TY - JOUR
AU - Neil, Cooper,
AB - Abstract This paper contributes to the literature on norms, arms regulation, humanitarian arms control, and arms control as governmentality by examining the different “Matryoshka dolls” of arms trade governance as they operated in the late nineteenth century. I suggest that analysis of practices in this era has relevance for debates about contemporary arms governance. The innermost doll is represented by a specific regulatory initiative, in this case, the 1890 Brussels Act, which represented an attempt to graft a regulatory arms trade norm onto an established and constitutive anti-slavery norm. The Act was also located within the second matryoshka doll, the broader approach to arms trade prohibition adopted in an era. Despite representations of the period as one of free trade in arms, I highlight extensive efforts to restrict the transfer of firearms to colonial subjects. Finally, I examine the third matryoshka doll, the way in which mechanisms of prohibition and permission constitute the practices of arms control as governmentality—the effort to define and manage which gradations of people can legitimately own, trade, and use which gradations of weapons in what contexts. Overall, the paper challenges the optimistic literature regarding humanitarian arms control and arms trade norms with three concluding implications: the merging of humanitarianism and arms control can reflect both good and bad norms; such a confluence is not necessarily incompatible with colonialism, racism, or imperial violence; and, such a merger is consonant with the maintenance of liberal militarism. humanitarian arms control, arms trade regulation, norms, governmentality Introduction The post-Cold War era has witnessed a proliferation of nonproliferation initiatives aimed at regulating the trade in small arms and light weapons (SALW). These include four separate agreements within the United Nations (UN) framework on SALW control; six multilateral agreements, forums, and organizations that address SALW outside the UN framework; two regional mechanisms established specifically to deal with SALW; and thirteen preexisting regional organizations that have developed arms control-related documents or agreements (Greene and Marsh 2012, 170–74). Among the most notable of these initiatives is the 2001 UN Programme of Action to Eradicate the Illicit Trade in Small Arms and Light Weapons and the recently ratified UN Arms Trade Treaty (ATT), which lists SALW as one of several categories of defense equipment within its purview. All of these initiatives have emerged since the 1990s. It is generally acknowledged that existing literature on SALW control is predominantly policy orientated (Bourne 2007, 15; Greene and Marsh 2012, 3) and ahistorical (Grip 2015, 1; Enomoto 2017, 5). Even when scholars do locate current initiatives in the longer history of arms regulation, they generally do so only in passing (Brehm 2008, 363; Bolton and James 2014, 441; Casey-Maslen et al. 2016, 3–4). There is, of course, a literature examining the history of the arms trade (Cippola 1965; Harkavy 1975; Krause 1992; Stoker and Grant 2003; Grant 2007, 2015, 71–90; Chew 2012), but this body of work principally aims to delineate the drivers of production and trade. Of the limited literature specifically focused on attempts to control the trade in arms, much of it tends to span many centuries (Krause and MacDonald 1992; Burns 2013, 80–101; Grip 2015; Enomoto 2017, 3–20). Thus, most scholars examine the period under consideration here—the late nineteenth century and early 1900s—only relatively briefly. Even work specifically concerned with this era tends to focus more on the post-1900s period (Stone 2000; Ball 2012; Krause 2017). Moreover, much of the material that does exist on regulation in the late nineteenth century appears as elements in publications with a different focus (e.g., anti-slavery, smuggling) produced by historians, social geographers, sociologists, or economists rather than the arms control community (Miers 1975; Tagliacozzo 2005; Storey 2008; Mathew 2016). One way in which this paper makes an original contribution is by bringing together this fragmented secondary literature to delineate the contours of arms trade regulation in the late nineteenth century. The paper also makes an original contribution to the contemporary literature on the relationship between norms, humanitarian arms control (HAC), and arms control as governmentality. In particular, I argue that the work of the optimistic school of literature on norms and arms regulation is ahistorical, tends to focus only on so-called “good” (e.g., humanitarian) norms or discrete initiatives (e.g., the landmines ban), and operates with an inadequate conceptualization of power. Consequently, it is overly optimistic about the progressive potential of HAC. In contrast, I draw on extensive archival research on late nineteenth-century arms trade regulation1 to illustrate how a specific humanitarian initiative aimed at restricting the trade in arms (in this case the 1890 Brussels Act) can be conceived as the smallest of a set of three nested Russian matryoshka dolls of arms trade governance. Although principally a multilateral agreement to eliminate the slave trade in Africa, the act also included qualitative restrictions on the import of modern firearms into an area extending from the middle of the Sahara to present day Namibia and Zimbabwe. As such it has been described as “the first significant multilateral agreement to restrict the arms trade” (Krause and Macdonald 1992, 712). In part, the arms elements of the act can be understood as an attempt by both campaigners and policy-makers to graft a regulatory arms trade norm onto an established constitutive transnational antislavery norm. Its implementation was more effective than generally acknowledged. The second matryoshka doll consists of the broader approach to arms prohibition within which a specific initiative is located. In this case, the Brussels Act formed only part of far wider efforts to manage the flow of modern firearms throughout the spaces of European empires. These efforts were driven by the concern to maintain a qualitative military advantage in what were viewed as cutting-edge military technologies crucial to the maintenance of imperial authority. Thus, rather than being an era of free trade as often claimed, the period was characterized by a dual regime of regulation: the application of a liberal export norm for peacetime arms exports from imperial metropoles combined with extensive attempts to manage arms flows into, within, and between colonial spaces. Finally, these broader attempts at prohibition were part of a much larger temporally-bound assemblage of norms, laws, and logics that constituted the practices of arms control as governmentality—the third matryoshka doll of arms trade governance. Arms control as governmentality denotes a context where mechanisms of proscription and permission operate as technologies of social control designed to manage which populations can legitimately use what kinds of weapons. Overall, I demonstrate how an understanding of arms regulation in the late nineteenth century undermines the claims of norm optimists that HAC is inherently transformational and progressive in its promotion of good norms and a benign logic of human security. Instead, HAC in the late nineteenth century was consistent