significant impact on cumulative TDI or monthly manufacturing TDI, despite 

some negative impact on the nonmanufacturing TDI. Moreover, our empirical 

findings show that the outbreak of the trade war actually had a positive impact on 
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JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 125

the cumulative existing Taishang projects in mainland and on the number of 

monthly newly approved Taishang projects in mainland China.

In addition, our study also found that Beijing’s new Taishang policies have already started playing a positive role in encouraging more reinvestment by the 

existing Taishang in mainland China, although it has not shown any significant 

impact on the monthly approved new Taishang in mainland China. Meanwhile, 

the marginal effect of the new policies did not strengthen or weaken with the 

outbreak of the trade war. This indicates the possible resilience of the new policies. 

Another possible explanation is that it will take a little longer for the new policies 

to show a positive effect.

It is important to investigate the Taishang issue, since these businesspeople are 

important assets for the PRC in both the economic and political sense. The exit of 

Taishang would not only weaken the communication channel across the Strait but 

also reduce the PRC’s leverage upon Taiwan. Thus, Beijing issued the 31 Taishangpreferential Policies, which aim to incentivize Taishang to continue investing in 

mainland China. Following the central government’s policies, the local governments in China also carried out their own versions of the policies, aiming to retain 

the Taishang in their jurisdictions and attract new Taishang to flow in. For future 

studies, it is worth continuous investigation as to how effective these policies are. 

In addition, more work needs to be done to expand the temporal domain of this 

study, as the trade war continues developing and more data will become available. 

The major weakness of focusing on the 12 months of the year 2018 is that the 

impact of the trade war may not have taken effect given the short time range. We 

will continue collecting the monthly data for Taishang and conduct further analysis with the development of the trade war. Finally, we will incorporate the ROC’s 

Taishang incentive policies in our future statistically models as well. 

Dr. Kelan “Lilly” Lu

Dr. Lu is an assistant professor in the Department of Political Science at the University of South Carolina. Her research interests focus on international/comparative political economy, particularly the role played by foreign direct 

investment in domestic politics and international relations. She also conducts research on East Asian politics, including domestic and foreign policies of China. She is also interested in applications of dynamic panel data modeling. She 

has published peer-reviewed articles in International Journal of Public Opinion Research; International Studies Perspectives; 

Politics, Groups and Identity; and Asian Survey. She also has published multiple book chapters and book reviews.

Kuan-Wu Chen

Mr. Chen is a graduate student in the Department of Political Science at the University of South Carolina. His research focuses on comparative authoritarianism, comparative political theory, environmental policy, and, local governance/politics. He particularly studies the political-social transition in modern China. Kuan-Wu Chen has published peer-reviewed articles in Taiwan Democracy Quarterly (Chinese); Journal of Contemporary East Asia Studies; and 

Journal of Asian and African Studies.
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Notes

1. Gunter Schubert, Lin Rui-Hua, and Jean Yu-Chen Tseng, “Taishang Studies: A Rising or Declining 

Research Field?,” China Perspectives 1 (2016): 29–36.

2. Charles H. C. Kao and Steve Chu-chia Lin, “The Economic Impact of Taiwan’s Investment in the 

Mainland,” Issues & Studies, 30, no. 6 (1994): 16-27. Also see John Q. Tian, “‘Like Fish in Water’: Taiwanese 

Investors in a Rent-Seeking Society,” Issues & Studies, 35, no. 6 (1999): 61–94. Also see Karen M Sutter, “Business Dynamism across the Taiwan Strait: The Implications for Cross-strait Relations,” Asian Survey, 42, no. 

3 (2002): 522–40.

3. Schubert, Lin, and Tseng, “Taishang Studies.”

4. Ibid.

5. Chun-yi Lee, Taiwanese Business or Chinese Security Asset? A Changing Pattern of Interaction between 

Taiwanese Businesses and Chinese Governments (New York, Routledge, 2011).

6. Ibid.

7. Robert F. Ash and Y. Y. Kueh, “Economic Integration within Greater China: Trade and Investment 

Flows between China, Hong Kong and Taiwan,” China Quarterly 136 (1993): 711–45.

8. Schubert, Lin, and Tseng, “Taishang Studies.” Also see Shu Keng and Gunter Schubert, “Agents of 

Taiwan-China Unification? The Political Roles of Taiwanese Business People in the Process of Cross-Strait 

Integration,” Asian Survey 50, no. 10 (2010): 287–310; and Syaru Shirley Lin, Taiwan’s China Dilemma: 

Contested Identities and Multiple Interests in Taiwan’s Cross-Strait Economic Policy (Stanford, CA: Stanford 

University Press, 2016).

9. Schubert, Lin, and Tseng, “Taishang Studies.”

10. Ana Swanson and Jim Tankersley, “As Trump Moves to End Trade War With China, Business Asks: 

Was It Worth It?,” New York Times, 4 March 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/.

11. Republic of China Ministry of Economic Affairs (MOEA) Investment Commission 2018.

12. Douglas B. Fuller, “Moving along the Electronics Value Chain: Taiwan in the Global Economy,” in 

Global Taiwan: Building Competitive Strengths in a New International Economy, edited by Suzanne Berger and 

Richard K. Lester, 159–87 (New York: Routledge, 2015).

13. Five provinces did not publicly announce their carrying out of the 31 Taishang Preferential Policies, 

including Shanxi, Jilin, Heilongjiang, Tibet, and Xinjiang. This does not necessarily mean that these provinces did not carry out the policies. It only means that we did not find information on them on publicly 

available news media.

14. These 12 provinces include Beijing, Tianjin, Liaoning, Jilin, Shanghai, Jiangsu, Zhejiang, Anhui, Fujian, Shandong, Hubei, Hunan, Guangdong, Chongqing, and Sichuan.
JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 127

DIGITAL-ONLY FEATURE

Exporting Nuclear Norms

Japan and South Korea in the International Nuclear Market

Dr. James E. Platte

Introduction

Nuclear energy has been connected to notions of national security since the 

advent of nuclear reactor technology during the Manhattan Project in the early 

1940s. Countries have taken different views of nuclear energy’s connections to 

national security, but these views can be broadly placed into two themes. First, 

nuclear energy can significantly contribute to energy security, due to the relatively 

small amount of fuel required for commercial power reactors, the inherent ability 

for nuclear fuel to breed more fuel during use, and the stability of many nuclear 

fuel supplier countries. Second, nuclear materials and technologies can also have 

strategic military applications, such as nuclear weapons and nuclear propulsion 

for naval vessels, which has led to national and international efforts to control the 

spread and use of nuclear energy.

Cases for both views have been made in the United States, but arguably the 

prevailing stance has been that a strong nuclear power industry, both in the domestic and export markets, gives the United States the ability to enforce nuclear 

nonproliferation, safety, and security norms worldwide. The United States has 

used various policy tools to enforce these norms, and US export partners are expected to abide by these norms in their domestic nuclear industries. However, the 

domestic US nuclear industry has struggled in recent years due to poor economics 

for some existing nuclear plants, particularly those in deregulated state markets, 

cost overruns on new nuclear plant construction, and strong competition from 

cheap natural gas, and US dominance in the global nuclear energy market also has 

waned. This has led to worries that China and Russia would supplant the United 

States and that Washington would no longer be able to enforce its nuclear norms 

around the world, which is particularly concerning when considering that much 

of the anticipated growth for nuclear power could occur in developing countries 

with little or no experience operating commercial nuclear power plants.

Russia currently is the leading nuclear reactor exporter in the world, with seven 

reactors under construction and 22 more reactor exports either contracted or ordered.1

 China entered the export market more recently, and only Pakistan has 

imported Chinese nuclear reactors, including four operational units and two units 

under construction.2 Yet, like Russia, China is aggressively pursuing other reactor 

export projects around the world, and Russian and Chinese bids are bolstered by 
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strong domestic industries and a variety of state-backed financing options for 

importers, both of which are key factors that can give China and Russia an edge 

over bids from private US nuclear vendors. Beijing and Moscow also place strategic and political importance on nuclear reactor exports (e.g., Beijing’s inclusion of 

nuclear technology in the Belt and Road Initiative), making export projects not 

just a matter of economics for their state-owned nuclear enterprises. Beyond economics and geopolitics, some experts cite lax safety and security standards in 

China and Russia as reason for concern about what types of norms they would 

impart to their export partners, particularly to potential export partners in Africa, 

the Middle East, and Southeast Asia.3

With the US position in the international nuclear energy market falling, could 

like-minded US allies and partners step up and enforce similar nuclear nonproliferation, safety, and security norms? In particular, could Japan or South Korea become leaders in enforcing nuclear norms in the export market? Japan and South 

Korea have been major US trade partners in nuclear energy, as both countries 

imported and indigenized US nuclear reactor technology early in the development of their nuclear industries. Both countries also have been subject to US 

policies enforcing nuclear norms, and at times, the terms of nuclear cooperation 

have been the subject of contentious debate, despite being close US allies. Many 

Japanese and South Korean nuclear firms maintain close ties or partnerships with 

US nuclear firms, but Japanese and South Korean firms may play more leading 

roles in future export projects. In addition to being close US allies, Japan and 

South Korea can be viewed as middle powers with the ability to influence the 

international system and spread norms to other countries.

Building from US views on the connections between nuclear power and national security, this article will explore how Japan and South Korea have received 

and interpreted nuclear norms from the United States and how they have or could 

enforce norms with export partners. Concepts of middle-power diplomacy will be 

used as a theoretical base to analyze Japanese and South Korean views of their 

role in enforcing nuclear norms and to project future behavior.

This article will proceed as follows. The second section will summarize US 

views on nuclear power and national security, along with the history of US efforts 

to enforce nuclear nonproliferation, safety, and security norms around the world. 

Next, section three will provide an overview of the nuclear power sectors in Japan 

and South Korea and how those countries view the nuclear export market. Section four will introduce concepts of middle-power diplomacy and use those concepts to analyze Japan and South Korea’s role in enforcing nuclear norms internationally. The article then will conclude with policy implications for the United 
Exporting Nuclear Norms

JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 129

States, Japan, and South Korea on enforcing nuclear norms and competing with 

China and Russia in the global nuclear marketplace.

Nuclear Power, National Security, and 

Enforcing US Nuclear Norms

Since the beginning of the nuclear age, the United States has sought to control 

the international flow and use of nuclear technology, and Washington has especially focused on limiting the proliferation of nuclear materials and technology 

that could be used in a nuclear weapons program. Starting with the Acheson–

Lilienthal report and the Baruch plan that the United States presented to the 

United Nations in 1946, the US government has led numerous bilateral and 

multilateral initiatives to enforce nuclear norms around the world.4 One of the 

most prominent initiatives was President Dwight Eisenhower’s Atoms for Peace 

program that led to the creation of the International Atomic Energy Agency 

(IAEA) in the 1950s.

In the Atoms for Peace program, the United States supplied nuclear materials 

and technology to recipient countries, with the aim of both spreading the benefits 

of civilian nuclear technology and restricting the military applications of nuclear 

technology. The United States was the clear world leader in nuclear technology at 

the time and, thus, could effectively employ such supply-side tools to enforce 

nuclear nonproliferation. Supplying US nuclear technology and training to recipients also meant that US norms on nuclear safety and security could be spread 

around the world, but again, the ability to do this was based on the dominant US 

position in the global nuclear market.

The United States initially wanted to give responsibility for safeguarding nuclear 

materials worldwide to the IAEA, but while the IAEA built its system, the United 

States proceeded with signing bilateral agreements for cooperation in the civil uses 

of nuclear energy (so-called 123 Agreements). These bilateral cooperation agreements included provisions for safeguards, and 35 bilateral agreements were in effect by the mid-1960s.5

 But as IAEA capabilities grew, the United States worked 

to transfer responsibilities for safeguards to the IAEA. In this way, Washington 

institutionalized its norms on nuclear nonproliferation in the international system.

As the United States transferred safeguards responsibilities to the IAEA, US 

companies dominated the international nuclear market, providing over 90 percent 

of the world reactor export market through the early 1970s.6 This market position 

allowed the United States to dictate the terms of other countries’ nuclear energy 

programs, but even at that time, this level of influence appeared time-limited. 

Most countries starting nuclear energy programs at the time planned to use US 
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vendors for their first reactors, indigenize the technology, and then transfer production for future reactors to domestic companies.7

 License transfer agreements 

from US nuclear vendors to export partners helped facilitate the transfer of US 

nuclear technology and know-how, but such agreements also helped other countries develop their own nuclear reactor design and production capabilities.8

In addition to exporting its reactor technologies around the world, the United 

States was the primary supplier of uranium enrichment and nuclear fuel fabrication services to its export partners. But the 1973 oil embargo and 1974 Indian 

nuclear explosive test heightened US concerns about energy supplies and nuclear 

weapons proliferation, respectively. The US government responded to these pressures by announcing that it could not accept new contacts for enrichment services, 

pushing to stop any further spread of enrichment or reprocessing technology, and 

suspending domestic reprocessing and breeder reactor development.9 While Pres. 

Jimmy Carter later sought to increase US enrichment capacity to lock in foreign 

supply contracts and enforce nonproliferation norms, US nuclear export partners 

saw the economic and political risks of excessive reliance on the United States for 

nuclear materials and technology. Some US partners, such as France, Germany, 

and Japan, responded by increasing their domestic capacity, seeking export contracts, and further internationalizing the global nuclear market.

This impending relative decline in US market position made the role of the 

IAEA and of IAEA member states even more important, something an official 

from the US Arms Control and Disarmament Agency noted in the mid-1960s: 

“Whether the IAEA will be able to act as an international instrument for regulating the peaceful uses of atomic energy will depend for the foreseeable future on the 

national policies of the Member States.”10 In addition to the IAEA itself, the continued enforcement of US nuclear norms is dependent on IAEA member states 

remaining committed to the norms that Washington transferred to the IAEA.

The US domestic nuclear market experienced a major shock with the partial 

meltdown at the Three Mile Island (TMI) nuclear power plant in 1979, which 

remains the most serious accident in the history of the US commercial nuclear 

industry. Nuclear power in the United States already was experiencing increasing 

reactor construction costs in the late 1970s, and the TMI accident thrust nuclear 

reactor safety to the top of the public consciousness. The US nuclear industry 

struggled in the face of economic and public acceptance challenges, and more than 

30 years passed between new reactors construction starts, from 1977 to 2013.11

Construction on four reactors at two nuclear power plants in Georgia and South 

Carolina began in 2013, but none of those reactors has entered operation yet. Construction on the two reactors in South Carolina was ceased in 2017, and the construction projects in Georgia face economic difficulties, cost overruns, and delays.
Exporting Nuclear Norms

JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 131

The domestic US nuclear industry faces other challenges in addition to the lack 

of new construction starts over the past 40 years. Several reactors have shut down 

in recent years, leading to a slow decline in the number of operating reactors in 

the United States. There currently are 97 operable nuclear reactors, down from a 

peak of 112 in the 1990s. Research and development on new reactor technology 

continues, but “on a smaller scale and less relevant for substantial improvements 

in power production or sophistication.”12 The United States lacks significant nuclear fuel cycle capabilities, including inadequate uranium enrichment capacity, 

no commercial spent nuclear fuel reprocessing, and no permanent repository for 

spent nuclear fuel. The commercial nuclear industry also faces significant economic competition from natural gas and renewable energy sources.

In the export market, US nuclear vendor Westinghouse completed four AP1000 

reactors, the same type that are being built in the US state of Georgia, in China 

in 2018 and 2019. These marked the first reactors built abroad by a US company 

since the 1990s.13 However, there are no other US-led nuclear reactor projects in 

the world, bringing the US share of global nuclear reactor exports to zero.

The struggles of the domestic US nuclear industry and declining export market 

position has led to a robust debate in recent years about restoring US leadership 

in the global nuclear market. In a 2018 article in The Washington Quarterly, Laura 

Holgate and Sagatom Saha succinctly state the prevailing view on the need for 

US leadership: “The United States must participate in the commercial export 

market so it can insist on strict protocols that promote nuclear security, deter 

nuclear theft, and prevent weapons development.”14 Moreover, they argue that 

“exporting nuclear reactors helped the United States develop critical diplomatic 

and economic links throughout Europe and the Asia-Pacific . . . and design international standards for nonproliferation and security.”15

On nuclear safety, Michael Wallace, Amy Roma, and Sachin Desai claim that 

being a leading exporter of nuclear reactor technology meant that the United 

States “was able to promote reactor designs and standards that favored nuclear 

safety . . . which has made nuclear power the safest of all energy sources around 

the world.”16 Related to these commercial ties, the US Nuclear Regulatory Commission (NRC) has worked with partners around the world “to develop codes and 

standards worldwide to ensure that regulatory environments are based on sound 

approaches.”17 Proponents of the US nuclear industry argue that the United States 

must remain involved in the global nuclear market to instill robust safety culture 

principles in other countries’ nuclear operators and regulators, particularly important for influencing countries with new nuclear programs.18

Holgate and Saha also clearly identify what they view as the risks if the United 

States loses its ability to set global nuclear norms and cedes leadership in the in-
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ternational nuclear export market to China and Russia: “Both China and Russia 

are known for lax standards on nuclear security and poor track records on nuclear 

safety.”19 They add that these risks “would inevitably worsen as nuclear reactors are 

sited in countries with fragile institutions, weak regulatory environments, and 

unstable security situations.”20 The Middle East and Southeast Asia are cited as 

two regions with strong potential for nuclear growth, but most of the countries in 

those regions have no experience with commercial nuclear power and face some 

of the problems stated by Holgate and Saha.