with colonialism, racism, and militarism. This is not to discount the notion that there are important differences between contemporary HAC and its late nineteenth-century variant. Rather, it is to highlight the need for a more thoroughgoing and historicized genealogy of HAC and a recognition of the “limits of possibility” inherent in the pursuit of tactical humanitarian “disarmament” without strategic demilitarization. From “Good” Norms and Discrete Initiatives to Arms Control as Governmentality The proliferation of post-Cold War initiatives to regulate the arms trade has prompted a discussion about the relationship between norms, HAC, and arms trade regulation. In this section, I identify different schools of thinking that have emerged in the literature—the norm optimists who are positive about the impact of HAC and the skeptics who are more dubious. The latter can be further subdivided into those who suggest humanitarian arms trade norms are trumped by material interest and those who, alternatively, see “good” norms balanced by “bad” norms. In addition, some skeptics have emphasized the need to locate both good and bad arms trade norms within the broader practices, logics, and power relations expressed in what has been labeled arms control as governmentality (Krause 2011). I conclude this section by delineating the elements of arms control as governmentality relevant to this paper. Norms are commonly understood as “collective expectations for the proper behaviour of actors with a given identity” (Katzenstein 1996, 5; Finnemore and Sikkink 1998, 89). Norms can be promoted using a variety of means and by a variety of actors, but adoption of a new norm can be facilitated when it is nested within (Bower 2015) or grafted onto existing norms either through “manipulative persuasion” or “the contingency of genealogical heritage” (Price 1998, 617). Indeed, the presence of mutually reinforcing and consistent norms works to strengthen each set of norms (Finnemore 1996, 161). Norms can be prohibitive (constraining behavior), permissive (allowing behavior), or prescriptive (requiring behavior) (Glanville 2006, 155). Norms can also be subdivided into regulative and constitutive norms; the former establish standards for the proper enactment of an already defined identity (Bjőrkdahl 2002, 20). For rationalists in particular, norms operate at this shallow level, creating consequentialist logics in which actors essentially adhere to norms for instrumental reasons (Farrell 2005, 8–9). For constructivists, norms can also be constitutive in the sense that they create new identities and interests for actors whilst also being shaped by preexisting identities and interests. Norms, ideas, and interests thus interact recursively, leading some to argue that the attempt to separate norms from interests is “fundamentally flawed” (Bjőrkdahl 2002, 20). As will be indicated below, this suggests that those skeptics who focus on the way declaratory arms trade norms appear to be trumped by the material interests of states might simply be ignoring alternative sets of norms and ideas shaping particular conceptions of interest. In addition, critical international relations scholars such as MacKenzie and Sessay (2012) have criticized liberal constructivists for assuming norms such as those on transitional justice emerge from equal exchanges and relationships rather than reflecting profound economic and political inequalities. Indeed, they suggest the emphasis on norms as signals of appropriateness “should be viewed as practical sirens warning of imperialism” (ibid., 147). The arms trade norms debate is characterized by a division between optimists and pessimists. Interestingly, optimists include those who claim the mantle of constructivism (Wizotski 2009; Garcia 2015) or critical international relations/security studies (Borrie 2014) just as much as the pessimists do. The optimistic school argues the post-Cold War era has witnessed the novel introduction of inherently benevolent humanitarian or human security norms into the regulation of the arms trade (Axworthy 2001, 20, 23; Centre for Humanitarian Dialogue 2003; Borrie 2006; Kytőmäki 2015, 2, 4). This, it is argued, has resulted in the creation of new prohibitory arms trade norms that imply either a more restrictive approach to arms exports or, at the very least, a more restrictive approach to “irresponsible” arms exports. For example, the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) has noted of the UN ATT that “states have never before signed an international treaty that aimed to regulate the arms trade, with the express purpose of reducing human suffering” (ICRC 2013, emphasis added). As will be demonstrated below, such claims are just historically wrong. Although far more sophisticated in her analyses, Garcia (2015, 7) has not only argued initiatives on small arms can be understood as part of a series of “novel” humanitarian security regimes but also that these are different from traditional arms control instruments that “took a purely regulatory approach.” In contrast, these new humanitarian security regimes have established new international norms driven by altruistic imperatives, are “about everyone's security,” and have “restructured” conceptions of national interest (ibid., 61). In this view, post-Cold War “norm-mongers” have not just circumscribed the “warmongers” but have established new constitutive norms with far-reaching effects on international actors’ understanding of their identities and interests. Others acknowledge that humanitarian campaigns extract specific initiatives on individual weapons from the broader complex of war and militarism but suggest this is a strategic campaigning device that can hide more radical agendas (Bolton and Minor 2016). In this variant of optimism, action on small arms can be understood as part of an incrementalist, “one technology at a time” route to disarmament and antimilitarism (Stavrianakis 2016, 844). The reconstruction of identities and interests is, therefore, just around the corner. Such optimistic assessments have led to a small but burgeoning literature on the phenomenon of post-Cold War HAC or “humanitarian disarmament.” This label not only covers action on small arms but also initiatives on landmines, cluster munitions, and even recent humanitarian initiatives to ban nuclear weapons (Thakur and Maley 1999; Borrie and Randin 2006; Wizotski 2009, 2013, 3; Borrie 2014, 626; Ritchie 2014; Bolton and Minor 2016; Minor 2015). Historicizing the drivers and outcomes of early examples of HAC, therefore, has implications for our understanding of the transformative potential inherent in present-day HAC/ humanitarian disarmament initiatives. The pessimistic school encompasses a number of different positions. First, some suggest that arms trade policy may be characterized as a form of organized hypocrisy under which declaratory commitments to prohibitory norms and/or the socially constructed reputational concerns of states are frequently trumped by material interests (Perkins and Neumayer 2010; Efrat 2012, 289–91; Erickson 2013, 2015; Hansen and Marsh 2015; Hansen 2016). In this perspective, state policy reflects the outcomes of clashes between relatively weak regulative arms trade norms and material interests. An alternative pessimistic approach takes more seriously the constructivist claim that norms are not just regulative but can also be constitutive of identity and interests. It therefore shares some similarity with optimists such as Garcia but reaches different conclusions. In particular, this set of scholars suggests that what may look like a clash between humanitarian principle and base self-interest actually reflects the influence of competing foundational and constitutive norms such as sovereignty, self-defense, and free trade (Legro 1997, 33; Capie 2008; Grilot 2011, 540; Avant 2013, 741). This has resonance with a broader literature discussing the tensions between market liberal norms and cosmopolitan liberal norms (Orbie and Khorana 2015). Regulation, therefore, reflects the outcome of clashes (or indeed overlaps) between so-called “good” (e.g., humanitarian) norms and “bad” (e.g., free trade, sovereignty, military necessity) norms, or, more precisely, emerges as the outcome of particular norm hierarchies or systems of norms (Wunderlich 2013, 23). I will argue that an analysis of policy in the late nineteenth century not only provides support for this perspective but also illustrates the historically contingent nature of permissive and proscriptive arms trade norms—in this case, norms grafted onto foundational constitutive norms of anti-slavery, free trade, sovereignty, colonialism, and the standard of civilization. The third strand of pessimistic literature has drawn on thicker understandings of critical or postcolonial theory to critique contemporary practices of arms control. Where the optimists focus on and celebrate the success of discrete campaigning initiatives—the first Matryoshka doll of arms trade governance—critical pessimists also aim to contextualize such initiatives within the broader fields and logics associated with the inter-related governance of arms, security, economy, and people. In this context, action on landmines or cluster munitions has been depicted as part of a “devil's bargain” (Krause 2011, 23) in which the protection of some people from some weapons is achieved at the expense of legitimizing other arms, forms of violence, and ways of war—in particular, liberal militarism (Stavrianakis 2016). Even more fundamentally, some critical pessimists, drawing on Foucault (2003, 2007), have argued that initiatives on landmines or small arms can only be properly understood as part of what has been labeled as “arms control as governmentality” (Krause 2011; also see Mutimer 2011). It is not my intention here to provide a full exploration of the concept of governmentality or its application to colonialism (on the latter see Scott 1995; Larner and Walters 2002) but rather to use it to highlight particular themes relevant both to the study of arms trade regulation in the late nineteenth century and current debates about norms, HAC, and arms trade regulation. The first theme is reflected in the Sending and Neuman (2006; also see Neuman and Sending 2007) who emphasize a reading of governmentality as concerned with the changing practices and rationality (or mentality) of governing and how these reflect and produce particular relations of power. For them, adding in a governmentality perspective to the examination of both “good” and “bad” norms provides for a more complete analysis by situating them in the broader relations of power, rationalities, and practices that produce certain forms of behavior as appropriate and certain actors and identities as superior (Neuman and Sending 2007). For example, rather than viewing the landmines campaign as illustrative of a civil society realm empowered at the expense of recalcitrant states, they suggest it is better understood as indicative of a governmental rationality in which political power operates through NGOs and one in which they are not so much opponents of power as agents or even products of power (Sending and Neumann 2006; also see Lipschutz 2005, 247). A second theme concerns the way in which governmentality is understood when applied to the field of international relations. In some perspectives, governmentality requires a concern with elaborating the techniques aimed at regulating the behavior of states and governments, particularly in a context of unequal power relations between North and South (Joseph 2009). For example, Mathur (2016) has critiqued the “colonialist governmentality” of arms control, evident in the practices of technology denial, forcible disarmament, and counter-proliferation employed by the West and laundered through a new standard of civilization mantra. Alternatively, Krause has placed more emphasis on Foucault's distinction between sovereign and governmental power. The former is concerned with securing a given territory through the exercise of direct power, whilst the latter is exercised through the wide-ranging regulation of economy and society and particularly associated with liberal techniques of government (Krause 2011, 21). Here, the distinction between the two does not imply a rejection or displacement of sovereignty (Joseph 2009, 415) but its recasting within the concern for population (Sending and Neumann 2006, 657). Equally, there always remains the possibility that governmental power can give way to the exercise of more direct forms of sovereign and disciplinary power (Joseph 2009, 426). Thirdly, when applied to the field of arms control, this implies a distinction between a sovereign conception of arms control and arms control as governmentality. The former is focused not only on securing the states’ monopoly of force but also on reducing the risk of war between states, and its practices are shaped by formal adherence to notions of sovereign equality (Krause 2011). The latter is focused on managing populations, represents a technology of social control, and is concerned with “who could legitimately use what kinds of violence against which people or groups . . . under what circumstances” (ibid., 31). Both types of arms control can be identified in the practices of earlier eras, but sovereign approaches to arms control were more characteristic of the Cold War era. In the post-Cold War era, arms control as governmentality is characterized by initiatives such as the ban on landmines and postconflict disarmament demobilization programs (ibid.). At one level, therefore, this paper functions as a work of history that aims to delineate the norms, logics, and practices that constituted a particular period of the operation of arms control as governmentality. As already discussed, however, the analysis of the governmentality of arms trade regulation in the late nineteenth century also provides a basis for critiquing the ahistorical and uncritical assumptions of the norm optimist literature on arms trade regulation. Contextualizing Arms Trade Regulation: Imperial Metropoles and the Liberal Export Norm A common feature of works on the late nineteenth century is the claim that the era was one of free trade in arms when “peacetime exports were not subject to regulation” (Stone 2000, 14) and when there was “a high degree of laissez faire in the international arms trade” (Stoker and Grant 2003, xiv; see also Bothe and Marauhn 1993, 24). The late nineteenth century certainly witnessed a substantial and globalized trade in firearms characterized by exports from centers of production such as Birmingham and Liege to key arms trade hubs around the world (e.g., Singapore, Muscat, Djibouti) for onward distribution via capillary trade routes to the subregion (Chew 2012). The arms trade