Yet, the United States must not necessarily regain its position of preeminence 

in the global nuclear market. The United States worked to build an international 

architecture for spreading nuclear norms, principally through the IAEA, and 

worked closely with export partners to instill US norms in them. Given the problems in the US domestic nuclear industry, it would be prudent to consider whether 

close US partners, particularly Japan and South Korea, could continue to uphold 

the nuclear norms that the United States has worked to spread and enforce. The 

next section will examine the nuclear industries of Japan and South Korea and 

how they view nuclear exports.

Nuclear Power in Japan and South Korea

Following Eisenhower’s Atoms for Peace speech, Japan and South Korea were 

early adopters of US nuclear technology. Both countries lack significant domestic 

energy resources and viewed nuclear energy as a way to relieve their dependence 

on energy imports, especially fossil fuel imports. Seoul and Tokyo also believed 

that developing domestic nuclear industries would grow their countries’ science 

and engineering workforce and bring international prestige.

Despite being close US allies, turbulent politics and concerning regional security developments in the 1960s and 1970s prompted Japan and South Korea to 

consider their options for nuclear weapons development. Tokyo studied the matter internally in the late 1960s and determined that developing nuclear weapons 

would be too costly.21 Seoul initiated a clandestine program to develop nuclear 

weapons in the 1970s but abandoned the program by the early 1980s.22 Preserving close, positive relations with the United States was a key factor in both countries’ decisions to not develop nuclear weapons. While speculation lingers regarding nuclear hedging or latent nuclear weapons capabilities, energy security has 

remained the primary impetus for their nuclear programs and connection between 

nuclear power and national security.

Japan and South Korea joined the IAEA in 1957, but Tokyo started its civilian 

nuclear power program a few years earlier in 1954. Japan imported its first commercial nuclear power reactor, a gas-cooled reactor, from the United Kingdom, 
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and that reactor began operating in 1966. Every reactor constructed in Japan after 

that first reactor has been based on US light-water reactor (LWR) technology.23

Starting in the early 1970s, Japan aggressively expanded its fleet of commercial 

nuclear power reactors and had 54 operable reactors in 2010, with plans to keep 

growing. The Fukushima nuclear disaster of 2011 halted Japan’s nuclear growth.

All Japan’s nuclear reactors shut down after the disaster, and the process of restarting reactors after new safety reviews has been long and difficult. In addition to 

the four reactors destroyed by the earthquake and tsunami in March 2011, utilities 

decided to decommission some reactors instead of going through upgrades and 

safety checks, and Japan has only 38 operable nuclear reactors today.24 Since the 

first reactors restarted in 2015, the nuclear share of electricity generation in Japan 

has only been a few percent, down from around 30 percent before 2011.

Japan also is pursuing a closed nuclear fuel cycle, including indigenous uranium 

enrichment, spent nuclear fuel reprocessing, and fast breeder reactor (FBR) capabilities. Japan has an operating uranium enrichment facility at Rokkasho in 

northern Japan, but the reprocessing plant at Rokkasho has faced a series of delays 

and has yet to enter operation. FBR development has suffered similar delays, and 

there currently is no operating FBR in Japan. Japan’s closed fuel cycle development has been controversial at times in the United States, but Tokyo received 

consent from Washington to develop these technologies in the 1980s—the only 

nonnuclear weapons state outside of Europe to receive such consent. This consent 

is granted in the 123 Agreement governing bilateral civil nuclear cooperation 

between Japan and the United States, which was extended indefinitely in 2018.25

South Korea began its civil nuclear program in the late 1950s, soon after Japan 

did. Construction on South Korea’s first commercial nuclear reactor, a turnkey 

plant imported from Westinghouse, began in 1972 and finished in 1977. South 

Korea also imported Canadian and French reactor technology in the 1970s and 

1980s, but in 1987, the Korea Electric Power Company (KEPCO) selected an 

LWR design from US-based Combustion Engineering as the basis for developing an indigenous South Korean reactor design. By the early 2000s, South Korean 

firms were responsible for all major aspects of nuclear reactor design, supply, construction, and operation.26

South Korea now has 25 operable commercial nuclear reactors, with four reactors under construction, and nuclear power provides nearly 25 percent of the country’s electricity.27 However, the South Korean nuclear industry faces an uncertain 

future, as current Republic of Korea (ROK) president Moon Jae-in announced a 

policy in 2017 to phase out nuclear power over the next 40 years.28 The phase-out 

plan allows current reactor construction projects to finish but does not allow new 

reactors to be planned. The plan also does not allow existing reactors to operate 
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beyond 40 years. South Korea’s reactor fleet is relatively young, so the phase-out 

plan will not have a large, immediate impact on electricity generation. Moon cannot be reelected after his presidential term ends in 2022, and it is uncertain if the 

next South Korean president would continue with this phase-out plan.

Unlike Japan, South Korea has an open nuclear fuel cycle, and the 123 Agreement between South Korea and the United States does not give Seoul advanced 

consent to develop enrichment or reprocessing technologies. The US–South Korea 123 Agreement was renewed in 2015, and Seoul pushed for advanced consent 

in the renewal negotiations. While Washington did not accede to Seoul’s request, 

the two countries are conducting a joint fuel cycle study in the United States, and 

the new 123 Agreement formed a High Level Bilateral Commission to discuss 

nuclear cooperation issues in the future.29

Despite the challenges facing both countries’ nuclear industries, Japan and 

South Korea possess robust nuclear sectors, developed with close US cooperation. 

Their nuclear related firms, including Hitachi, Toshiba, KEPCO, and Doosan, are 

among the leading firms in the world, and both countries’ governments and private firms are active in the global nuclear market. Yet, neither country is truly a 

great power with the ability to unilaterally set global norms. The next section will 

explore Japan and South Korea’s nuclear exports and their role as middle powers 

in spreading nuclear norms.

Middle-Power Diplomacy and Exporting Nuclear Norms

To analyze the roles for Japan and South Korea as middle powers exporting 

nuclear norms, middle-power diplomacy and the roles that middle powers can 

play in international affairs must be defined. John Ikenberry and Jongryn Mo 

simply defined a middle power as “neither super power nor small power.”30 Then–

South Korean president Lee Myung-bak also offered a simple definition in 2010 

by saying that the “world can be split into two groups: One group sets global rules, 

the other follows. South Korea has successfully transformed itself from a passive 

follower into an active agenda-setter.”31

With the third-largest economy in the world, it may seem debatable to term 

Japan as a middle power, but based on these definitions, Japan should be considered a middle power that can participate in setting global rules and agendas. Ikenberry and Mo also state that “traditional middle powers are fully developed countries” and that “many new middle powers are emerging as new developed powers.”32

Japan could be placed in the traditional middle-power category, and South Korea 

is a new middle power.

Importantly for the context of this article, the United States views itself, China, 

and Russia as the world’s great powers, which would place Japan and South Korea 
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in the next tier of middle powers. As US allies, Washington should expect Seoul 

and Tokyo to uphold norms on issue areas, such as nuclear exports and the liberal 

international order. Ikenberry and Mo argue that “[m]iddle powers, both traditional and emerging, can help the international system stay liberal because it is in 

their interests to support liberal international order.”33

A 2015 report from the East Asia Institute (EAI) describes how middle powers can support the liberal international order and uphold nuclear norms. The EAI 

argues that middle powers “derive their status from being a part of a network” and 

“function as a collective.”34 Acting as a bridge or connector in the network, middlepower diplomacy “aligns great powers and smaller powers together, and as long as 

a middle power keeps genuine its intentions of contributing to the greater international good, they cannot be accused of harboring hegemonic intentions . . . a 

middle power acts as ‘norm diffuser.’”35 In addition, a middle power “needs to 

possess material capability that places it in a position that is measured as relatively 

influential enough to attract and establish itself within a wider network or community of like-minded nations.”36 The EAI then describes four identities that 

middle powers can adopt in pursuing this type of diplomacy:

1. Early mover: elevating their respective statures in the international society by adopting the “me first” approach and leading by example;

2. Bridge: mediating between opposing groups and seeking measures that 

would satisfy all parties involved;

3. Coalition coordinator: building coalitions of like-minded states to advance shared interests and address common concerns; and

4. Norm diffuser: contributing to the global diffusion of norms and standards.37

In the global nuclear market, Japan or South Korea could possibly take on any 

of these four identities individually or in combination. Both countries were early 

movers in adopting nuclear power and US norms, and other developing countries, 

in particular, could learn from the example set by the commercial nuclear industries in Japan and South Korea. Seoul or Tokyo could operate as bridges or coalition coordinators between the United States and other nuclear exporters or countries looking to start a nuclear energy program. Finally, arguably the most 

important role that Japan or South Korea could play in the nuclear export market 

is that of a norm diffuser, spreading US and IAEA norms on nuclear nonproliferation, safety, and security.

However, Japan and South Korea face limitations in their conduct of middlepower diplomacy on nuclear energy issues. Writing on South Korea as a middle 
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power promoting international cooperation on nuclear security, Scott Snyder 

states that Seoul’s “efforts on nuclear security came about primarily in the context 

of the US-ROK alliance.”38 Snyder also added that South Korea’s contributions to 

international governance and to forming global networks occurred primarily outside of Northeast Asia. Snyder argues that Seoul faces these limitations due to its 

relatively smaller economy and military compared to other regional powers and to 

its reliance on the US alliance for security.39 Snyder writes that Seoul is now able 

to “pursue greater autonomy through self-help but within the context of the 

country’s continued need for the alliance as a bulwark against threats from major 

powers.”40 He adds that South Korea is “able to act more autonomously when its 

policy preferences align with those of the United States and when Seoul has 

Washington’s backing.”41

While Snyder wrote about South Korea, much of the preceding also could 

apply to Japan’s conduct of middle-power diplomacy. Japan’s economy is larger 

than South Korea’s economy, but the two countries defense expenditures are 

similar. According to the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI), Tokyo’s defense budget in 2018 was $46.6 billion USD, and Seoul spent 

$43.1 billion USD on defense in 2018.42 Those numbers also do not account for 

the legal and social restrictions on offensive capabilities for Japan’s Self-Defense 

Forces, which do not constrain South Korea’s military. Similar to South Korea, 

Japan remains relatively weaker than its chief regional rival, China, and relies on 

the US alliance for security.

Another limitation on Seoul and Tokyo acting as middle powers on nuclear 

energy issues is the poor state of their bilateral relationship. Lingering tension and 

disputes related to the legacy of Japan’s colonization of Korea in the first half of 

the twentieth century have persistently plagued bilateral relations. The latest flaring of tensions in 2019 resulted in both countries removing the other from white 

lists of preferred trade partners, complicating the trade of sensitive technologies 

between the two countries. While Japan and South Korea hold similar views on 

nuclear norms and work together in some multilateral forums, bilateral diplomatic and trade tensions and the strategic nature of nuclear technology would 

make closer cooperation in the nuclear export market more difficult. This would 

mean that Seoul or Tokyo likely would act individually as a coordinator or bridge, 

rather than forming a bilateral partnership to act in these roles together.

Overall, Japan and South Korea are each in a strong position to act as a middle 

power in spreading and enforcing nuclear norms with their export partners, even 

if they do not explicitly partner with each other to spread and enforce nuclear 

norms. Either country can act as coordinators in bringing together like-minded 

partners to work in concert on enforcing robust norms in nuclear exports, and 
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they can diffuse nuclear norms to their export partners. However, given US sensitives toward nuclear proliferation and Tokyo’s and Seoul’s reliance on their alliances with the United States, the two countries would likely need to closely coordinate nuclear export activities with the United States and would have to remain 

aligned with US nuclear norms. As Snyder argued, middle powers like Japan and 

South Korea also have benefited from the US-led liberal international order and 

have incentive to perpetuate this order, including enforcing US nuclear norms 

rather than allowing China and Russia to revise existing international norms.

Demonstrating their standing to act as responsible, effective middle powers in 

spreading existing nuclear norms to export partners, Japan and South Korea are 

parties to the major international instruments related to nuclear nonproliferation, 

safety, and security. These multilateral commitments are in addition to the bilateral 123 Agreements with the United States that hold Seoul and Tokyo to strict 

nonproliferation standards. Table 1 summarizes the international instruments 

that Japan and South Korea are parties to.

Table 1. Japanese and South Korean members in international instruments on nuclear 

norms. Data compiled from individual country matrices at “Committee Approved Matrices,” 

1540 Committee, 23 December 2015, https://www.un.org/.

Nuclear Norms Major International Instruments

Nonproliferation

• Nonproliferation Treaty

• Comprehensive Safeguards Agreement with the IAEA

• Additional Protocol

• Nuclear Suppliers Group

• Zangger Committee

• Missile Technology Control Regime

• Hague Code of Conduct

• Australia Group

• Wassenaar Arrangement

• Proliferation Security Initiative

Safety

• IAEA Code of Conduct on Safety and Security of Radioactive Sources

• Convention on Nuclear Safety

• Joint Convention on the Safety of Spent Fuel Management and on the 

Safety of Radioactive Waste Management

• Convention on Early Notification of a Nuclear Accident

• Convention on Assistance in the Case of a Nuclear Accident or Radiological Emergency

Security • Convention for the Suppression of Acts of Nuclear Terrorism

• Convention on Physical Protection of Nuclear Material

Among instruments listed in table 1, China is not party to the Missile Technology Control Regime, Hague Code of Conduct, Australia Group, Wassenaar Ar-
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rangement, and the Proliferation Security Initiative, and Russia is not party to the 

Australia Group or the Joint Convention on the Safety of Spent Fuel Management and on the Safety of Radioactive Waste Management.43

In addition, Japanese and South Korean firms have worked with the NRC on 

reactor design certifications. Even though NRC certification is not required for 

Japanese or South Korean firms to export reactors to third-party recipients, such 

importers view NRC design certification as a gold-standard stamp of approval for 

the highest standards of safety, security, and performance. In 2019, the South 

Korean-designed APR1400 became the first non-US reactor design to receive 

standard design approval from the NRC.44 GE-Hitachi Nuclear Energy received 

NRC certification for its Economic Simplified Boiling-Water Reactor in 2014, 

and General Electric received NRC certification for the Advanced Boiling-Water 

Reactor (ABWR), which is similar to the international version operating in Japan, 

in 1997. Mitsubishi also has a design under review for NRC certification.45

In interviews that the author conducted in Japan and South Korea in July and 

August 2019, representatives from government and private sector all expressed 

their desire to continue partnering with US firms on nuclear export projects, even 

if Japanese or South Korean firms lead reactor design or construction. A South 

Korean government official said that Seoul closely follows US government policy 

and intentions in nuclear exports, and Seoul requires export partners to meet and 

adhere to IAEA standards on safeguards, safety, and security.46 Japanese government and private-sector officials said they want to partner with US firms on nuclear export projects to bolster Japanese firms’ competitiveness.47

While Japan and South Korea sign bilateral cooperation agreements with their 

nuclear export partners that have similarities to 123 Agreements, partnering with 

US firms would require that those export partners sign 123 Agreements with the 

United States. As Seoul and Tokyo still look to the United States for leadership 

on nonproliferation, requiring a 123 Agreement with the United States would 

impose strict nonproliferation requirements on recipient countries.48 Norms on 

safety and security would then be transferred and enforced through cooperation 

with the IAEA, NRC, and private-sector firms and government organizations 

from Japan, South Korea, and the United States.

This model of cooperation with the United States was used for South Korea’s 

export of four nuclear reactors to the United Arab Emirates (UAE), which was 

Seoul’s first reactor export project. The UAE selected a KEPCO-led consortium 

in 2009 to build four APR1400 reactors at the Barakah nuclear power plant. 