to Africa was no exception. Indeed, Beachey (1962, 467) has estimated that between 1885 and 1902, one million firearms and over four million pounds of gunpowder entered the British and German spheres in East Africa. Analysts have acknowledged there were attempts to control the trade in arms to Africa via the 1890 Brussels Act. However, Harkavy (1975, 213) has suggested the arms elements of the Brussels Act were “never effectively implemented,” being “thwarted almost at will by rapacious gun runners and their Arab accomplices.” Betts (1980, 83) has lumped it in with the “innocuous failures” and “fiascos” of previous attempts at international limitation of the arms trade. Stone (2000, 215) has suggested the act represented an exception that “underlined a more general freedom to trade” (Stone 2000, 215). Although studies by Chew (2012) and Grant (2007) have acknowledged attempts at arms trade regulation, they have principally focused on the massive arms supplies going to arms entrepots such as Muscat or to polities such as Ethiopia. It is easy to conclude from this that the era was characterized by a highly permissive approach to the transfer of arms. I do not want to completely refute this notion, but it does need qualifying. First, the exigencies of war often led states to impose restraints on arms exports. Indeed, the French Revolution and Napoleonic wars spurred widespread efforts to restrict arms to enemies (Krause 1992, 39, 55, 41–42).2 Second, the principles of neutrality were usually interpreted to require states themselves (but not private citizens) to refrain from supplying arms to belligerents (Hyneman 1930; McLaughlin 1938). Third, prohibitions on arms sales were sometimes introduced as a result of preexisting obligations incurred in what were essentially treaties of friendship/alliance (Atwater 1939, 295n16).3 Fourth, there are also examples of restrictions imposed on the export of sensitive defense technologies. For instance, in 1878 Britain prohibited the export of torpedoes, torpedo-boats, and torpedo apparatus and machinery (ibid.). Finally, the major powers had different attitudes toward the promotion of arms exports abroad. In Britain, the commitment to laissez faire meant officials tended to be more inclined to “leave private firms to their own devices” (Grant 2007, 232), whereas German, French, and Austrian officials were more willing to actively lobby for overseas armaments orders (ibid., 23; Yorulmaz 2014, 3). However, the approach to arms exports from imperial metropoles was certainly influenced by a liberal free trade norm that emphasized minimal state restrictions on peacetime private arms exports even to potential enemies and other states at war (Krause and Macdonald 1992). This liberal export norm contrasted with the approach to arms exports adopted in the era of mercantilism (Cippola 1965, 45) and even more so with the consolidation and expansion of peacetime export licensing in the Cold War. Whilst export restraint from the metropole may have been largely precluded, though, in all other respects colonial powers were engaged in a constant global battle to contain the proliferation of modern firearms (via blockades, import controls etc.) to unacceptable actors in the spaces of empire. This provided a particularly conducive environment for the emergence of the restrictions agreed in the 1890 Brussels Act. At the same time, however, the act also stood out for the way in which its genesis was linked to a transnational humanitarian campaign that drew on and further consolidated an established anti-slavery norm. The First Matryoshka Doll: The 1890 Brussels Act, the Humanitarians, and the Antislavery Norm The arms elements of the 1890 Brussels Act are an example of the first matryoshka doll of arms trade governance—a discrete prohibitory initiative applied, in this case, to a category of weapons in a specified region. Although never as benign as supporters suggested, it was certainly understood at the time as the outcome of a Europe-wide humanitarian campaign to control the evils of slavery, including the use of arms to prosecute the slave trade. In November 1889, diplomats convened to negotiate what would become the 1890 Brussels Act aimed at halting the African slave trade and its attendant evils, such as the trade in liquor and arms. With regards to the trade in arms, there was a certain historical irony at work given that the crucial role of guns in the slave trade (both for barter and protection) had been used in earlier eras as the basis for exempting companies from even war-time restrictions on the export of firearms and ammunition (West 1991).4 By the late nineteenth century, however, the slavery norm had been overturned in favor of a foundational and constitutive antislavery norm (Nadelmann 1990). In this context, a narrow (but incomplete) interpretation of the Brussels Conference would be that it represented an attempt to both consolidate an established antislavery norm and graft prohibitory norms on the provision of arms and liquor to Africans onto this established norm. As far as firearms were concerned, this meant formalizing the transformation of trading arms for slaves from a compelling national interest to a venal activity. However, the antislavery campaigners of the late nineteenth century were not expressing “cosmopolitan visions of universal equality and progress” but a world view characterized by “paternalism, prejudices and the compulsion to proselytise Africans” (Forclaz 2015, 29). For instance, The Pall Mall Gazette (January 30, 1890), in commenting on the Brussels Conference, noted: “We have heard the African native spoken of often as a child. We ought to realise that to allow firearms and gin to pass freely into Africa is literally as mischievous as to allow them to circulate in a nursery.” Equally, whilst antislavery was certainly pursued at some cost (Kaufmann and Pape 1999), it was also consonant with liberal market assumptions idealizing wage labor and the toleration of local practices that sometimes looked little different from slavery (Nadelmann 1990, 497). More immediate factors also created pressure for the Brussels Conference. The extension of European influence in Africa in the 1880s produced a backlash from Arab traders, particularly in Central and East Africa where life became more dangerous for missionaries and colonial settlers (Miers 1975, 257; Finlay 2016). Thus, the marauding Arab slave trader was deemed to be placing the beneficent and civilizing work of Christian missionaries under threat. At the same time, the increased European presence in Africa combined with the efforts of campaigners to discredit the slave trade resulted in numerous accounts of the horrors perpetrated by Arab slave traders (Bade 1977). For instance, in a speech to the Royal Geographical Society in 1888, the German explorer Herman von Wissmann described slave traders as the “wholesale destroyers of human life” (1888, 529) and recounted the use of captured slaves for target practice and cannibalism (ibid., 525–31; also see Laqua 2011, 717). This mix of moral abhorrence of slavery and concern about the threat to European settlers found its most influential tribune in the shape of Charles Martial Allemand-Lavigerie, the French-born Cardinal and Archbishop of Algiers and Carthage. With the support of the Pope, Lavigerie toured Europe in 1888 preaching about the horrors of slavery in a series