KEPCO’s proposal was selected over proposals from Areva and GE-Hitachi, 

with the lower cost offered by KEPCO being a major factor for securing the bid.49
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(Photo courtesy of Emirates Nuclear Energy Corporation)

 Figure 1. The UAE’s Barakah Nuclear Energy Plant

In addition to KEPCO and several other South Korean companies, the consortium included Westinghouse and other US companies providing engineering 

services and supplying components. Westinghouse’s participation was required 

because Westinghouse still considers South Korean reactors to be Westinghouselicensed products, which then necessitated the UAE to sign a 123 Agreement 

with the US government and subjected the project to US export control requirements.50 Toshiba also was originally involved in the consortium as the majority 

owner of Westinghouse, but Westinghouse’s bankruptcy in 2017 forced Toshiba 

to sell their ownership of Westinghouse.

The UAE also signed a bilateral cooperation agreement with Seoul that included provisions restricting the UAE from enriching uranium above 20 percent 

or reprocessing any nuclear material transferred through the deal. It prohibits the 

UAE from using materials or technology transferred through the agreement for 

military purposes. The agreement also requires the UAE to have a comprehensive 

safeguards agreement with the IAEA but does not require the Additional Protocol, although the UAE signed the Additional Protocol in 2009.51 On security, the 

agreement requires INFCIRC/225/Revision 5, Nuclear Security Recommendations on Physical Protection of Nuclear Material and Nuclear Facilities, and it 

calls for consultation and cooperation on safety issues.52

No Japanese firm has led a nuclear reactor export project yet, but Japan has 

been involved in the nuclear export market in other ways. As mentioned above, 

Toshiba was originally involved with the Barakah project due to its then–ownership of Westinghouse, and Hitachi has worked with General Electric due to their 

joint venture (Hitachi-GE Nuclear Energy in Japan and GE-Hitachi Nuclear 

Energy in the United States). Mitsubishi Heavy Industries cooperated with Areva 

in the past and is now partnered with French nuclear companies Framatome and 
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EDF.53 Japanese nuclear firms also are pursuing nuclear projects in Europe and 

Asia, with the intention of partnering with US firms and government agencies on 

such projects, and Japan would use the IAEA Milestones Approach to ensure that 

a recipient country is adhering to international nuclear norms.54 Japan also has 

worked with the IAEA to promote nuclear nonproliferation, safety, and security 

norms and capacity building.

Employing middle-power diplomacy, Seoul or Tokyo can work to diffuse US 

nuclear norms on their own, but as discussed above, each country also prefers to 

work as a bridge or coordinator to keep the United States involved in setting 

global nuclear norms. Given bilateral tensions between Seoul and Tokyo, this 

likely would take the form of separate Seoul–Washington and Tokyo–Washington partnerships, but Japan and South Korea can work with the United States to 

maintain international norms on nuclear nonproliferation, safety, and security and 

counter the rising influence of China and Russia. The next section will go into 

more detail on the policy implications of this middle-power diplomacy in the 

global nuclear market.

Conclusion and Policy Implications

The international nuclear power industry is in a much different state today than 

it was when Washington launched the Atoms for Peace program in the 1950s. At 

that time, the United States was the global leader in nuclear technology and the 

most dominant actor in setting international nuclear norms. Washington used bilateral agreements, namely 123 Agreements, and multilateral instruments, mainly 

the IAEA, to set and enforce nuclear norms with export partners, and US nuclear 

firms sold their reactor technologies around the world. But as the domestic US 

nuclear industry declined over the last few decades, other countries have risen to 

prominence in the global nuclear market, primarily Russia and an ascendant China.

US partners, like Japan and South Korea, also have risen in prominence since 

indigenizing US reactor technology and now may be in a position to use middlepower diplomacy to continue spreading and enforcing international nuclear 

norms. Yet, Japan and South Korea also face uncertainties in their domestic nuclear markets, and as middle powers, they still prefer to partner with the United 

States to set agendas and enforce norms. They also must overcome formidable 

competition from China and Russia to secure reactor contracts. In this context, 

this article offers the following policy implications for the United States, Japan, 

and South Korea to consider when operating in the nuclear export market.

• Japan and South Korea can be effective nuclear norms diffusers.
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• Seoul and Tokyo used nuclear power to fuel their economic growth and transition into developed economies, and they adopted US-origin nuclear technology and norms at the start of their programs. As middle powers, they are 

committed to preserving the existing system of nuclear norms espoused by 

the United States and the IAEA. They can spread these norms by building 

on their existing export practices that stipulate adhesion to IAEA norms, 

establish education and training programs for other countries’ nuclear programs, and providing world-class nuclear technologies. Their ability to diffuse norms will be especially important when working with countries starting a nuclear energy program and when exporting new reactor technologies.

• The United States can still lead from a supporting position.

• While Japan and South Korea can effectively diffuse norms, they are not able 

to unilaterally set or revise the international system, which is one of the reasons that they still prefer to partner with the United States in nuclear export 

projects. The domestic US commercial nuclear industry likely will continue to 

struggle for the foreseeable future, which will make it even harder for US 

nuclear firms to win future reactor export contracts. But with Seoul or Tokyo 

acting as a coordinator, Washington can still provide leadership on enforcing 

strict safety, security, and nonproliferation norms around the world. South 

Korea’s reactor export project with the UAE provides a model for how Washington can work with newcomer nuclear countries, even when US firms do 

not lead the project. There are legal concerns that still tie Westinghouse with 

KEPCO, but more importantly, the policy preference for Japan and South 

Korea is to partner with the United States on their reactor export projects.

• The United States also could explore using nuclear norms as an issue of 

mutual concern and interest to promote Japan–South Korea cooperation. 

Seoul and Tokyo prefer working with the United States on nuclear exports, 

and all three countries seek to counter the growing influence of Russia and 

China. Past efforts to use nuclear energy as an issue on which to improve 

Japan–South Korea cooperation have not been as successful as hoped, but it 

is worth continuing such efforts.

• Japan or South Korea could be a bridge to nuclear cooperation with Saudi 

Arabia.

• While regions like Southeast Asia and Europe contain the potential for 

nuclear growth, the strongest and most contentious future reactor importer 

is Saudi Arabia. A tender for bids for exporting reactors to Saudi Arabia is 

expected in 2020, and US, South Korean, Russian, Chinese, and French firms 
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are involved in preliminary talks with Riyadh.55 Despite the project’s projected lucrative nature, the idea of exporting nuclear reactors to Saudi Arabia 

is controversial due to statements from Saudi officials about wanting to acquire enrichment technology, nuclear hedging against Iran, and the Saudi 

government’s lack of transparency. These concerns have prevented Washington from concluding a 123 Agreement with Riyadh, which has balked at US 

demands that Saudi Arabia sign the Additional Protocol.56 However, Japan 

or South Korea could act as a bridge between Washington and Riyadh to 

come up with an agreement that meets the needs of all parties. Seoul, in 

particular, could build on its experience with the UAE and bring together a 

coalition to work with Riyadh’s nuclear ambitions while still enforcing US 

and IAEA nuclear norms.

• Spreading nuclear norms is only possible with export contracts.

• The biggest challenge facing Japan, South Korea, and the United States in 

the nuclear export market is becoming more competitive with Chinese and 

Russian state-owned nuclear firms. A 2019 study on nuclear reactor export 

competitiveness found that the most important criteria for importing countries are the financing package, an existing reference reactor, total capital 

investment costs, the economic package, and sustainability of the exporter’s 

domestic nuclear industry.57 On an individual head-to-head basis, Seoul, 

Tokyo, or Washington would have a difficult time competing with Beijing or 

Moscow on those categories, mainly due to the robust financing that the 

Chinese or Russian government can provide. But working as middle-power 

coalition coordinators, Japan or South Korea could increase competitiveness 

by assembling consortia with the United States and other like-minded countries, such as Canada, to make stronger, more cost-competitive supply chains 

to back reactor export proposals.

• French economist Francois Leveque writes that such consortia also could 

offer other goods and services, such as arms sales or infrastructure development projects, to bolster their reactor export bids. Leveque further argues 

that the nuclear industry has traditionally been dominated by vertically integrated companies operating under one flag, but firms operating in stagnant 

domestic markets would be more able to break free from this structure and 

form multinational consortia, which would more resemble the oil and gas 

supplies and service industry.58

• Competitiveness could be increased further by marketing reactor designs 

that Japan and South Korea have recent experience building, namely the 

ABWR or APR1400. Two separate studies by French and Japanese scholars 
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both show that design and component standardization and recent construction experience can decrease costs for subsequent construction projects.59 For 

all these reasons, forming consortia led by Seoul or Tokyo would improve 

competitiveness with China and Russia and help further strengthen international nuclear norms. 

Dr. James E. Platte

Dr. Platte is an assistant professor with the US Air Force Center for Strategic Deterrence Studies at Air University, 

where he is the lead instructor for the Deterrence Research Task Force and conducts research on nuclear deterrence 

and proliferation. He received his PhD in international relations from the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy 

at Tufts University and has held research fellowships with the National Bureau of Asian Research, East-West Center, Pacific Forum, Council on Foreign Relations, and the Harvard Kennedy School. Dr. Platte broadly is interested 

in the military and commercial applications of nuclear energy, and his research particularly focuses on nuclear issues 

in East Asia.

Notes

1. “Nuclear Power in Russia,” World Nuclear Association, April 2020, https://www.world-nuclear.org/.

2. “Nuclear Power in China,” World Nuclear Association, April 2020, https://www.world-nuclear.org/.

3. Laura S. H. Holgate and Sagatom Saha, “America Must Lead on Nuclear Energy to Maintain National Security,” Washington Quarterly 41, no. 2 (Summer 2018), 18.

4. “The Acheson-Lilienthal & Baruch Plans, 1946,” US Department of State, https://history.state.gov/.

5. Mason Willrich, “The Development of International Law by the International Atomic Energy 

Agency,” Proceedings of the American Society of International Law at Its Annual Meeting (1921–1969) 59 (April 

1965): 155–56.

6. Paul L. Joskow, “The International Nuclear Industry Today: The End of the American Monopoly,” 

Foreign Affairs 54, no. 4 (1976), 792.

7. Joskow, “The International Nuclear Industry Today,” 791–92.

8. William R. Pendergast, “U.S. Foreign Policy and Nuclear Proliferation,” Naval War College Review 31, 

no. 1 (Summer 1978), 52.

9. Pendergast, “U.S. Foreign Policy and Nuclear Proliferation,” 50.

10. Willrich, “Development of International Law,” 157.

11. “Nuclear Power in the USA,” World Nuclear Association, August 2019, https://www.world-nuclear.org/.

12. Timothy A. Frazier, “The Role of Policy in Reviving and Expanding the United States’ Global Nuclear Leadership,” Columbia SIPA Center on Global Energy Policy, March 2017, 24, https://energypolicy

.columbia.edu/.

13. Holgate and Saha, “America Must Lead on Nuclear Energy,” 13.

14. Holgate and Saha, “America Must Lead on Nuclear Energy,” 8.

15. Holgate and Saha, “America Must Lead on Nuclear Energy,” 11.

16. Michael Wallace, Amy Roma, and Sachin Desai, “Back from the Brink: A Threatened Nuclear Energy Industry Compromises National Security,” Center for Strategic and International Studies, July 2018, 6, 

https://csis-prod.s3.amazonaws.com/.

17. “The U.S. Nuclear Energy Enterprise: A Key National Security Enabler,” Energy Futures Initiative, 

August 2017, 21, https://static1.squarespace.com/.

18. Wallace, Roma, and Desai, “Back from the Brink, 36.

19. Holgate and Saha, “America Must Lead on Nuclear Energy,” 18.

20. Holgate and Saha, “America Must Lead on Nuclear Energy,” 18.
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21. Yuri Kase, “The Costs and Benefits of Japan’s Nuclearization: An Insight into the 1968/70 Internal 

Report,” Nonproliferation Review, Summer 2001, 65.

22. “South Korea,” Nuclear Threat Initiative, October 2018, https://www.nti.org/.

23. “Nuclear Power in Japan,” World Nuclear Association, August 2019, https://www.world-nuclear.org/.

24. “NPPs in Japan,” Japan Atomic Industrial Forum, Inc. https://www.jaif.or.jp/.

25. Phyllis Genther Yoshida, “U.S.-Japan Nuclear Cooperation: The Significance of July 2018,” Sasakawa 

Peace Foundation USA, 26 March 2018, https://spfusa.org/.

26. Mark Holt, “U.S. and South Korean Cooperation in the World Nuclear Energy Market: Major 

Policy Considerations,” Congressional Research Service, 25 June 2013, 2–4, https://crsreports.congress.gov/.

27. “Korea, Republic of,” International Atomic Energy Agency Power Reactor Information System, 18 

September 2019, https://pris.iaea.org/.

28. “Nuclear Power in South Korea,” World Nuclear Association, September 2019, https://www.world

-nuclear.org/.

29. James E. Platte, “Next Steps for U.S.-South Korea Civil Nuclear Cooperation,” Asia Pacific Bulletin, 

No. 316, 1 July 2015, https://www.eastwestcenter.org/.

30. G. John Ikenberry and Jongryn Mo, The Rise of Korean Leadership: Emerging Powers and Liberal International Order (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 5.

31. Ikenberry and Mo, The Rise of Korean Leadership, 9.

32. Ikenberry and Mo, The Rise of Korean Leadership, 6.

33. Ikenberry and Mo, The Rise of Korean Leadership, 3.

34. Sook-Jong Lee, Chaesung Chun, HyeeJung Suh, and Patrick Thomsen, “Middle Power in Action: 

The Evolving Nature of Diplomacy in the Age of Multilateralism,” East Asia Institute, April 2015, 2–4, 

http://www.eai.or.kr/.

35. Lee, Chun, Suh, and Thomsen, “Middle Power in Action,” 5.

36. Lee, Chun, Suh, and Thomsen, “Middle Power in Action,” 6.

37. Lee, Chun, Suh, and Thomsen, “Middle Power in Action,” 5–6.

38. Scott Snyder, South Korea at the Crossroads: Autonomy and Alliance in an Era of Rival Powers (New 

York: Columbia University Press, 2018), 199.

39. Snyder, South Korea at the Crossroads, 200–07.

40. Snyder, South Korea at the Crossroads, 213.

41. Snyder, South Korea at the Crossroads, 217.

42. Nan Tian, Aude Fleurant, Alexandra Kuimova, Pieter D. Wezeman, and Siemon T. Wezeman, 

“Trends in World Military Expenditure, 2018,” Stockholm International Peace Research Institute, April 

2019, https://sipri.org/.

43. Viet Phuong Nguyen and Man-Sung Yim, “Nonproliferation and Security Implications of the 

Evolving Civil Nuclear Export Market,” Sustainability 11, no. 7 (2019), 5.

44. Yunho Kim, Jeongkwan Suh, Chewung Ha, Jiyong Oh, and Robert Sweeney, “Bringing the APR1400 

Reactor to Market,” Power Magazine, 1 July 2019, https://www.powermag.com/.

45. “Design Certification Applications for New Reactors,” US Nuclear Regulatory Commission, 13 September 2017, https://www.nrc.gov/.

46. Anonymous South Korean government official in discussion with the author, Daejeon, South Korea, 

July 2019.

47. Anonymous Japanese government and private-sector officials in discussion with the author, Tokyo, 

Japan, August 2019.

48. Anonymous South Korean government official in discussion with the author, Daejeon, South Korea, 

July 2019.

49. Mark Holt, “U.S. and South Korean Cooperation in the World Nuclear Energy Market: Major 

Policy Considerations,” Congressional Research Service, 25 June 2013, 6, https://crsreports.congress.gov/.

50. Holt, “U.S. and South Korean Cooperation,” 7.
Exporting Nuclear Norms

JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 145

51. “Status List: Conclusion of Additional Protocols,” International Atomic Energy Agency, 2 September 2019, https://www.iaea.org/.

52. “Agreement Between the Government of the Republic of Korea and the Government of the United 

Arab Emirates for Cooperation in the Peaceful Uses of Nuclear Energy,” International Cooperation in Nuclear energy Service (ICONs), 22 June 2009, http://www.icons.or.kr/.

53. “MHI Completes Investment into France’s Framatome (formerly ‘New NP’),” Mitsubishi Heavy 

Industries, 5 January 2018, https://www.mhi.com/ .

54. Anonymous Japanese private-sector official in discussion with the author, Tokyo, Japan, July 2019.

55. Rania El Gama and Alexander Cornwell, “Saudi Arabia flags plan to enrich uranium as U.S. seeks 

nuclear pact,” Reuters, 9 September 2019, https://www.reuters.com/.