of talks in Brussels, Paris, Rome, and London. Like his supporters, Lavigerie was at pains to highlight the intersection between Arabs, Islam, and slavery in Africa. He not only campaigned for action to end the slave trade but called for armed volunteers to stop the traffic in slaves and pressed for restrictions on the trade in firearms deemed to be sustaining the operations of Arab slave traders (Miers 1975, 206). Some commentators were more than a little dyspeptic in their reaction to Lavigerie's efforts. In Britain, The Graphic (August 4, 1888, 4) warned that “compassion for Sambo is quite compatible with earth-hunger for tropical possession, and with the desire of an energetic Church to expand its spiritual domination.” In Spain (which had only abolished the transatlantic slave trade in 1867) the longstanding abolitionist Sanromá reflected on the irony of those who had so recently resisted abolition becoming fierce converts to the fight against Muslim slavery (Schmidt-Nowara 2016, 149). More generally, however, Lavigerie's campaign energized popular opinion. The Anti-Slavery Reporter (July 1888, 85) compared Lavigerie to “a second Peter the Hermit” who had “arisen to preach a Crusade in the cause of humanity.” In London he met then Prime Minister, Salisbury, and the Prince of Wales. He also addressed a meeting at Prince's Hall chaired by Earl Granville, a former foreign secretary, and attended by Cardinal Manning, the Archbishop of Westminster (Cameron 1888). This concluded by passing a resolution, forwarded to the government, proclaiming the slave trade “a crime against humanity” and calling for a Conference of the Powers to consider the issue of slavery (Anti-Slavery Reporter, Nov/Dec, 1889, 242). Lavigerie's campaign prompted the creation of antislavery societies in several European countries including Belgium, France, Italy, and Germany (Laqua 2011, 707) and in 1889 both the Reichstag and the House of Commons called for action by the colonial powers (Miers 1975, 229–30). In the run-up to the Brussels Conference, Lavigerie also declared his intention to hold a week-long alternative meeting of activists in Lucerne and, at the instigation of King Leopold, the date of the Brussels Conference was put back to permit delegates to take account of this alternative conference. As part of the planning for Lucerne, preparatory commissions were established to report on the state of the slave trade and the means to be taken to end the trade. The latter was to include support for religious missions, control of arms sales, and the possibility of armed intervention (Renault 1994, 380). Ultimately, the Lucerne meeting was cancelled but a meeting eventually convened in Paris in September 1890 with some 800 delegates drawn from sixteen countries (The Morning Post, 24 September, 1890, 5; Laqua 2011, 710). One point of tension concerned Lavigerie's call for military action against the slave traders. As he noted in an interview given to Charles Allen, the secretary of the British Foreign and Anti-Slavery Society, critics saw in this a call for “a crusade to put down the Mohammedan religion.” This accusation he rejected by suggesting “actual hostilities would be confined to the disarming of Arab or negro slave traders” (Northern Echo, October 4, 1888, 3). However, the Paris meeting ultimately resolved to prioritize the use of “pacific means” to combat slavery (The Morning Post, September 24, 1890, 5). This was certainly the position of British antislavery campaigners who tended to draw support from Protestant, Quaker, and Methodist groups rather than the Catholic heritage that was often a feature of antislavery on the continent. The former also figured prominently in the numerous letters of support for the Brussels Conference sent to the British government. This included letters from well-established antislavery organizations such as the Aborigines Protections Society but also groups such as: the Band of Hope Union, the Church Missionary Society, and the Cambridge University African Slave Trade Committee.5 The Young Men's Christian Association of Great Britain and Ireland also sent a letter to the President of the Brussels Conference on behalf of their 61,000 members (Northampton Mercury, February 22, 1890, 2) as did the Foreign Missions Committee of the Free Church of Scotland (The Scotsman, February 3, 1890, 10). Notably, some groups sent messages of support in direct response to feedback from British delegates that they were “disappointed” at the low number of memoranda they had received. This included a communication from the Yorkshire Society of Friends (Leeds Mercury, February 1, 1890, 4) and another drafted at a meeting at Birmingham Council House convened by the Lord Mayor (Birmingham Daily Post, 11 January 1890, 5). The Foreign Office also noted in October 1889 that various societies and associations had announced their intention to send delegations to Brussels whilst the conference was sitting.6 This included representatives of the Presbyterian Alliance (Daily Telegraph and Courier, February 14, 1890, 3), the Aborigines Protection Society, and the British Anti-Slavery Society. The latter pressed the conference to declare slave traders as pirates and “enemies of the human race” (Anti-Slavery Reporter, Nov/Dec 1889, 247; Mulligan 2013, 157). In total, the secretariat of the Brussels Conference received 155 petitions from different groups, of which two-thirds called for prohibitions on the trade in firearms (Laqua 2011, 716). At one point the negotiations were temporarily halted so that letters of support from Britain, France, and Switzerland could be read out to the delegates.7 In addition, Lavigerie compiled a volume of “Documents Concerning the Foundation of the Anti-Slavery Campaign” and sent a copy to each of the participants at the conference (Renault 1994, 382–83). At the conference itself there was a notable consensus between diplomats, humanitarians, and sympathetic journalists on the benign and civilizing effects of the European presence in Africa, the primitive state of the natives, and the inhuman practices of Arab slavers. The Conference President, the Belgian Baron Lambermont, told the journalist Flora Shaw that two civilizations were contesting for Africa: Islam “which was spreading from the North like a stain of oil” and Christianity, representing the civilization of the West. They would “decide their quarrel by force” but the West would triumph, not least because it promised to rescue Africans from the vicissitudes of the slavery that trailed in the wake of Islam (Schneer 2001, 135). The Belgian Minister of Foreign Affairs opened the Brussels Conference by informing the delegates: The work which you are about to undertake is great and pure—it is generous, it is disinterested. For it does not entail the gratitude of those races oppressed and decimated with the most revolting barbarity, whose safety it is your mission to organize.8 Baron Gericke de Herwynen of the Netherlands observed, “our presence here is the best proof of the unanimous desire of our Governments to co-operate in . . . [a] great humanitarian work.”9 The British representative claimed “the work which we are carrying on is purely humanitarian; it has no connection with politics.”10 In a speech at Guildhall in November 1889, Salisbury observed: “I do not think any Conference in the history of the world has ever met for the purpose of promoting a matter