56. Jonathan Tirone, “Saudi Arabia Pressed by Trump Envoy to Allow Nuclear Inspections,” Bloomberg, 

17 September 2019, https://www.bloomberg.com/.

57. Seungkook Roh, Jae Young Choi, and Soon Heung Chang, “Modeling of nuclear power plant export 

competitiveness and its implications: The case of Korea,” Energy 166, 1 January 2019, 166.

58. Francois Leveque, “The International Trade of Nuclear Power Plants: The Supply Side,” Revue 

d’economie industrielle 148, no. 4 (2014): 55–68.

59. Michel Berthelemy and Lina Escobar Rangel, “Nuclear Reactors’ Construction Costs: The Role of 

Lead-time, Standardization and Technological Progress,” CERNA, MINES ParisTech, Working Paper 14-

ME-01, 9 October 2013, 22; and Yuhji Matsuo and Hisanori Nei, “An Analysis of the Historical Trends in 

Nuclear Power Plant Construction Costs: The Japanese Experience,” Energy Policy 124, January 2019, 180–98.
146 JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020

DIGITAL-ONLY VIEW

Chinese Communist Party 

Information Warfare

US–China Competition during the COVID-19 Pandemic

Eric Chan

1st Lt Peter Loftus, USAF

Geopolitics does not stop during a pandemic. In fact, competition between 

the United States and the People’s Republic of China (PRC) has accelerated. The Chinese Communist Party (CCP) is waging an aggressive information warfare campaign to obfuscate its role in propagating the COVID-19 

pandemic and to portray its response as a triumph of its authoritarian model of 

governance. This article will articulate how Beijing is carrying out its information 

warfare strategy and provide recommendations for how the US can respond.

Background

For the CCP, 2019 was a rough year: a trade war with the United States, massive protests in Hong Kong, the African Swine Flu epidemic, international outcry 

over internment camps in Xinjiang, and a slowing economy. To cap it off, the 

greatest challenge to the CCP to date arose in December 2019 from Wuhan, the 

capital of Hubei province. Wuhan has deep symbolism in modern Chinese history; in 1911, virulent nationalism and imperial mismanagement there was the 

catalyst for the Wuchang Uprising, which led to the ousting of the last imperial 

dynasty. Today, Wuhan is the origin of the virulent pneumonia COVID-19, with 

CCP mismanagement badly damaging perceptions of the Party, with potentially 

lasting geopolitical repercussions.

As the timeline of the initial spread of COVID became better known, the extent of Party’s cover-up and mismanagement has correspondingly become more 

evident. In early December 2019, doctors in Wuhan detected the virus; by late 

December, they were already suspicious that the virus was spreading via humanto-human transmission.1

 On 30 December, Dr. Li Wenliang, a physician at Wuhan Central Hospital, used the Chinese social media platform WeChat to send 

warning of a “SARS-like” virus to a number of classmates from medical school. 

Regional Party authorities, upon learning of the warning, did not take steps to 

probe these medical concerns. Instead, on 3 January, the Wuhan Public Security 

Bureau detained Dr. Li for “spreading rumors,” forcing him to sign a letter re-
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nouncing the medical warning and threatening him with further punishment if 

he did not remain quiet. Additionally, the local government even ordered the 

destruction of COVID samples that had been collected.2 Wuhan mayor Zhou 

Xianwang insinuated that he could not share information about the virus earlier 

because of “regulatory requirements for local governments to seek Beijing’s approval before making such disclosures.”3

(Weibo photo from Dr. Li Wenliang)

Figure 1. The Wuhan Public Security Bureau Warning Letter to Dr. Li Wenliang. On 3 

January 2020, the Wuhan Public Security Bureau detained and forced Dr. Li to sign a warning letter. As translated: “According to the law, this letter serves as a warning and reprimand 

over your illegally spreading untruthful information online. Your action has breached the 

law, violating the relevant rules in ‘Laws of the People’s Republic of China on Penalties for 

the Administration of Public Security.’ This is an illegal act! The law enforcement agency 

wants you to cooperate, listen to the police, and stop your illegal behavior. Can you do 

that? (Answer: I can.) We want you to calm down and reflect on your actions, and solemnly 

warn you: If you insist on your views, refuse to repent, and continue the illegal activity, you 

will be punished per the law! Do you hear and understand? (Answer: I understand.)

Could faster action have prevented the spread of the virus? According to research from Southampton University, if intervention had occurred one week ear-
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lier, the pandemic’s toll could have been curtailed by 66 percent; if two weeks 

earlier, by 86 percent; and if three weeks earlier, by 95 percent.4 According to 

Mayor Zhou, by the time the mass-quarantine was initiated on 23 January, five 

million people had already left Wuhan.5 As of 25 April 2020, 3 million people 

worldwide have contracted COVID-19, with some 200,000 deaths. The Party 

turned what could have been a minor regional outbreak into a worldwide pandemic. CCP General Secretary and Chinese President Xi Jinping understood 

early on that international realization of this would lead to an enormous global 

backlash—in his first publicized speech to the Politburo Standing Committee on 

3 February, he urged the Party to “take the initiative and effectively influence international public opinion.”6

 In response, the Party has started an integrated global 

information warfare campaign, which has been unprecedented in scope.

The Structure of CCP Information Warfare

The CCP places a premium on the control of information flow. This was true 

during the SARS pandemic in 2003, and little has changed since then—except 

the Party has become far more aggressive in the use of offensive information warfare, which is designed to obfuscate and shape a new narrative versus simply censoring information. Defensively, the CCP continues to use censorship against information detrimental to its image: for instance, after the Chinese media outlet 

Caixin began questioning the official COVID death toll given the number of urns 

stacked outside of funeral homes, funeral homes were no longer authorized to 

disclose data.7 Similarly, research papers on COVID origins now need to be vetted through the Ministry of Science and Technology prior to publication.8

 This 

older method of information control is now complemented by offensive information warfare. In this case, the propaganda apparatus (PRC media such as Xinhua, 

People’s Daily, Global Times, etc.) broadcasts constant messaging both domestically 

and internationally framing the CCP response as a triumph of its disciplined 

authoritarian system over the chaotic democratic system of the West. Finally, taking a page from the 2016 Russian disinformation campaign, the PRC has flooded 

Western social media with false narratives and conspiracy theories to cause societal confusion and discord.

Through analysis of PRC media and CCP proclamations, there are three predominant themes in this offensive information warfare: (1) highlight Xi Jinping’s 

personal leadership, (2) portray China as a responsible great power, and (3) promote anti-US messaging and conspiracy theories.
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Theme 1: Highlight Xi Jinping’s personal leadership

In early January, as the virus rapidly spread through Wuhan, CCP central leadership fell uncharacteristically silent as local authorities struggled to contain the 

infections and censor the populace. The first references to General Secretary Xi’s 

involvement came on 20 January, when Xinhua released a short news statement 

that Xi had “ordered resolute efforts to curb the spread of the novel coronavirus.”9

By this time, Xinhua noted, the virus had already gone regional, with cases appearing in Thailand, Japan, and Korea.

It was not until almost a month later, on 15 February, that the official Party 

magazine Qiushi (“Seeking Truth”) finally published direct quotes from Xi: a 

speech he had reportedly given two weeks earlier to the Politburo Standing Committee, referenced above. Xi stated that while he had put forth “requirements for 

the prevention and control of the new coronavirus,” the crisis had worsened due to 

“poor public health management” from regional Party officials, accusing them of 

“bureaucratic formalism” and “failure to implement central leadership directives.”10

Xi then made an example of some of these officials: the Communist Party leaders 

of Wuhan and of Hubei province were both fired and replaced with Xi loyalists. 

The Party took similar action in the case of Dr. Li Wenliang. With public sentiment in Wuhan simmering over Li’s death on 7 February from COVID, the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection, the Party’s top disciplinary body, had 

the Wuhan Public Security Bureau revoke Li’s earlier censure, punished two lowlevel police officers, and had the Bureau publicly apologize to Dr. Li’s family. Finally, Dr. Li was given the title of martyr, the highest honor the Party grants to 

civilians, and lauded in propaganda as a loyal member of the Party and a nationally 

advanced individual resolutely implementing General Secretary Xi’s instructions.11

By early March, as cases in Wuhan began to plateau, the tenor of the propaganda changed. Instead of deflection, PRC media now declared that the abatement of COVID in Wuhan was a testament to General Secretary Xi’s leadership. 

On 10 March, Xi landed in Wuhan, beginning a weeklong media showcase of 

him thanking frontline medical workers, conducting a “work inspection” of a local 

hospital, sitting down with shop owners, and walking through a neighborhood 

waving at residents.
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(Screenshot from Xinhua)

Figure 2. People’s Daily depiction of Xi’s visit to a Wuhan market. On 10 March 2020, 

CCP General Secretary and PRC President Xi Jinping visited Wuhan, COVID-19’s outbreak 

origin. The visit was designed to be a media showcase demonstrating Xi’s leadership and 

control over all aspects of the crisis, from medical research to hospital operations to food 

supply. Note the early use of the now-standard CCP propaganda line about how the PRC 

response bought the world time to prepare for the pandemic.

Xi then foreshadowed the upcoming international propaganda campaign by 

saying that the success demonstrated the “distinct political character and advantage” of the PRC system.12

Theme 2: Portray China as a responsible great power

By mid-March, Xi had the Party propaganda apparatus shift to international 

information operations following the passing of the immediate crisis in Wuhan. 

These operations have been a whole-of-nation effort to create a well-publicized 

display of generous foreign aid and medical competence.
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One example of this is the media coverage surrounding the COVID donations 

of Party member Jack Ma, the founder of Alibaba. On 16 March, Ma announced 

that his foundation would send 500,000 testing kits and one million masks to the 

United States, 13 as well as 20,000 testing kits, 100,000 masks, and 1,000 sets of 

personal protective equipment to all 54 African countries.14 In PRC media, ostensibly private donations are framed as having been coordinated through the Party 

and government. Depending on China’s specific relationship with the respective 

country, China’s donation will be portrayed as being that of an iron-clad friendship/

all-weather friend (Cambodia, Serbia, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Zimbabwe),15 or 

alternatively, a symbol of the desire to jointly build a community with a shared future 

(United States, Japan, South Korea).16 Finally, the article/media presentation will 

usually end with a quote from a local dignitary exhorting the international community to thank China—with extra media space if the dignitary makes a favorable comparison between China and the West.

One of the most prominent demonstrations of this was when Serbian president 

Aleksandar Vučić, on 15 March, remarked that “European solidarity does not 

exist. That was a fairy tale,” and that the “only country that can help us is China.”17

This was given significant media attention both inside China and in PRC international media, with a number of articles released during this time quoting “European experts” as being grateful to China for assistance while dismissing the 

European Union or the United States.18

(Twitter photo from @Serdjosega)

Figure 3. Progovernment tabloid billboard in the center of Belgrade, Serbia. A few 

days after President Aleksander Vučić blasted the EU and appealed to China for support 

on 15 March 2020, billboards and banners praising Xi Jinping were placed on the streets of 

Belgrade. “Thank you, Big Brother Xi.” This banner was featured prominently in PRC media 

along with pictures of the Serbian president kissing the Chinese flag against the backdrop 

of a PRC plane carrying medical cargo.
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Direct PRC government aid is also heavy on symbolism, serving to highlight 

existing CCP political-economic international initiatives with a COVID twist. 

On 21 March, PRC media heavily covered a train loaded with 110,000 masks and 

776 protective suites from the industrial city of Yiwu in Zhejiang province, to 

Madrid, Spain—a journey of over 6,200 miles/13,000 km, which took the train 

17 days to cover.19 Despite the obvious disadvantages of train transport in delivering urgently needed medical supplies, the reason for both the train usage and 

route was to highlight the CCP’s New Silk Road political-economic megaproject

(the “Belt” of the more widely known Belt and Road Initiative [BRI]).

Similarly, the CCP has used COVID aid to revive a previously moribund initiative, the Health Silk Road. This was an initiative that Xi first raised in 2017 as an 

addendum to the New Silk Road project; after getting the World Health Organization (WHO) to sign a memorandum of understanding to commit to its construction in January 2017, Xi then had the current WHO Director-General, Dr. 

Tedros Adhanom, promote the initiative as “visionary” during his visit to Beijing 

in August 2017. Afterward, it was little discussed for several years. However, on 16 

March 2020, during a phone conversation with Italian prime minister Giuseppe 

Conte, Xi promised Conte medical teams, supplies, and assistance in building the 

Health Silk Road. Xi brought up the initiative with Conte for a reason; in March 

2019, Conte had been the first European leader to join China’s BRI.

Theme 3: Promote anti-US messaging and conspiracy theories

The CCP has not been content with simply promoting its international medical aid. Instead, the Party has also taken the opportunity to vastly expand negative 

media coverage of the US response to the crisis and Washington’s ability to lead. 

Furthermore, the CCP has integrated Russian disinformation tactics into its already robust Internet information warfare apparatus to spread conspiracy theories 

and disinformation on US social media.

Anti-US messaging is promoted in several ways. The first is through “official” 

channels, such as speeches/pronouncements/interviews with PRC government 

officials, printed in PRC flagship media like People’s Daily or Xinhua. The higher 

ranking the PRC government official involved, the more these pronouncements 

are reliant on misdirection or euphemisms, for a sheen of professionalism. For 

instance, following French president Emmanuel Macron’s 22 April declination to 

join in the Australia/US call for an international probe into the origins and spread 

of COVID, PRC foreign minister Wang Yi praised France for its “independent 

diplomatic style, especially its adherence to multilateralism.” This was duly published in Xinhua.

20 Australia, on the other hand, was attacked as being “keen to 

parrot” the Americans—by an unnamed spokesperson at the PRC Embassy in 
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Canberra, in response to a question by the ultranationalist PRC tabloid The Global 

Times (which itself is a subsidiary to the “more respectable” People’s Daily).

This differentiation is even more apparent in anti-US messaging spread through 

“unofficial” channels, where there is a level of plausible deniability. The most notable example of this is the PRC Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ spokesman Zhao 

Lijian’s conspiratorial Twitter post on 12 March, blaming the US Army for deliberately spreading COVID in Wuhan; this accusation was then shared by over a 

dozen Chinese diplomats on Twitter.21

(Twitter, @zlj517)

Figure 4. PRC Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ spokesman Zhao Lijian Twitter post, 12 

March 2020. The CCP use of “unofficial” channels (Twitter is blocked in China) to spread 

conspiracy theories is complemented by “official” channels using more “reasonable” disinformation. Note Zhao’s use of the Global Times tabloid media.

The “official” PRC response following the widespread international backlash 

over Zhao’s tweet is a demonstration of the complementary nature of the official–

unofficial spread of disinformation. On 22 March, PRC Ambassador to the 

United States Cui Tiankai gave an interview to Axios in which he stated in re-
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sponse: “Eventually, we must have an answer to where the virus originally came. 

But, this is the job for scientists to do, not for diplomats, not for journalists to 

speculate, because such speculation will help nobody.”22 While this was widely 

reported in Western media as a rebuke to Zhao, this was actually the use of an 

official channel to spread a “reasonable” alternative to the easily laughed-off conspiracy theory: obfuscation under the guise of scientific uncertainty.

Furthermore, the PRC has also deployed Russian-style disinformation techniques—social media bot spam—to insert false narratives and increase discord in 

US society. Pro Publica, an investigative news organization, recorded a recent uptick in the number of pro-CCP accounts exclusively focused on criticizing the 

United States. Their report tracked over 10,000 such accounts, and mapped how 

these suspect users interacted with one another to advance PRC narratives.23 One 

technique involves using “bespoke” social media accounts—an account with the 

features of a real social media profile, such as a long account history, regular posts, 

direct messaging—to post an “eye-catching” comment, which would then be 

boosted via likes, retweets, and pasted comments by spam accounts to game platform algorithms for promotion.

In mid-March, the United States received an indication of the power of these 

amplification techniques during a pandemic. Chinese operatives, via Twitter, 

Facebook, and text messaging, pushed a false narrative that the United States was 

about to go into national lockdown, to be enforced by the Department of Homeland Security and the military. Per the New York Times, “The messages became so 

widespread over 48 hours that the White House’s National Security Council issued an announcement via Twitter that they were ‘FAKE.’”24 This type of panic 

mongering represents a more aggressive use of disinformation and deflection than 

the standard PRC 50 Cent Army method of blanketing US social media networks 

with stilted CCP propaganda on perceived “anti-CCP” topics. In this case, causing general mayhem was the goal, and by itself is a troubling indication of the 

PRC escalation of information warfare.

Responding to the Challenge

As the PRC has chosen to embark on an escalatory global information warfare 

campaign during the most serious pandemic in a hundred years, the United States 

must respond accordingly. We propose three national-level responses to seize the 

initiative in the US–PRC great-power competition and pressure the CCP into 

ceasing escalation in the information domain.
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Create a Twenty-first-Century Arsenal of Democracy

Washington should expedite the transition of our nation’s manufacturing capacity toward producing medical equipment on a truly massive scale, to supply not just 

the United States but also our allies, partners, and our would-be allies/partners in 

a Twenty-first-century Arsenal of Democracy. It has become clear that having an 

enormous portion of the global medical supply chain in the PRC is an invitation 

for the CCP to promote its political-economic objectives in the name of medical 

aid. Worse yet, it has allowed the CCP to openly threaten the United States by 

imposing pharmaceutical export controls and thus plunge America into a “mighty 

sea of coronavirus.”25 We can only protect ourselves and our friends against this 

type of pressure with the creation of a strategic reserve of medical supplies.

Collaborate with allies and partners to counter Beijing’s narrative

The CCP is now openly advocating for the superiority of their authoritarian 

system. This is a significant change from past propaganda, which narrowly advocated the Party’s leadership and system being appropriate for China itself (i.e., the 

1980s-era Deng Xiaoping motto, “Socialism with Chinese characteristics.”) This is 

not something that is a threat to the United States alone: the CCP is now targeting the EU with propaganda about the inefficiency of democratic countries. In 

France, the PRC embassy posted an article stating that in Western countries, 

careworkers in nursing homes abandoned their jobs and left residents to die.26

Against this systematic challenge, backed by PRC economic pressure, individual 

efforts are insufficient. For instance, an EU report documenting PRC disinformation was delayed and then heavily watered down following pressure from Beijing.27 The United States must work with fellow democracies to push back against 

this pressure and, more fundamentally, against the myth of efficient autocracies. 

This means highlighting successful cases of democratic countries dealing with the 

virus, such as South Korea or Taiwan. This means placing economic pressure on 

the PRC when the PRC tries to impose economic pressure to enforce their political will. This means actively demonstrating how autocratic systems break down 

the transparent information transfer that is critical to stopping the virus. Dr. Li 

Wenliang did not die for the Party; he died because of the Party.

Reinvigorate US leadership of international organizations

By now, the failure of the WHO to adequately check the claims of the CCP in 

January 2020—the most critical point in the shift from regional outbreak to global 

pandemic—is now clear. In mid-January, the WHO declared that there was “no 

evidence of human-to-human transmission of the virus,” even while doctors in 
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Chan & Loftus

China were being warned against spreading “rumors” to that effect. The WHO 

director-general, on 28 January, praised China for “setting a new standard for outbreak response.”28 The co-opting effects of the PRC on international organizations, even while PRC funding for these international organizations is a mere 

fraction of the US level, demonstrates the degree to which US influence in these 

international organizations has atrophied. The United States must once again regain its leadership mantle at these organizations, because we have now seen the 

national-level effects of neglect. This does not necessarily mean more funding. 

This means using what funding we do provide to greater effect; working with allies and partners to confront PRC propaganda at every step, vice dismissing it. 

This means shoring up fellow democratic partners such as Taiwan in these international organizations: Taiwan’s response to COVID has been exemplary, with 

the free flow of information and deft use of technology not to deceive, but to 

empower its citizens. This would be the type of expertise that the WHO should 

welcome, instead of the deceptions of the CCP.

Conclusion

CCP COVID propaganda states that the virus is our common enemy and that 

nothing is more important than life. It is clear from the early handling of COVID-19 that the Party views anything that threatens the system is our common 

enemy, and that the Party’s grip on power is more important than life. This is true 

not only for the PRC’s own citizens but also for the rest of the world.

The repercussions of this realization by the international community has led Xi 

Jinping to take great risks in an escalation of information warfare. The propaganda 

has changed. The method of execution has changed. The days of a cautious CCP 

are over. Through this disinformation campaign, the PRC has demonstrated its 

intent to be an aggressive, revisionist power. We must clearly contest China’s manipulative narrative, but simple rhetoric is not enough. We must revitalize American leadership by placing our strengths at the fore: our economy, our relationships 

with our allies, and our ability to lead. There is more than American power at 

stake; American values are threatened as well. Much like a virus, values can spread, 

and the CCP is doing its best to propagate the Party’s values. Just as we rise to the 

COVID challenge, so must we rise to the CCP’s challenge. 
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Eric Chan

Eric Chan is an airpower strategist for HAF/A3K Checkmate, specializing in Chinese and Korean political-security 

affairs. His articles have been previously published in The Diplomat (“Fifth Column Fears: The Chinese Influence 

Campaign in the United States”) and War on the Rocks (“What to Expect When You’re Expecting the PLA”). Mr. 

Chan was previously China, Korea, Philippines, and Vietnam Country Director in SAF/IA, responsible for Foreign 

Military Sales to US partners and for engagement with the Chinese Air Force.

1st Lieutenant Peter Loftus

1st Lt Peter Loftus is a USAF officer with the 75th Fighter Squadron. He holds a bachelor’s degree in Chinese language and literature from the University of Massachusetts–Amherst and a master’s in international relations from 

the Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies (SAIS), where he concentrated in China studies and 

international economics. He spent two years living in China between Beijing and Shanghai (Project Global Officer), 

Xi’an (Fulbright-Hays grant), and Nanjing (Hopkins-Nanjing Center). He is a member of the Language Enabled 

Airman Program for Mandarin.

Notes

1. Chris Buckley and Steven Lee Myers, “As Coronavirus Spread, China’s Old Habits Delayed Fight,” 

New York Times, 7 February 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/.

2. Bethany Allen-Ebrahimian, “Timeline: The Early Days of China’s Coronavirus Outbreak and CoverUp,” Axios, 18 March 2020, https://www.axios.com/.

3. “Mayor of China’s Wuhan Draws Online Ire for ‘80 out of 100’ Interview,” Reuters, 27 January 2020, 

https://www.reuters.com/.

4. Dr. Shengjie Lai, “Early and Combined Interventions Crucial in Tackling COVID-19 Spread in 

China,” University of Southampton, 11 March 2020, https://www.southampton.ac.uk/ .

5. Ashley Collman, “5 Million People Left Wuhan Before China Quarantined the City to Contain the 

Coronavirus Outbreak,” Business Insider, 27 January 2020, https://www.businessinsider.com/.

6. Xi Jinping, “在中央政治局常委会会议研究应对新型冠状病毒肺炎疫情工作时的讲话/Speech at 

the Standing Committee of the Politburo Central Committee, In Regards to the Response for the Novel 

Coronavirus,” Qiushi Net, 3 February 2020, http://www.qstheory.cn/.

7. Claire Che, Sharon Chen, and Dandan Li, “Urns in Wuhan Prompt Questions of Virus’s Toll,” Bloomberg, 27 March 2020, https://www.bloomberg.com/.

8. David Cyranoski and Andrew Silver, “China is Tightening Its Grip on Coronavirus Research,” Nature, 

15 April 2020, https://www.nature.com/.

9. “Xi Orders Resolute Efforts to Curb Virus Spread,” Xinhua News, 20 January 2020, http://www.xinhua 

net.com/.

10. Xi Jinping, “在中央政治局常委会会议研究应对新型冠状病毒肺炎疫情工作时的讲话/Speech 

at the Standing Committee of the Politburo Central Committee, In Regards to the Response for the Novel 

Coronavirus,” http://www.qstheory.cn/.

11. “李文亮、刘智明等被追授全国防疫先进个人称号/Li Wenliang, Liu Zhiming, etc Posthumously 

Awarded the Title of National Advanced Individual for Epidemic Prevention,” Sina News, 5 March 2020, 

https://news.sina.com.cn/.

12. Xi Jinping, “在湖北省考察新冠肺炎疫情防控工作时的讲话/Speech During the Novel Coronavirus Epidemic Prevention and Control Response Inspection in Hubei Province.” http://www.qstheory.cn/.

13. Caitlin O’Kane, “Chinese Billionaire Jack Ma Is Shipping Coronavirus Test Kits and Masks to the 

U.S.,” CBS News, 16 March 2020, https://www.cbsnews.com/.

14. Jack Ma, Twitter, 16 March 2020, https://twitter.com/.

15. “Iron-Clad China-Serbia Friendship Stronger in COVID-19 Fight,” Xinhua News, 2 April 2020, 

http://www.xinhuanet.com/.
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16. “China Ready to Boost Cooperation with Japan to Fight COVID-19: Chinese Ambassador,” Xinhua 

News, 23 February 2020, http://www.xinhuanet.com/.

17. Nemanja Cabric and Shi Zhongyu, “Iron-clad China-Serbia Friendship Stronger in COVID-19 

Fight,” Xinhua News, 2 April 2020, http://www.xinhuanet.com/.

18. “China Sees Rising Status, Image with Virus Fight,” Global Times, 20 March 2020, https://www

.globaltimes.cn/.

19. “China-Europe Freight Train Sends Anti-Virus Supplies to Spain,” China.org, 22 March 2020, 

http://www.china.org.cn/.

20. “China Ready to Work with France Till Defeating COVID-19 Pandemic”, Xinhua News, 23 April 

2020, http://www.xinhuanet.com/.

21. Zhaoyin Feng, “China and Twitter: The Year China Got Louder on Social Media,” BBC, 29 December 2019, https://www.bbc.com/.

22. Bethan Allen-Ebrahimian and Jonathan Swan, “Top Chinese Official Disowns U.S. Military Lab 

Conspiracy Theory,” Axios, 22 March 2020, https://www.axios.com/.

23. Jeff Kao and Mia Shuang Li, “How China Built a Twitter Propaganda Machine Then Let It Loose 

on Coronavirus,” Pro Publica, 26 March 2020, https://www.propublica.org/.

24. Julian Barnes, Matthew Rosenberg, and Edward Wong, “Chinese Agents Helped Spread Messages 

That Sowed Virus Panic in U.S., Officials Say,” New York Times, 22 April 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/.

25. Huang Sheng (pen-name), “理直气壮,世界应该感谢中国/Justified and Strong, the World Should 

Thank China,” Xinhua News, 4 March 2020, http://www.xinhuanet.com/.

26. John Irish, “Outraged French Lawmakers Demand Answers on ‘Fake’ Chinese Embassy Accusations,” Reuters, 15 April 2020, https://www.reuters.com/.

27. Matt Apuzzo, “Pressured by China, E.U. Softens Report on COVID-19 Disinformation,” New York 

Times, 24 April 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/.

28. Tedros Adhanom, “WHO Director-General’s statement on IHR Emergency Committee on Novel 

Coronavirus (2019-nCoV),” 30 January 2020, https://www.who.int/.
JOURNAL OF INDO-PACIFIC AFFAIRS  SUMMER 2020 159

DIGITAL-ONLY VIEW

Kashmir

Beyond Imbroglios*

Dr. Usman W. Chohan

Omer Aamir

Abstract

Kashmir is a picturesque region straddled by the boundaries of India, China, 

Pakistan, and Afghanistan. It has seen a lot of turmoil in the last 30 years. Moreover, Pakistan and India have engaged in multiple wars and skirmishes over the 

territory. The history of Kashmir can be traced back to the transfer of territory to 

the Hindu Maharaja in the Treaty of Amritsar in 1849. Local resistance was 

subdued through colonial-era autocratic mechanisms. The rule of Gulab Singh’s 

successors was seen as one labeled as “post-autocratic fiscality.” Politico-legal instruments were thereafter leveraged to marginalize the majority Muslim community in Kashmir and resulted in an unfair system. In 1947, riots started after 

the 3 June Mountbatten Plan was announced. This led to the migration of population from one region to the other. There was no clear demarcation of boundaries 

by the colonial regime. This was delayed after the announcement of independence 

of the two nation-states of Pakistan and India. The postponed Radcliffe Award 

and the unclear nature of the Instrument of Accession of Princely States caused a 

horrid situation that resulted in turmoil.

Moreover, contrary to what Dalbir Ahlawat and Satish Malik have stated, the 

colonial regime coined the term Kashmiriyat, which is an empty signifier that 

disregards the ground realities. In violation of international law, India’s unilateral 

abrogation of Article 370 and 35-A show that New Delhi is taking steps that are 

detrimental to regional peace and stability. Furthermore, India has made Kashmir 

one of the most militarized zones in the world, with a ratio of security personnel 

to local population of 1:8. Due to the imminent threat of a conflict between 

nuclear-armed neighbors, the oppression and subjugation of the Kashmiris makes 

regional stability and peace precarious. The obduracy of India’s successive governments over the years to resolve the dispute is causing concern for policy makers 

around the world. The issue should be resolved through pacific settlement of disputes as enunciated in Article 33 of the UN Charter. The International Religious 

*The authors wish to thank ACM Kaleem Saadat, president at the Centre for Aerospace and Security 

Studies (CASS), for his comments on the draft of this article.
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Freedom Report has categorically stated that India’s use of intimidation tactics 

against its minorities is akin to state terrorism.

Conclusively, this article argues that the right to self-determination, which is 

an integral part of any international covenant, including but not restricted to the 

International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR); the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (ICESCR); and most 

importantly United Nations Declaration on Human Rights (UNDHR), should 

be upheld and the conditions of Kashmiris ought to be bettered as a fundamental human right.

Introduction

The picturesque Himalayan region of Kashmir sits at the juncture of Pakistan, 

India, Afghanistan, and China,1 and represents the primary bone of contention 

between the two dominant South Asian rivals: India and Pakistan. The dispute 

over Kashmir has embroiled India and Pakistan in two major wars, a limited 

battle at Kargil, and numerous border conflicts since 1947. It was the casus belli for 

the wars of 1947–48 and 1965 and saw heavy fighting in the 1971 war as well.2

The dispute has consumed precious resources in blood and treasure from both 

countries, which have been diverted away from the pressing concerns of poverty, 

disease, malnutrition, and climate change. The two countries have become nuclear 

powers since 1998, and the perennial contest over Kashmir on diplomatic, information, legal, military, intelligence, and political grounds continues—albeit this 

time under an ominous nuclear umbrella.

In this regard, it is necessary that a more nuanced and comprehensive viewpoint be presented to a global audience, which can foster both wider international 

engagement as well as a richer understanding of the salient features and undercurrents that permeate Jammu & Kashmir ( J&K) and the South Asian region at 

large. In the end, such engagement is a necessary step in ushering a more stable 

and prosperous South Asia, which still reels from the aftershocks of colonialism 

and welters under the specter of a localized, but no less brutal, neocolonialism 

now being imposed by the Indian police state in the Kashmir Valley.

The prominence of the Kashmir conflict has indeed enthused many attempts to 

grapple with the subject, and many parties have offered differing terms as means 

for a rational settlement.3 Yet few have managed to pierce the veil of partisanship 

with sufficient levels of immersion, in the particular sense that Kashmiris’ experiences have not been given their due weight. A recent instance of this can be found 

in the work of authors Dalbir Ahlawat and Satish Malik, titled “Kashmir Imbroglio” and published in this Journal of Indo-Pacific Affairs (JIPA). An objective of 

our article is to present a valuable counterperspective to the claims presented by 
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these authors, in light of much violence and state repression that India has perpetrated in the short period since, particularly after its abrogation of Article 370 on 

5 August 2019, which represents an act that violates both international law and 

the Indian legal corpus. Moreover, this article stresses a more sober historical 

perspective of the Kashmir region, substantiated by more neutral accounts of historians, anthropologists, and other social scientists.

Many nuances have been lost in reductionist narratives that are most vociferously pressed today, and what this article aims to do above all is inform an enquiry 

that ties more profoundly with both the historical memory and the lived experiences of Kashmiris as they navigate a tortuous tide of postcolonial subjugation 

and Hindu irredentism that rises by the day.4 The approach of this article arguably 

offers far more explanatory power regarding the plight of the Kashmiris; the imposition of a “living hell” police state in Kashmir since 5 August 2019;5

 and the 

risk of an escalation between India and Pakistan at the behest of an ethnonationalist government in New Delhi that has done away with the pretenses around the 

myth of “Indian secularism” and which has in more ways than one come to prove 

Pakistan’s genesis, rooted in the Two Nation Theory, correct in reflection.6

Above all, this account is corroborated and vindicated by the immediate retrospect that other authors have not had. In the brief period since Ahlawat and 

Malik presented their arguments to this journal, the Indian government has abrogated articles 35A and 370, cut off the region from any connection to the outside world, led a crackdown on leaders across the Kashmiri political spectrum 

(including Indian sympathizers, who are today more hamstrung as apologists),7

and undertaken the mass deportation of young men to prisons across the Indian 

mainland. These events have occurred without any democratic or journalistic access to the epicenter of New Delhi’s excesses. Children as young as nine have been 

subject to what is constitutionally known as preventive detention, in a sort of moral 

gymnastic routine that shocks even seasoned scholars on Kashmir.8 A pronounced 

assertion can be made thus: scholars with a tolerant bent toward Indian occupation in Kashmir, including Ahlawat and Malik, would have a much harder time 

pressing the case they did as recently as mid-2019 by the fall of the same year. This 

is in large part because of the mendaciousness that accompanies an apologist 

stance toward postcolonial occupation forces that themselves hold deep-seated 

venality toward the local populations that they annex and dominate.