of pure humanity” (Anti-Slavery Reporter, Nov/Dec 1889, 238). Writing in the Wesleyan-Methodist magazine, the Rev. Joseph Rhodes (1890, 912) simply described the agreement as “the Magna Carta of the negro,” one designed “to protect the negro by disarming his Arab-enemy.” In this context, civil society actors were merely refracting the ideology of liberal imperial states back onto the representatives of these states, rather than asking them to challenge it. At the same time, however, whilst the humanitarians and the diplomats may have shared the same assumptions about the benefits of European colonialism, the latter were also moved by more prosaic concerns. Regarding arms, this meant preserving supplies to local allies whilst negotiating a regime that ensured colonial authorities maintained a qualitative military advantage over native populations. The challenge was neatly set out in a note to the Marquis of Salisbury of a meeting with the Belgian King immediately prior to the Brussels Conference. The King considered: it would be dangerous to supply the Arabs or the natives with modern firearms. . . . it might be possible to allow the limited importation . . . of flint and steel guns, reserving the supply of modern fire-arms for Europeans only.11 Sir John Kirk, the British plenipotentiary to the Brussels Conference was even more forthright: …If Europeans wish to retain in their hands the advantage given them by the possessions of modern fire-arms, there is no time to be lost in at once stopping absolutely the sale of rifles [and] breech-loaders . . . this will have no effect upon the slave-hunters . . . in whose hands the old flint muzzle-loading gun is sufficiently . . . deadly.12 Kirk was equally forthright in the years following the agreement at Brussels, noting in an 1896 report on the Niger Coast protectorate that: “the disarmament of the country” was “a matter of policy apart from the Brussels Act [my italics].”13 Implementation of the Brussels Act The Brussels Act was agreed in July 1890 and formally came into effect on April 2, 1892 (Miers 1975, 294). The act imposed restrictions on the import of firearms and ammunition in the “slave trade zone,” a region defined as between 20°N and 22°S. All imported arms and ammunition were to be deposited in public warehouses under government supervision. Crude trade guns and powder could be sold for use in places where there was no slave trading. Modern firearms were not to be released, but individuals in possession of appropriate guarantees from their government might be allowed them for personal use provided the weapons were stamped, registered, and licensed (Miers 1971, 577). As already noted, some commentators have suggested the Brussels Act was widely flouted. In this perspective, a weak regulatory arms trade norm was superseded by hard colonial and commercial interests and/or the global operation of a free trade in arms norm. However, this view has been somewhat skewed by the focus on the arms trade to Abyssinia and Somalia where the act was largely ineffective (see below). Elsewhere, colonial powers went to great lengths to ensure their commitments at Brussels were translated into local legislation. In West Africa alone, examples included a French decree in November 1890 on Gabon and the Congo prohibiting the sale of modern rifles to natives. This was quickly followed by a further decree prohibiting the import of modern rifles for resale to natives in the rest of French West Africa. Both decrees followed the guidelines established at the Brussels Conference (Cooke 1973, 43), even though France had yet to ratify the agreement (Yakemtchouk 1977, 161). In German Cameroon, restrictions on the supply of modern firearms to natives had already been imposed five years before the Brussels Act came into force,14 but in 1893 the colonial authorities introduced regulations specifically to conform with the Brussels Act. In the following years, a dizzying array of further regulations were passed (Rudin 1938, 311–14). This included regulations issued in 1906 requiring anyone wishing to use a shotgun to submit a written application and present their gun to the nearest District Office, where it would be stamped and the manufacturer, factory number, and number on the stamp recorded.15 A further edict in 1908 prohibited the transfer of arms (including gifts) to natives, albeit with an exception for native hunters assisting white hunters (Rudin 1938, 311–14). The British in West Africa introduced legislation to implement the Brussels Act in the Gold Coast and Ashanti as well as Sierra Leone.16 In the latter colony six ordinances relating to the importation and traffic in firearms were passed from 1892 to 1905 and then consolidated into Law No. 10 ensuring modern firearms were treated as required by the Brussels Act (Gray 1910, 383–84). In the region under the control of the Royal Niger Company, a system of total prohibition of modern firearms had been in force since the granting of its charter in 1886.17 In the Crown Colony of Lagos, the act was applied in 1892.18 With regards to the Niger Coast Protectorate, an ordinance for application of the act was approved in London in 1894, and further initiatives to restrict the sale of arms were pursued in subsequent years.19 The creation of the Northern Nigeria Protectorate in 1900 was swiftly followed by the passage of legislation that not only implemented the Brussels Act but prohibited the possession of modern “arms of precision” already existing in the Protectorate except by permit and registration.20 More generally, by 1908 British officials at least considered that “on the whole” the Brussels Act had “been of considerable service in keeping the [arms] traffic within bounds.”21 Looking back on the act in 1929, Lord Lugard (1929, 4) could note that despite the grand claims about defeating slavery, its only practical effect was to render “the African more powerless than ever to resist conquest by Europeans.” Thus, notwithstanding some notable failures of implementation (see below), the Brussels Act probably stands comparison with contemporary agreements on the arms trade that have been equally variable in their effectiveness. The Second Matryoshka Doll: Arms Trade Prohibition in the Periphery Whilst the Brussels Act was certainly notable for the way it emerged out of a humanitarian campaign that drew on and consolidated an antislavery norm, in other respects it was consistent with the broader approach to arms trade restrictions adopted by the major powers in all the spaces of empire. This broader approach to arms control comprises the second matryoshka doll of arms trade governance. Further initiatives to restrain arms flows to Africa included restrictions on the arms trade into Morocco agreed at the 1906 Algeciras Conference;22 the 1906 tripartite agreement between France, Britain, and Italy principally aimed at restricting the arms traffic to Abyssinia and to a lesser extent Somalia;23 a 1907 Spanish edict forbidding imports into its possessions in the Western Sahara;24 and a 1908 agreement between European powers suspending the import and sale of firearms in Western Equatorial Africa.25 The latter emerged from otherwise failed negotiations to both strengthen the Brussels Act and expand its scope to cover the Persian Gulf,26 an initiative largely devoid of the humanitarian pressure that characterized the original negotiations. Initiatives