It is required, in turn, to revisit a justified and grounded perspective that can 

shed actual light on the “Kashmir imbroglio” in a manner that more fully informs 

the logic of terror and fascism that now constitute the lived experiences of Kashmiris. The region has been suffering since Gulab Singh acquired Kashmir in 

March 1846 under the Treaty of Amritsar. What Frantz Fanon described as Les 
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Damnés de la Terre (The Wretched of the Earth)9 could not be found any more 

starkly subsisting in anguish as the Kashmiris who have lived under the occupation forces of New Delhi and the Dogra regime before them. This element of 

colonial and postcolonial subjugation forms the basis of the fullest inquiry into 

the plight of Kashmiris.

The Despondence of Kashmiri Muslims under 

Autocratic Colonial Rule

Kashmir was a region that fell to an autocratic princely state arrangement much 

more recently than other regions of South Asia did.10 Only at the apogee of European colonialism was Kashmir converted into a Princely State, when the British 

recognized Gulab Singh as a tributary and vassal maharaja through the Treaty of 

Amritsar (1846). This followed the First Anglo–Sikh War (1845–46) and was 

contingent on payment of 75 thousand Nanakshahee Rupees for the war indemnity. The payment was justified on account of Gulab Singh legally being one of 

the chiefs of the Kingdom of Lahore and thus responsible for its treaty obligations. Gulab Singh had sided with the British in the Anglo–Sikh war and was 

thus conveniently confirmed as the ruler of Kashmir by the colonial regime. The 

vassal Gulab Singh, in turn, imposed exorbitant taxes on the Kashmiris in an attempt to recoup the money he had paid to buy Kashmir.11 This reflected his instrumental approach toward treating Kashmir as a territory rather than as a collective polity and followed a pattern long observed by anthropologists of debt as 

one of post-occupation autocratic fiscality.12

By the time that the autocrat Gulab Singh had refashioned the economy of the 

territory he had purchased from Britain to his whims, the Hindus had multiplied 

their economic domination over the majority Muslim population. The largest 

beneficiaries of this system were the social agents known as Pandits, the uppercaste Brahmin Hindus who were residents in Kashmir. The Pandits and the Dogra 

royal family controlled most of the agricultural land, while the majority Muslim 

population largely toiled in economic subservience to the Pandits and the Dogras. 

Despite Muslims representing 53 percent of the population in the southern 

Jammu Province and a full 93 percent in the heavily populated northern Kashmir 

Province, they were a community in serfdom.13 Lt Col Ian Torrens, who was part 

owner of the Globe newspaper and an influential political economist of his time, 

visited Kashmir (1859–60) during the reign of Ranbir Singh. He painted a grim 

political picture of the region, stating, “the Hindu rule was run by Hindu faqueers, 

detested by people that they prey upon, but supported and encouraged by the 

Government.”14 He added that “apart from the Pandits, the Kashmiris are all 
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Mahomedans, and the differences between them and their Dogra rulers does not 

serve to lessen the unpopularity of the dominant race.”15

Other avenues where minority power was exhibited included the public administration: Hindus and Sikhs held 78 percent of gazette appointments in the government, while the Muslim representation was only 22 percent, despite their majority of more than three-fourths. The Kashmiri Pandits, thus, used their 

overrepresentation in the state machinery to reinforce their economic control and 

political power across the totality of the state.16 Similarly, the public finances of the 

state reflected this tyranny in various forms, as when the taxes on Muslims for crop 

yields that were an eye-gouging 75 percent of their produce, thereby eliminating 

the possibility of their economic emancipation through surplus production. The 

Kashmiris had been kept in this subjugated condition throughout history, first by 

the Mughals, then the Afghans, and lately, before Partition by the Dogras. In fact, 

the Dogras also reintroduced the forced labor system under which the state could 

employ workers for little to no payment. In times of economic adversity, Muslims 

would be squeezed first such that, even at the time of a severe famine in the state 

during the Dogra rule, the Muslims were allowed to perish rather than slaughtering their cattle, so as not to offend Brahmin sensibilities.17 We see echoes of this in 

contemporary India where lynchings against Muslims for perceived slaughtering 

of cows has gained increasing currency as a vigilante practice.

Additionally, Hindus had monopolies over 83 percent of the access (seats) in 

state-sponsored (public) education.18 The tax net was in fact so deep that Kashmiri Muslims had to pay a tax to get married as well.19 Worse still, the Dogra 

autocrat is reported to have presented a plan for the forced conversion (in his eyes, 

“reconversion”) of Muslims to Hinduism—but it is of some ironic quality that the 

plan was rejected by Benares high priests because they believed that the Muslims 

would then “contaminate” the purity of Hinduism.20 The forced “reconversion” of 

India’s Muslims, in addition to those in Kashmir, is a vividly discussed subject by 

today’s ruling party in New Delhi.21

Although most historical–anthropological accounts of Kashmir under Hindu 

Dogra rule mention incidents and impressions of total class violence as a fairly 

frequent affair, it appears that July 1931 was seminal to revolutionary action.22 In 

the aftermath of the 1931 agitations, the British-appointed B. J. Glancy Commission was deputed to examine an extensive array of economic and political grievances believed to have caused the disturbances. Its report of 1932 included a 

criticism of the Kashmir state’s partisan functioning in favor of its Hindu subjects 

to the neglect of Muslims.23

In the 1941 British census of India, Kashmir registered a Muslim-majority 

population of 77 percent, a Hindu population of 20 percent, and a sparse popula-
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tion of Buddhists and Sikhs comprising the remaining 3 percent out of a total 

population of 4.02 million.24 That same year, Prem Nath Bazaz, a Kashmiri Pandit 

journalist wrote, “The poverty of the Muslim masses is appalling. . . . Most are 

landless labourers, working as serfs for absentee [Hindu] landlords . . . Almost the 

whole brunt of official corruption is borne by the Muslim masses.”25

This was the desperate backdrop of the lived experience within which Kashmiris, contrary to the claims of Ahlawat and Malik for Kashmiriyat, recognized 

their identity as disenfranchised Muslims tyrannized by upper-caste Hindus, who 

were themselves collaborators and vassals to the British. The class violence was 

superimposed on the religious identity of the Kashmiris as a distinct people who 

would stand in class allegiance against the landowning Brahmins who profiteered 

in their serfdom.

Thus, the Kashmiris were a clear case of Fanon’s colonial depiction of 

the Wretched of the Earth,

26 but the class violence is reinforced in the analysis of 

Indian scholars as well, as when Bazaz observes that “speaking generally and from 

the bourgeois point of view, the Dogra rule has been a Hindu Raj. Muslims have 

not been treated fairly, by which I mean as fairly as the Hindus. Firstly, because, 

contrary to all professions of treating all classes equally, it must be candidly admitted that Muslims were dealt with harshly in certain respects only because they 

were Muslims.”27 This helps to explain the widespread appeal of the Pakistan 

Movement to the majority of Kashmiris living under oppressive conditions, their 

desire to stand up for the cause of Pakistan and the deliverance it promised—even 

as their Dogra autocrats sought to suppress them and work out an arrangement 

with India that would perpetuate their privileges of exploitation.

Riots, Partition, and the Princely State of Kashmir

The era of the British colonial Raj came to an end following World War II and 

the ensuing inability of the colonial regime to continue financing British foreign 

depredations. It is stated by one of prominent Pakistani lawyers that, “Centuries 

of British colonial rule on the Indian subcontinent ended in August 1947, as 

Winston Churchill puts it, in a ‘premature hurried scuttle.’ The ill-conceived flight 

of the British left certain far-reaching elements of the decolonization process 

unfinished, including the political fate of the princely state of J&K in accordance 

with the wishes of its people and consistent with Partition’s underlying principles.”28

The longstanding repression of Kashmir came to the fore as one of a litany of 

princely autocratic arrangements that had to choose their postcolonial political 

status. There were 584 Princely States, along with Kashmir, which had to make 

this choice per the British arrangements for their exit. The Princely States had 

maintained a “special relationship” as vassals of the crown, but the “lapse of para-
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mountcy” resulted in the transformation of their status and a choice to accede to 

either the dominion of India or Pakistan or to become independent.29 Out of 584 

Princely States during 1947, 13 major Princely States decided to join Pakistan.

In addition, the states of Hyderabad, Junagadh, and Manavadar also decided to 

accede to Pakistan. However, given that they were surrounded by Indian territory, 

the Indian state exerted brute force to prevent these accessions from occurring, 

forcing instead their mergers with the Indian Union under threat of total violence.30 Operation Polo, the Indian military operation to take over Hyderabad 

state, resulted in massive communal violence and deaths, ranging from official 

sources of around 35,000 to scholarly estimates of over 200,000.31 Kashmir’s maharaja, Hari Singh, who was one of the descendants of the tyrannical vassal Gulab 

Singh, played a gambit to sign a standstill agreement with Pakistan due to the 

cultural, linguistic, and religious affinity of the Kashmiri people with the people 

of Pakistan, besides the land linkage of the state with Pakistan, since the only 

all-weather road at the time passed through Rawalpindi into Kashmir.

According to Ahlawat and Malik, Hari Singh sought time to persuade the 

Muslim population, against their wishes, to join India. However, their democratic 

will had already been expressed, and the decision had long been made by the 

Kashmiri Muslims, as can be seen in that Ghulam Abbas had broken off from 

Sheikh Abdullah’s Congress-affiliated National Conference and had revived the 

Muslim Conference to represent the prevalent Muslim aspirations of Kashmiri 

Muslims to join Pakistan.32 It was the vassal’s betrayal of the democratic aspirations of the Kashmiri people, which he as well as his forefathers had long exploited 

and detested,33 that would erupt in what is known as the Kashmir dispute.

Yet, the faulty and chaotic “Brexit” of 1947 and the poorly executed and partisan partition of subcontinent based on the Radcliffe Award also fueled the flames 

of the Kashmir dispute. The Muslim-majority Gurdaspur district was given to 

India, providing New Delhi with a land route to Kashmir. Muhammad Zufrulla 

Khan, who represented the Muslim League at the Boundary Commission, writes, 

“If Batala and Gurdaspur had gone to Pakistan, Pathankot tehsil would have been 

isolated and blocked. Even though it would have been possible for India to get 

access to Pathankot through the Hoshiarpur district, it would have taken quite a 

long time to construct the roads, bridges, and communications that would have 

been necessary for military movements.”34 According to Indian lawyer A. G. 

Noorani, were it not for the controversial Radcliffe Award, India would not have 

any access to Kashmir at all. 35 The geographical factor was clearly in favor of 

Pakistan, and so was the demography. Yet manipulation, political expediency, and 

hastiness led the Radcliffe ploy to disregard both geographical contiguity and 

demographic (not to mention democratic) logic.36
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The rebellion against Maharaja Hari Singh started before independence in 

Poonch in June–July 1947, where Muslim soldiers of World War II had been 

disarmed and heavy taxes imposed, creating widespread discontent. Sixty thousand Muslims from the Poonch and Mirpur district had served in the British 

Army during World War II. Similarly, in Gilgit, the British-led Gilgit Scouts 

rebelled (their separate decision from the rest of Kashmir to rebel earlier and accede to Pakistan is discussed in a later section).

The flailing Maharaja Hari Singh saw his fiefdom ablaze and decided to flee, 

but it was in flight from Srinagar that he signed the so-called “Instrument of 

Accession” with India, something that partisans claim he supposedly signed in 

October 1947. The authenticity of this document remains in doubt and is likely to 

be a forgery.37 Assuming, for a moment, that it was not a forgery, then the socalled instrument would have been an abject violation of the standstill agreement 

already signed with Pakistan. In his letter to the maharaja, bearing the date 27 

October 1947, the Governor General of India, Lord Mountbatten, declared that 

“consistently with their policy in the case of any State where the issue of accession 

has been the subject of dispute, the question of accession should be decided in 

accordance to the wishes of the people of the State, it is my Government’s wish 

that as soon as law and order have been restored in Kashmir . . . the question of 

the State’s accession should be settled by a reference to the people.”38

Moreover, the UNSC Resolution 47 passed on 21 April 1948 expanded the 

mandate of the United Nations Commission on India and Pakistan to conduct a 

plebiscite in Kashmir.39 The resolution explicitly called on the Government of 

India to ensure the safety of all subjects and their freedom of expression in the 

vote for accession and ensuring freedom of the press, speech, and assembly and 

freedom of travel in the state, including freedom of lawful entry and exit. The 

Indian state continues to violate all the stipulations of the resolution in the current scenario.40 In the aftermath of the elections of 1951, in which Sheikh Abdullah’s National Conference claimed a victory in every single one of the 75 seats (73 

without contest), there were objections about massive rigging by New Delhi. The 

manipulated results prompted Josef Korbel, chair for the UN Commission on 

India and Pakistan, to remark, “No dictator could do better.”41

UNSC Resolution 91 highlighted this by resolving that any action that the 

Constituent Assembly (formed through rigging) in Indian Occupied J&K would 

take or would have taken will hold no value.42 Thus, the council decimated the 

claim of the unlawfully elected Constituent Assembly that Kashmir was an “integral part of India.” Its precise wording is that “the convening of a constituent assembly as recommended by the General Council of the ‘All Jammu and Kashmir 

National Conference’ and any action that the assembly might attempt to take to 
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determine the future shape and affiliation of the entire State or any part thereof 

would not constitute a disposition of the State in accordance with the above principle [impartial plebiscite].”43

Contrary to allowing a plebiscite in Kashmir as mandated by the United Nations, India instead conducted a plebiscite in Junagadh to determine the wishes of 

that populace. This was due to the fact that Junagadh was a Hindu-majority region, whereas Kashmir was a Muslim-majority region. It was a categorically inconsistent (read: hypocritical) move and one that caused widespread consternation in the subcontinent, setting the tone for constant mistrust between the two 

nations. Ahlawat and Malik have erred abjectly in their counterfactual guess that 

a plebiscite in Kashmir might somehow have favored India, based on the notion 

that Sheikh Abdullah was a Congress ally.44 This assumes that New Delhi’s vassal, 

Sheikh Abdullah, commanded the will of a disenfranchised people and that the 

Kashmiri people were oblivious to his status as a puppet. Instead, the far greater 

likelihood, to which Ahlawat and Malik act oblivious, is that the dynamics of the 

Kashmir region would have led to a plebiscite favoring accession to Pakistan.45

Even to this day, the likelihood remains that, if a free and fair plebiscite is conducted in Kashmir Valley, it will most likely go in favor of Pakistan. However, 

India, which touts itself as the “world’s largest democracy,” has now brazenly abrogated Article 370 and imposed a police state and is loath to accept the democratic wishes of the Kashmiri people (this will be discussed in a later section).