to restrict the small arms trade in the Persian Gulf (extracted under British pressure) included an 1898 agreement between Britain and Bahrain prohibiting the import and export of arms; similar British agreements with the Sheikh of Kuwait and the Sheiks of Trucial Oman; restrictions announced by Oman in 1891, 1892, and 1898; the naval blockade of the Persian Gulf instituted by the British in 1910 to combat the trade in arms in the region; and the 1913 agreement between Britain and France aimed at curbing the arms trade at Muscat (Busch 1967, 270–303; Lorimer 1986, 2556–93). In Southeast Asia, as Tagliacozzo (2005, 265) has noted, “over time, colonial administration—and colonial opinion. . . . came to the conclusion that it would be better for everyone if local Southeast Asians had as few firearms as possible.” Even in the Western Pacific, colonial powers sought to curtail the supply of arms to colonial subjects. For example, under the 1889 Treaty of Berlin on Samoa, Britain, Germany, and the USA agreed that “the sale of arms and ammunition by any foreigner to any native Samoan subject or other Pacific islander resident in Samoa is prohibited.”27 Consequently, the spaces of empire were increasingly subject to intensive and extensive efforts to restrict the trade in arms via import controls, internal regulation of colonial spaces, and export controls instituted at key nodal points in regional arms markets. Thus, rather than being an era of free trade in arms, the late nineteenth century was characterized by a dual regime of regulation: general adherence to a peacetime liberal export norm for arms transfers from imperial metropoles along with intensive and extensive regulation of arms flows into, within, and between the spaces of Empire. The Third Matryoshka Doll: The Devil's Bargain, Constitutive Norms, and Arms Control as Governmentality Calls for arms trade regulation in the spaces of empire were rarely located in broader critiques of militarism in Europe. For policymakers, small arms control in Africa and elsewhere was necessitated by the threat to colonial order and therefore distinct from discussions about armaments policy and armaments competition amongst the so-called civilized powers. Even for the campaigners at Brussels, small arms proliferation was an issue umbilically linked to the questions of slavery, arms, and liquor control abroad rather than questions about domestic policy. The Brussels Act was equally distinct from late nineteenth century attempts to curtail the excesses of war amongst civilized powers. Some campaigners had certainly called for the disarmament of Arab traders; the act itself cited the need to “diminish intestine wars between tribes” (Article II(i)), but such calls were very much rooted in a humanitarian anti-slavery tradition rather than any emerging humanitarian law of war tradition. For example, neither activists nor officials actively sought to frame the Brussels Act in relation to earlier initiatives such as the 1868 Declaration of St. Petersburg banning the use of explosive and fulminating bullets or the 1874 Brussels Declaration on the Laws and Customs of War. The genealogical heritage of the Brussels arms regulations ran through an anti-slavery tradition rather than a HAC one. This is not to deny there were expressions of discontent from gun manufacturers about the impact of colonial restrictions upon their business.28 But, both domestic arms production and the dynamics of arms rivalry in Europe remained largely untroubled by efforts at small arms control in the peripheries. Indeed, in 1889, the British government launched a new program of military shipbuilding and both France and Russia followed suit. According to Laity (2001, 114) “a new arms race was underway”—and at the very same moment, diplomats were concluding the Brussels restrictions on small arms proliferation. Of course, a decade after the Brussels Conference, the Tsar called the first Hague Peace Conference to explore a “possible reduction of the excessive armaments which weigh upon all nations” (Keefer 2006, 7). In the end, though, the Hague Conference achieved little on this front. Salisbury, who had been so eloquent about the Brussels Conference, observed that the expense and destructiveness of war had worked as a deterrent in solving conflicts (ibid., 10)—disarmament, humanitarian or otherwise, was for savages, not for civilized powers. Indeed, British military experts also argued any attempt to freeze armament levels risked favoring “the interests of savage nations” (Cooper 1991, 125). At the Hague Conference itself, even a call for a ceiling on the growth of armaments met with failure (Keefer 2006, 14), and the best the delegates could agree on was a nonbinding resolution noting the restriction of military budgets was desirable (Best 1999, 631; Keefer 2006, 15). Modest calls for limitations on the development of rifles, gunpowder, and explosives were rebuffed, although restrictions were imposed on dum-dum bullets and some technologies still in their infancy. The second Hague Conference of 1907 achieved even less (Sidorowicz 1992, 15). As Sandi Cooper (1991, 132) has noted, “arms reduction had been entombed again.” Even more instructively, the first Hague Conference was convened in the very same year as the 1899 agreement between Britain and Egypt establishing a joint condominium over the Sudan. This had been preceded by the battle of Omdurman in which five hours of fighting had left 11,000 Mahdists dead in comparison to just 40 on the British side (Headrick 1981, 118). Back in Britain, The Morning Post (September 29, 1898) highlighted the role played by “the powerful weapons of civilization—the shrapnel shell, the magazine rifle and the Maxim gun.” Winston Churchill (1902, 300) recorded “the most signal triumph ever gained by the arms of science over barbarians.” Unsurprisingly perhaps, the advantage provided by the “weapons of civilisation” was duly recognized in the Sudan Agreement. Article 12 noted that “special attention shall be paid to the enforcement of the Brussels Act of the 2nd July, 1890, in respect to the import, sale and manufacture of firearms and their munitions” (ibid., 373). As this example illustrated, qualitative arms control functioned to underpin the capacity to deploy violence in the service of empire, not constrain it. The Brussels Act therefore represented an early version of the “devil's bargain” highlighted by Krause (see above, pX), in which a prohibitory HAC norm is promoted at the cost of legitimizing the logics and practices of liberal militarism both at home and abroad. However, focusing only on the operation of prohibitory regulatory norms obscures the way arms trade regulation also constituted a specific colonial form of arms control as governmentality, whereby mechanisms of prohibition and prescription were both put to the service of governing which peoples could legitimately use what kinds of arms. Of course, efforts to manage arms flows to potentially unruly colonial subjects by constantly seeking to balance permission and proscription were neither completely effective nor ever effectively complete. First, efforts at restraint were perennially subject to strategies of evasion undertaken by local actors operating with their own normative and cartographic understandings (Tagliacozzo 2005; Mathew 2016). Second, arms trade regulation was a contested terrain over which advocates of