The National Conference that Sheikh Abdullah’s apologist cabal led at the time 

of Partition worked in close affiliation with the centrist Congress leader Jawaharlal Nehru in New Delhi. However, the National Conference itself had split into 

the Muslim Conference and the National Conference in 1941 after the passing of 

Pakistan Resolution. Thereafter, the National Conference could not have represented the aspirations of the people of Kashmir Valley as it was not the sole voice 

of the Kashmiris anymore. This was similar to the situation in the North-West 

Frontier Province (now known as Khyber Pakhtunkhwa) where the Khidmatgar 

party was a Congress ally and was ruling the province. Yet, the people of the 

province voted in favor of joining Pakistan through a referendum held there at the 

time of Partition. As has been written by lawyer Yasser Latif Hamdani “the referendum, to decide between Pakistan and Hindustan, held under an impartial governor who enjoyed the confidence of the Congress, with a Congress government 

in the province, still resulted in a landslide victory for the Muslim League on the 

Pakistan question.”46 Moreover, Sheikh Abdullah’s National Conference government in Kashmir was dismissed in 1953 by the New Delhi central government; 

thus, the Indian notion that he would have helped India in a plebiscite faded away 
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with this rift. According to Sheikh Abdullah, his dismissal and arrest were engineered by the central government headed by Prime Minister Nehru.47

Indians later bribed the Sheikh through positions of power and money to win 

back his support, making him the puppet Chief Minister for Kashmir. He tradedoff the Kashmiris’ right to self-determination, which hinged on a neutral plebiscite 

and was granted by multiple United Nations Security Council Resolutions, to instead negotiate the 1974 Indira–Sheikh accords.48 It was a paltry price to damn his 

own people, and according to Kashmiri historian Muhammad Ishaq Khan, the 

move led Abdullah to be dubbed a traitor by even his most ardent supporters.49

Indigenous Kashmiri Freedom Movement Starting in 1989

The act of pelting Indian occupation troops with stones has been seen for at 

least three decades in television reporting that bothers to cover Kashmir (or is 

even allowed to do so), beginning with the movement that is now remembered as 

the Kashmiri Intifada of 1989. That said, the stone-pelting intifada was one of 

several populist uprisings by the Kashmiris emerging with the 1963 Hazratbal 

riots. Yet, the act of mass uprising made itself fully manifest when a new generation of Kashmiris mobilized en masse in 1989.50

In 1987, the state elections in Kashmir were rigged so badly that political scientists often refer to it as a pseudodemocratic “debacle.”51 Malik and Ahlawat 

have tried to blame Indira Gandhi and the Indian National Congress for this 

mockery of democracy.52 However, this would be a facile masking of the Indian 

establishment’s longstanding policy to cripple the Kashmiris and their freedom 

struggle. That said, Malik and Ahlawat are correct to the extent that the Congress 

and Indira Gandhi were indeed major actors in the crushing of Kashmiri lives, but 

it would be inaccurate to lay the blame singularly on them when they were merely 

following a government tradition: the perpetuation of structural violence that had 

long fomented a rage and disenfranchisement in Kashmir.53

The rigging and subsequent feeling of disenfranchisement among the Kashmiri 

populace prompted different armed resistance groups to spring up after 1989. 

Pakistan’s support to these groups has come in various forms, but the most significant is in the moral dimension, far outweighing any material extension of 

help.54 Pakistan’s policy has remained quite consistent in arguing for the Kashmiris to decide their fate on their own terms, and groups that took up arms to 

resist that struggle did not pose any intellectual dilemma for Pakistanis who understood this to be the right, if not the only, way to contest hegemony.

Although Indian intelligence agencies tried to incite infighting among the liberation groups, their tactics proved largely futile due to the deep pools of disenfranchisement to which they spoke, and for whom they fought.55 This has become 
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all the more evident as formerly pro-Indian leaders such as Omar Abdullah and 

Mehbooba Mufti have also started giving profreedom statements and warnings of 

sinister Indian designs to change the demographics of the region.56

According to the Pakistani government, its support for the groups went as far 

as moral, diplomatic, and political, and the intelligence agencies of Pakistan were 

not informed or prepared when the armed struggle broke out in Kashmir in 1989. 

This is corroborated by confessions from Lt Gen (Retd) Asad Durrani, former 

director general of Pakistan’s premier intelligence agency, the Inter-Services Intelligence, in his book Pakistan Adrift: Navigating Troubled Waters.

57 The Indians 

reacted brutally to the movement, starting by deploying hundreds of thousands of 

military personnel and Central Police Reserve Force (CPRF) personnel to the 

region. They then suffocated the region by enacting the Armed Forces Special 

Protection Act (AFSPA). To put it mildly, the AFSPA violates international humanitarian law and fundamental human rights granted under the UN Charter 

and ICCPR, of which India is a signatory. Indeed, the United Nations High 

Commission for Human Rights (UNHCHR) report has criticized the practices 

created by India’s AFSPA as impeding the delivery of justice in the region.58 To 

put it more plainly, if there has ever been a piece of legislation on Earth that 

should send shivers down one’s spine, it is the abomination against the human 

spirit as encapsulated in the AFSPA.

Since the intifada of 1989, more than 100,000 people have died in the valley, 

including about 20,000 armed fighters and thousands of civilians.59 The UNHCHR report from June 2016 to April 2018 has further said that AFSPA (since 

1990) and Jammu & Kashmir Public Safety Act (since 1978) “have created structures that obstruct the normal course of law, impede accountability and jeopardize 

the right to remedy for victims of human rights violations.”60 Besides the extrajudicial killings, Indian forces have involved themselves in wide-scale torture, illegal 

detentions, and rapes (including the infamous Kunan-Poshspora mass rape incident occurring on 23 February, 1991, and the Shopian rape and murder incident 

of May 2009), among many other draconian acts.

In a 1993 report, Human Rights Watch stated that Indian security forces “assaulted civilians during search operations, tortured and summarily executed detainees in custody and murdered civilians in reprisal attacks,” and rape was regularly 

used as a means to “punish and humiliate” communities.61 Scholar Seema Kazi says 

it is used as a weapon of war by the Indian state against the local population. 

Moreover, mass graves numbering in thousands have been found in Kashmir. Human rights activists say India is hesitant to open the Kashmiri mass graves because 

it will also expose a hidden secret: years of purported abuses involving torture, gun 

battles conducted by the police, and the forced abductions of thousands of civilians. 
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These actions were carried out under the monstrous AFSPA, which bestows immunity to the Indian military from a trial for rights abuses in Kashmir.62

As the COVID-19 pandemic forces entire states into lockdown, it is likely to 

open the eyes of the world to the lockdown in Kashmir, which is nearing its oneyear anniversary. The state-imposed curfew by Indian authorities is already impeding efforts to peace in the region, and if the situation continues, it is likely to 

result in further aggravating the precarious situation between the two nucleararmed neighbors.

Three Myths: Kashmiriyat, Sufism, and Gilgit-Baltistan

This section aims to redress three myths propagated widely in literature on 

Kashmir that is partisan and equivocal and reflected starkly in the scholarship of 

Malik and Ahlawat. They are three separate categories of misperception, but they 

are best considered here before the concluding sections apprise the reader of the 

recent catastrophes created by India (notably Article 370’s abrogation) and a final 

message for reconciliation and peace is articulated.

One: On Kashmiriyat

Ahlawat and Malik’s assertion of a supposedly unified and secular Kashmiriyat offers a frighteningly reductionist view for two reasons. First, it is a politically 

engineered term constructed and inserted by an occupation force, akin to the 

Hutus and Tutsis in Rwanda by Belgians, but with no such staying power. Second, 

Kashmiris were keenly attuned to world events such as the dissolution of panIslamic polities (like the Ottoman Empire) and to the class violence that clearly 

had religious undertones (a Hindu bourgeoisie over a Muslim proletariat).

On the first point, the Japanese anthropologist Toru Takahashi keenly observes 

that “the main component of the meanings of Kashmiriyat today was given primarily during the post-1947 days, although the term Kashmiriyat was then yet to 

be coined. It was the product of India’s need to define itself as a secular nation, as 

well as to justify its military deployment in Kashmir.”63 Similarly, the pioneering 

Indian anthropologist T. N. Madan, who was a Kashmiri Pandit himself no less, 

wrote on the advent of the term Kashmiriyat: “the first thing to emphasize is that 

Kashmiriyat is not a Kashmiri word. It may not, therefore, be claimed to be a 

native category of perception. It is an artificially produced clone of Punjabiyat and 

a recent coinage of not earlier than the 1980s.”64 Unlike the Hutu and Tutsi constructs imposed by the Belgians, Kashmiriyat was meant to pacify rather than stir 

up communal tensions; yet, like the Belgian construct, it does not have staying 

power. Kashmiriyat must be identified is a concocted racializing term.65
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As historical anthropologists have observed, the “propagandist” element of the 

centrist Congress party that ruled early post-Partition India sought to preach that 

“Kashmir was the symbol of communal amity not only for itself (between the 

Muslim majority and Hindu minority) but also for India (between Hindu majority and Muslim minority).”66 This tactic was appropriated by the opportunist 

politician Abdullah, who was later seated as New Delhi’s vassal in Srinagar, in his 

election campaign in the mid-1970s, and was echoed in sympathetic portions of 

the Srinagar press for a few decades thereafter. The myth propagated in flimsy and 

partisan scholarship on Kashmiriyat is effectively demolished by critical anthropologists who trace the history of the term in a more robust manner. The conclusions of their findings are best encapsulated thus: “After the eruption of Kashmiri 

militancy in 1989, India needed to stress the affinities between India and Kashmir, 

and Kashmiriyat, now taken as Kashmir’s indigenous secularism that proves 

Kashmir’s bond with secular India, began to be seen frequently on the mouth of 

Indian intellectuals. This form of Kashmiriyat may be called India’s (Hindumajoritarian) version of the idea of secular Kashmir; it was basically the recurrence of Nehru’s definition of Kashmir.”67 As such, the term Kashmiriyat came to 

be known outside the Kashmir Valley only in the early 1990s and should be recognized as a facile concoction for postcolonial state machinery.68

On the second point, it is important to note that, as with Muslims across the 

subcontinent before, during, and after European colonial rule, Muslims in Kashmir were keenly attuned to the tragedies befalling the wider pan-Islamic community, the Ummat, and felt a deep sorrow at seeing empires and edifices of their 

civilization crumble under the juggernaut of both Western as well as non-Western 

hegemony and violence. In South Asia, the Hindu–Muslim divide was aggravated 

by elements on both sides of the civilizational divide after the Partition of Bengal 

in 1905.69 The uproar accompanying the Partition as well as the emergence of an 

“extremist faction” in the Congress party planted the roots for Muslim separatism 

across the subcontinent’s politics.70

The Reunification of Bengal in 1911 brought back the haunting reality to Muslims that, without a separate homeland rooted in Two Nation Theory, they would 

be subject to the tyranny of the majority, in enlightenment philosopher John Stuart 

Mill’s phrasing,71 because the Muslims would be too dispersed and too few in 

number across the subcontinent to present their positions in a megastate that 

would swallow them as minorities.

The divide further deepened in the decade of 1940s, preceding Partition, and 

was informed by a Muslim awakening that gained increased momentum during 

the Hindu-dominated Congress rule from 1937–39. It has been argued, including 

by India’s current government, that Congress’ centrist and supposedly accommo-
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dational claims were perceived as hollow rhetoric, by many Hindus movements as 

well as by the Muslims.72 The reality of strife on the streets (as evidenced by 

the Direct Action Day of 1946 in Calcutta) and the urge for the reassertion of a 

separate identity and collective consciousness galvanized the Muslims and set 

them in accord with the Muslim League and its rallying cry for a separate homeland.73 The supposed supremacy of Kashmiriyat as an institution, which purportedly promoted culmination of Kashmir’s unique heritage, does not cohere with 

the realities of the colonial and neocolonial era in the region, and as one Indian 

scholar aptly describes this so-called Kashmiriyat: “it is an empty signifier.”74

Two: On Sufism

Ahlawat and Malik mischaracterize Pakistan as being an allegedly DeobandiSalafi-dominated country, contrasting this with Kashmiri Muslims, who adhere 

to a Sufi brand of Islam.75 This misunderstanding is erroneous on two fronts: first, 

because Sufism enjoys a widespread and mainstream appeal across Pakistan, as 

reflected in the religious praxis, cultural production, and public discourse articulated by ordinary Pakistanis,76 and second, because Salafist political Islam is a 

much more recent and very marginal movement that represents the aftershocks of 

the Saudi–Iran rivalry and a counterreaction to the Iranian Revolution of 1979,77

and which has begun to recede as quickly as it came.

Despite the fact that Pakistan, during and after the 1980s, faced an extremely 

challenging situation in which the influx of extremism and the exogenously promoted sectarian divide tried to vandalize Sufi ideology, the latter has in recent 

times started to reclaim its space effectively. In contemporary Pakistan, Sufism has 

been transformed into a full-fledged social movement that is represented in the 

arts, in the press, and the praxis of religious life, including the visitation and veneration of Sufi saints in all Pakistan’s provinces.78 By contrast, the electoral results 

of Pakistan’s democratic practice evidence the general disdain for extremist or 

ultraorthodox interpretations of Islam, and this is why parties such as Jammat-eUlema Islam ( JUI) and Tehreek-e-Labaik (TLP) rarely if ever manage to gain 

even 5 percent of seats in any national election.79 On the other hand, local politicians regularly seek the support of the Gaddi Nashin  (descendants of the Sufi 

Saint).80 Sufism is thus not a Kashmir-centric phenomenon, nor does it differentiate Kashmiris from their brethren in Pakistan. Are authors really to claim that 

the Rishi Sufism of Kashmir is more entrenched than Sufism in the Pakistani 

regions of Bahawalpur, Sukkur, Lahore, or Multan?
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Three: On Gilgit-Baltistan

The territory of Gilgit-Baltistan (GB) has a separate history from that of Kashmir, and this requires unequivocal stress at this juncture, given the increasingly 

irredentist claims of the present government in New Delhi. According to Yaqoob 

Bangash, GB had historically been an autonomously governed territory, and only 

under a limited suzerainty of the Maharaja of Jammu & Kashmir. It was leased to 

the British during the colonial period until 1947.81 However, the British betrayed 

their promise to the people of Gilgit, and as per the 3 January 1947 plan, the 

whole Gilgit agency was handed over to the maharaja. On 1 August 1947, Brig 

Ghansara Singh assumed the responsibility of Governor of Gilgit.

However, the people of Gilgit agency never accepted the authority of Ghansara 

Singh.82 Sensing their discontent, Major William Brown, the Maharaja’s commander of the Gilgit Scouts, mutinied on 1 November 1947 and overthrew Governor Singh. The people of the agency declared Gilgit as part of Pakistan and 

hoisted the Pakistani flag. The Pakistani political agent, Khan Muhammad Alam 

Khan, arrived in Gilgit on 16 November to assume the responsibility of the region. Baltistan also formed part of Gilgit agency.83 This is corroborated by various 

scholars who, in detailing the postcolonial transition of the region, note unequivocally that the people of Gilgit, as well as those of Chilas, Koh, Ghizr, Ishkoman, 

Yasin, Punial, Hunza and Nagar, joined Pakistan by choice.84

Therefore, GB has a separate history and political dynamics from the rest of 

erstwhile J&K state, and revisionist and irredentist attempts to conflate its history with that of the state only serve to blur historical context. In the Dixon Plan 

negotiations as well, it was envisaged by Nehru that no plebiscite would be 

needed in GB (erstwhile Northern Areas), as its people had already decided in 

favor of Pakistan.

In the negotiations during the Dixon Plan according to Indian commentator 

Srinath Raghavan, it was first Nehru who proposed a partition-cum-plebiscite 

plan: Jammu and Ladakh would go to India, Azad Kashmir and Northern Areas 

to Pakistan, and a plebiscite would be held in the Kashmir Valley. The UN representative, Australian High Court Judge Sir Owen Dixon, favored the plan, which 

bears his name till this day.85 Thus, the current Indian statements of ChinaPakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) passing through a disputed territory—specifically, GB—is contrary to their previous admissions that people of the territory 

had already decided in favor of Pakistan. Moreover, the Gilgit-Baltistan Order 

2018, promulgated by Pakistan, articulates that the federal government intends to 

grant GB the status of a provisional province, “subject to the decision of the 
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plebiscite to be conducted under the UN resolutions,” with all privileges provided 

by the constitution.

Epilogue as Prologue: Abrogation of Article 370 and the Future

At the time of their writing, authors Ahlawat and Malik could not see what the 

ultranationalist Hindu regime in India would do in betraying its promise to Kashmiris of autonomy under the so-called Instrument of Accession, supposedly 

signed in October 1947.86 Article 370 of the Indian Constitution is purportedly 

the article on which the Princely State of Jammu & Kashmir is reported to have 

acceded to India.87 While many provisions of Article 370 that granted special 

status to J&K had been diluted by extending 94 of the 97 subjects in the Union 

list to the region and 260 of the 395 Articles of the Constitution of India to the 

state,88 Indian-administered J&K still retained certain provisions for those that it 

defined as permanent residents, effectively denying outsiders from buying property, holding government jobs, or enrolling in government colleges in the state.89

The 5 August measures in Kashmir were a watershed event in the region’s history. The special status of the region granted through Article 370 was abrogated 

through a Presidential Order, which also went on to bifurcate the J&K state into 

two union territories. This maneuver by the Modi government, besides infringing 

on international law, is also in direct contravention of Indian Constitution itself 

and has thereafter been challenged in the Indian Supreme Court. Specifically, the 

order was in contravention of international law vis-à-vis the definition of an occupying power under Article 42 of Hague regulations 1907 to India in Kashmir,90

whereby it is prohibited for an occupying power to annex a territory under its 

unlawful control. Article 42 states that “territory is considered occupied when it is 

placed under the authority of the hostile army. The occupation extends only to the 

territory where such authority has been established and can be exercised.”91 While 

neither Pakistan nor India are party to the Fourth Hague Convention of 1907 to 

which the Hague Regulations are annexed, it is widely accepted as being customary international law applicable to all states.92 Pakistan’s position of J&K being a 

disputed territory and India’s consequent lack of legal title to it has been recognized by numerous UN Security Council resolutions on the matter.93

Moreover, the Indian Constitution required the consent of the Kashmiri Constituent Assembly before Article 370 of the Constitution could be abrogated. 

However, the Constituent Assembly was dissolved in 1957. The Indian Supreme 

Court observed on 3 April 2018 that Article 370 had acquired a permanent status 

because of the dissolution of the Kashmiri Constituent Assembly, citing the Supreme Court’s 2017 judgment in the State Bank of India vs Santosh Gupta case.94

However, the BJP government still decided to make the Article 370 inoperative 
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by interpreting the Constituent Assembly to mean “legislative assembly.” To circumvent the legal issue of the nonexistent state constituent assembly, the president used the Clause (I) of Article 370, which conferred him with the power to 

modify the Indian Constitution on subjects related to J&K.

Thus, the central government first added a new clause to Article 367, which 

deals with interpretation of the constitution, and then replaced the phrase “Constituent Assembly of the State” with “Legislative Assembly of the State.” However, since in November 2018 the Legislative Assembly was also dissolved, the 

order says that any reference to the legislative assembly will be construed as a 

reference to the Governor of Jammu and Kashmir. The governor is an appointee 

of the central government. Therefore, the Indian government interpreted this as 

meaning that the Indian Parliament could substitute for the J&K Legislative Assembly.95 The sullen leaders of the BJP could not reconcile to their actions being 

labeled as “ultra-vires” of the constitution by the opposition leaders. They banned 

opposition leaders from visiting the region, as shown by Rahul Gandhi being 

asked to return to New Delhi after landing in Kashmir.

According to a retired Pakistani air marshal, the abrogation of Article 370 was 

the most significant event in the history of South Asia after 1971.96 The course of 

history looks likely to be changed by these unilateral Indian actions, and it is undoubtedly going to lead to increased instability in the South Asian region. From 

a legal standpoint, the famed and yet never-seen Instrument of Accession, on 

which India rests its claim of legal title, also denies India the option to take unilateral action in Kashmir. Therefore, by unilaterally abrogating Article 370, India 

has automatically materially breached the Instrument of Accession (if a document 

such as that exists).

The reasons for the hurried abrogation of Article 370 may be twofold. Firstly, 

by hastening the abrogation of Article 370, India was reaffirming its autonomy 

and independent decision making, irrespective of its relationship with any other 

country. This should be a cause of concern among the proponents of Indo–US 

strategic partnership, since New Delhi is unlikely to play an auxiliary role when it 

comes to India’s own interests. Secondly, the continuing Afghan peace process 

and India being sidelined in it despite investment outlays of $2 billion USD in the 

country may be another reason for the rushed decision.97 India is certainly unhappy with Pakistan’s central role in the process and may have liked to shift 

Pakistan’s attention to sabotage the Afghan peace process.98 However, as time has 

shown, this tactic has proven to be futile, with the signing of the US–Taliban 

peace accord, which looks to American troops returning home after almost 19 

years in Afghanistan and to ensure that the Afghan soil is not used by transnational terror outfits.99
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At the same time, India’s right-wing Hindu nationalist government has pressed 

into policy its ideology that every step must be taken to ensure that the only 

Muslim-majority state in the union should have its identity eviscerated and its 

territory subjugated to their union. Also, by its 5 August steps, the Modi government has shown that in much the same vein as the Dogra tyranny, territory is a 

resource far more important than the welfare of the indigenous Kashmiri people. 

An oppressed population facing subjugation in the face of a ratio of 1:8 in security 

personnel to civilians cannot be lured in through promises of economic opportunities and jobs—certainly not so when the dividends of deploying economic 

capital will be reaped by the Hindus who will possess the means of production, 

harkening back to the class violence of Dogra rule.

In a joint session of parliament, PM Imran Khan of Pakistan cautioned that the 

situation could escalate to a military confrontation due to India’s actions, which 

would not only portend doom for the region but the world as well. He said that 

Pakistan would fight till the last man and last bullet.100 Earlier on, the Pakistani 

leadership was of the view that the BJP had adopted a belligerent attitude toward 

Pakistan and was coming down tough on Kashmir to appease their right-wing 

Hindutva voter base before the national elections and that mature negotiations 

could be conducted thereafter.101 However, soon after gaining reelection by selling 

to the public India’s abject defeat to the Pakistan Air Force’s Operation Swift 

Retort as a farcical victory, the ruling BJP revoked the special status of Kashmir in 

the constitution through a hurriedly passed bill on 5 August 2019.

Currently, there are more than 800,000 Indian security forces in J&K for less 

than 500 armed fighters. According to a J&K police report this latter number 

actually hovers around 200.102 This demonstrates the ludicrous pretense of such a 

massive deployment for “security and order” against an armed struggle, indicating 

that such measures are instead aimed at keeping the entire Kashmiri population 

in a state of subjugation. This heavy presence of military personnel is also an indication that India is geared up for any cross-border military action. In the past as 

well, India has repeatedly tried to divert attention away from popular uprisings in 

the region by heating up the Line of Control (LOC) or mobilizing forces against 

Pakistan as shown by Operation Parakaram, Operation Brasstacks, and the latest 

increase of 1,400% in ceasefire violation incidents along the LOC over the past 

decade. Moreover, India is acquiring the latest weapon systems, such as the S-400 

from Russia and Rafale jet fighters from France. This indicates a growing aggressive posture. Moreover, the ultranationalist leadership will look to climb further 

up the escalatory ladder in any future scenario, as it will be emboldened by the 

acquisition of these platforms.
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Many proposed solutions for the Kashmir dispute have been articulated over 

the years, including the Chenab Formula and Manmohan–Musharraf four-point 

formula, among others. However, it should be noted that little by way of advancement can be attained without giving Kashmiris a say and access to the right to 

self-determination. Any meaningful path forward will comprise the involvement 

of all three parties to the dispute: Kashmiris, Pakistan, and India. The Musharraf–

Manmohan four-point formula incorporated the following elements as the basis 

for any future solution on Kashmir:

1. Joint supervision mechanism involving all three parties;

2. Self-governance and autonomy but without independence;

3. No change of borders; however, free movement for people across LOC; 

and

4. Phased withdrawal of forces (demilitarization).103

This formula is the closest that the two nations have come to a joint settlement 

of the Kashmir dispute. However, as the events of the succeeding decade indicate, 

the two nations look likely to drift further from any meaningful settlement, and 

this can only worsen the disquiet of the Himalayan region.

UNSC resolutions form the overarching structure through which the Kashmir 

dispute must be resolved. A plebiscite must be conducted that gives Kashmiris 

their universally ordained right to self-determination as envisioned under common Article1 (1) of the ICCPR and ICESCR, as well as the UN Charter. Additionally, the International Court of Justice (ICJ) has resoundingly affirmed such 

rights in Namibia, Israel, and Chagos Archipelago advisory opinions, as well as 

the East Timor case, in which the court confirmed its universal jus cogens and erga 

omnes character.104

Furthermore, on 25 November 1947, Nehru informed the Indian parliament: 

“We have suggested that when people of Kashmir are given a chance to decide 

their future, this should be done under the supervision of an impartial tribunal 

such as the United Nations.” Under international law, such unilateral declarations 

made by heads of government in pristine terms, and demonstrating the will to be 

bound, have the effect of creating legal obligations. The ICJ has recognized this 

longstanding rule in nuclear test cases, as has the International Law Commission 

in its Guiding Principles adopted in 2006, as well as the UN General Assembly 

in its Resolution 61/34 of 2006.105 Therefore, international law makes a strong 

case for the Kashmiris’ right to self-determination, which has been subverted by 

India for more than 70 years.

Moreover, contrary to what Ahlawat and Malik have stated, much religiousbased terrorism is flourishing in India under the guise of extreme nationalist/
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terrorist groups, now sanctioned by an irredentist regime that targets minorities 

with an iron fist. The supposed secular identity which India’s forefathers sought to 

propagate has been jettisoned by the right-wing hardline BJP government. Hindu 

extremist groups such as the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) and Sangh 

Parivar were sidelined from the mainstream politics,106 but over time, these extremist Hindu groups have reared their head once again in the political enterprise 

and have gained ascendancy in the parliament under Prime Minister Modi.107 The 

smoke screen behind which Indian secularism existed has been eradicated. US 

International Religious Freedom Report, released in June 2019, said Hindu groups 

had used “violence, intimidation, and harassment” against Muslims and low-caste 

Dalits in 2017 to force a religious-based national identity. Furthermore, according 

to the report, mobile attacks by violent extremist Hindu groups against minority 

communities, especially Muslims, continued throughout the year amid rumors 

that victims had traded or killed cows for beef.108 This extremism, driven by what 

Prime Minister Khan has termed the neo-Nazi inspired ideology of Hindutva, 

looks to fan the flames of bigotry across the border into Pakistan and threaten 

regional stability.109

The Kashmir dispute necessitates being resolved through amicable means between the two nuclear-armed neighbors, and the historical grievances of the 

Kashmiri Muslims need to be taken into account. Kashmiris have suffered immensely due to the lingering dispute, and there appears to be no deliverance from 

the inequities they have suffered. Resources that might otherwise have been expended for the prosperity of the polities of Indian and Pakistan have been diverted 

to fighting over the territory of Kashmir. This has benefited, if anyone at all, the 

international arms industry at the expense of the common inhabitant of South 

Asia. Globally, Pakistan and India are among the top-10 largest importers of 

arms, with India growing its stash particularly voraciously.110 The mouth-watering 

profits of the global arms industry notwithstanding, a far greater socioeconomic 

architecture for development could be constructed following the peaceful resolution of the Kashmir dispute. Perversely, the military–industrial complex as listed 

on Wall Street and the S&P 500 has an unrelenting incentive to keep the two 

South Asian neighbors at daggers drawn. The slow, horrid descent into economic 

stagnation and prevention of economic prosperity of the two nations appear to be 

the ultimate futile end of this arms race.

The crux of the matter is that Kashmiri Muslims have lived as the Wretched of the 

Earth ̧ as Fanon aptly put it: second-class citizens in their own land ever since 

Maharaja Gulab Singh acquired the territory after the First Anglo–Sikh War. Despite the best efforts of the imperialist forces to silence and subdue them, the Kashmiris have been fighting for self-determination for a seeming eternity. Today, 
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neoimperialist efforts to control the valley continue unchecked.111 Kashmiri Muslims, as with any other community of the world, have demonstrated a will to stand 

against state oppression and terrorism. The political inventions of opportunists 

such as Kashmiriyat notwithstanding, a long historical affinity, a sense of civilization, and cultural-religious ties bind the Kashmiris with their brethren in Pakistan.

Now there is a need for the global community to come forth and listen to the 

pleas of the wailing Kashmiris and help resolve the imbroglio in accordance with 

the aspirations of the Kashmiri people and keeping in view international legislation 

on right to self-determination. The concept of self-determination is a powerful one, 

as founding director of the Liechtenstein Institute on Self-Determination at Princeton University has stated that “no other concept is as powerful, visceral, emotional, 

unruly, and steep in creating aspirations and hopes as self-determination.112 

Dr. Usman W. Chohan

Dr. Chohan is an international economist and academic who specializes in the fields of public value theory; parliamentary fiscal scrutiny; the One Belt, One Road; and cryptocurrencies. He has previously had key affiliations with 

the World Economic Forum, the World Bank, and the National Bank of Canada. He was included among Australia’s 50 Top Thinkers by the Conversation (2016), and he is among the Top 20 Business Authors (out of 12,000 authors) and Top 30 Overall Authors (out of 30,000 authors) on the Social Science Research Network, which is the 

largest open-repository of knowledge in the world. In the academic realm, his research has been cited widely, as for 

example in the World Trade Organization, the European Parliament, the National Bureau of Economic Research, 

Quantitative Finance, IEEE, the OECD, the ABC (Australia), the Sydney Morning Herald, the BBC, Genome Research, Gizmodo, and many others. His doctoral work at the University of New South Wales (Australia) was to 

create the world’s first multidisciplinary synthesis of independent fiscal institutions, and he has a postdoctoral fellowship with UNSW to continue that line of enquiry. He has a master’s in Business administration from McGill 

University (Canada). Currently, Dr. Chohan is a director of economics and national affairs working at Centre for 

Aerospace and Security Studies (CASS)

Omer Aamir

Mr. Aamir is a researcher for legal affairs and national security at Centre for Aerospace and Security Studies. He has 

done his undergraduate in law from Lahore University of Management Sciences. He has written for national and 

local dailies such as The Nation and National Herald Tribune. He has also written for StrafAsia and the official website 

of Centre for Aerospace and Security Studies (CASS). He intends to further specialize in the field of International 

law in the future.

Notes

1. Musarat Javed Cheema, “Pakistan–India Conflict with Special Reference to Kashmir,” A Research Journal of South Asian Studies 30, no.1 (2019), 45, https://pdfs.semanticscholar.org/.

2. Cheema, “Pakistan–India Conflict with Special Reference to Kashmir,” 45.

3. Cheema, “Pakistan–India Conflict with Special Reference to Kashmir,” 46.

4. Jeffrey Gettleman, “In Kashmir, Growing Anger and Misery,” New York Times, 22 May 2019, https://

www.nytimes.com/.

5. Sameer Yasir, Suhasini Raj, and Jeffrey Gettleman, “Inside Kashmir, Cut Off from the World: ‘A Living Hell’ of Anger,” New York Times, 10 August 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/.
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6. Malik Muhammad Ashraf, “Vindication of Two-nation Theory,” Pakistan Today, 13 August 2019, 

https://www.pakistantoday.com.pk/.

7. Ashraf, “Vindication of Two-nation Theory.”

8. Aneesha Mathur, “9-year-olds among 144 Minors Detained in Kashmir since Article 370 Abrogation,” IndiaToday.In, 1 October 2019, https://www.indiatoday.in/.

9. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth (New York: Grove Press, 1963).

10. Showkat Ahmad Wani, “Nature of the Dogra State and the Condition of the Muslims of Kashmir 

(1846–1930),” International Journal of Scientific and Research Publications 5, no. 5 (May 2015): 1–8, http://

www.ijsrp.org/.

11. Tamoghna Halder, “Kashmir’s Struggle Did Not Start in 1947 and Will Not End Today,” Al-Jazeera, 

15 August 2019, https://www.aljazeera.com/.

12. David Graeber, Debt: The First 5,000 Years (New York: Melville House, 2012).

13. Ian Copland, “Islam and Political Mobilization in Kashmir,” Pacific Affairs 54, no. 2 (Summer 1981): 

228–59, https://www.jstor.org/.

14. Ian Torrens, Travels Through Ladakh, Tartary and Kashmir (London: Saunders, Oatley & Co., 1862), 300.

15. Torrens, Travels Through Ladakh, Tartary and Kashmir, 300.

16. Wani, “Nature of the Dogra State.”

17. Wani, “Nature of the Dogra State.”

18. R. Lawrence Walter, The Valley of Kashmir (Srinagar: Kesar, 1895), 229.

19. Halder, “Kashmir’s Struggle Did Not Start in 1947.”

20. Josef Korbel, Danger in Kashmir (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1954).

21. Shasank Bengali and Parth M.N., “Hindu Activists Organize Mass ‘Reconversion Camps’ in India,” 

LA Times, 25 December 2014, https://www.latimes.com/.

22. Devarju Nagarjun, “Clash of Identities Ethnic Conflict of Kashmir Dispute” (thesis, University of 

California, 2004), 6.

23. Rai Miridu, “Kashmir: From Princely State to Insurgency,” Oxford Research Encyclopaedias, (April 2018).

24. Cheema, “Pakistan–India Conflict with Special Reference to Kashmir,” 45.

25. Cheema, “Pakistan–India Conflict with Special Reference to Kashmir,” 45.

26. Fanon, Wretched of the Earth.

27. Prem Nath Bazaz, Inside Kashmir (Srinagar: Kashmir Pub. Co.,1941), 250.

28. Ali Sultan, “Kashmir & Self-determination,” Dawn, 28 October 2019, https://www.dawn.com/.

29. Robert. A. Huttenback, Kashmir and the British Raj, 1847–1947 (Oxford University Press, 2004).

30. Esmond Walter Rawson Lumby, The Transfer of Power in India1945–1947 (London: George Allen 

and Unwin, 1954).

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