permission and advocates of restraint often clashed. For example, pressures for restraint were offset by pressures to use the provision of arms to secure access to markets and the loyalty or security of allies in a context of intra-European competition to maintain and expand formal and informal empires (Grant 2007; Chew 2012). Policy on the ground, therefore, often appeared contradictory. Nevertheless, proponents of permission and proscription generally agreed on the broad goals of policy—to maintain imperial influence and imperial order. As will be illustrated below, they agreed even more on the broader logics in which arguments for permission and proscription were to be located—those governing sovereignty, free trade, development, and the standard of civilization. For example, the Brussels Act certainly failed to prevent a substantial arms trade into Abyssinia and Somalia where, by 1908, British officials considered the act had “completely broken down”29 largely as a result of French support for a profitable arms trade through French-controlled Djibouti. In this case, colonial norms of sovereignty provided the regulatory space for proliferation. The legal legitimacy of this transit trade was enshrined by Article Ten of the Brussels Act, which, somewhat ironically, had been vigorously promoted by the British. This affirmed the right of inland territories “under the sovereignty or protectorate” of another signatory power to acquire arms via the territory of a coastal power, and Italy had previously announced Abyssinia's adhesion to the agreement. Compounding the irony, at one point in the negotiations the French had suggested the conference had “no power to impose a right of transit on any Sovereign state.”30 Enforcement of both the arms and slave trade regulations of Brussels was also hampered by French refusal to permit searches of sea vessels flying the French flag. Arms smuggling dhow owners operating in both the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf quickly realized the French flag represented “a license to traffic” (Mathew 2016, 35), as it made each dhow an “island of colonial sovereignty” (ibid., 34) and therefore immune to search. This is not to imply sovereignty norms offered an unfettered license to trade. The arms provisions of the Brussels Act were ultimately predicated on the fact that European powers exercised “rights of sovereignty” (Article Nine) in their colonial possessions. Thus, the act and its implementation was suffused with norms of sovereignty that both underpinned restrictions on the arms trade and provided the regulatory spaces permitting their circumvention. Similarly, both the advocates for free trade in arms in the spaces of empire and the advocates of restriction crafted their arguments by reference to the shared ideational frames of free trade, development, and the standard of civilization—each heavily imbricated in the other. In Africa, for example, free trade advocates argued the offer of arms was essential for recruiting African laborers and that arms proliferation would speed the depopulation of local wildlife, thus hastening the day when natives switched from hunting and alcohol to legitimate trade (Storey 2008, 196). Conversely, proponents of restriction such as Alexander Mackay (1890, 42) of the Church Missionary Society deplored the fact that “in the name of Christianity, free trade and civilization we see firewater and firearms pouring in every port [in Africa].” However, for Mackay, the solution lay not only in “forbidding the import of arms and ammunition” but in promoting legitimate trade amongst Africans, “developing the resources of the country, and . . . promoting internal peace” so “the natives will . . . busy themselves with growing whatever they can get a fair price for instead of fighting” (Letter to The Times, May 8, 1889). In this sense, the Brussels Act represented the archetype of regulation in the spaces of empire, combining restrictions on the arms and liquor trades with calls for the development of “agricultural labour and . . . the industrial arts” amongst native populations (Article Two). At the same time, the precise ways in which these twin processes of grafting and counter-grafting played out varied from region to region and over time. For example, in Singapore, policy from the 1820s onwards oscillated between permission and proscription, as free trade and merchant pressure on the one hand and concerns about the destabilizing impact of the firearms trade on the other hand were weighed in different ways at different times (Tagliacozzo 2005, 270; Chew 2012, 174–79). At Muscat, commercial treaties between the sultan and various powers (particularly the French) enshrining free trade severely hampered Britain's ability to curtail the trade in the Persian Gulf. This was only finally resolved by the aforementioned 1913 agreement between Britain and France. Thus, free trade norms were constantly exposed to serial processes of grafting and counter-grafting. Nevertheless, as the nineteenth century merged into the early twentieth century, arms trade regulation in the spaces of empire was increasingly seen as consonant with a dominant imaginary of liberal market norms (Mathew 2016). This is not to downplay the pressures for imperial powers to supply arms to local allies, or the way broader colonial conceptions of economic and geostrategic interest militated against cooperation to limit the arms traffic as at Djibouti and Muscat.31 However, such factors ultimately illustrate the way in which particular assemblages of norms, formal and informal practices, responses to evasions, and norm-derived conceptions of interest constituted colonial practices of arms control as governmentality. Understood in this way, oscillations in policy in the same region or between different spheres of colonial interest reflected the attempt (always imperfect) to manage arms flows according to where people were placed in the racially inflected triple hierarchies of civilization, loyalty, and utility to imperial power—hierarchies that could be either mutually reinforcing or mutually opposed depending on circumstance. Pressures to arm or disarm locals also illustrated how judgements about what constituted interest were predicated on a particular moral economy in which European norms of racial superiority and imperialism framed the standards of appropriate behavior of the era (Finnemore and Sikkink 1998, 892) and the fluid but always subordinate identities of the other. The centrality of European racial and imperial norms in arms governance was illustrated in the late 1870s when the Cape Colony in Southern Africa introduced a licensing system aimed at disarming supposedly disloyal native tribes (Storey 2004, 707). In response, one tribe, the Basuto, proclaimed their loyalty to the Queen and asked whether “we are to be disarmed because we are black.”32 In British India, Acts in 1858, 1860, 1878, and 1909 constantly refined and revised who had the right to own, import, export, and produce what kinds of arms, where they could be transferred to, and under what conditions. Each act was also regularly amended via a series of notifications that led one official reviewing rules on exports to Aden to lament “it is impossible to say . . . with absolute certainty what are now the precise powers of the Government of India under the [1878] Arms Act.”33 This illustrates how such regulations were not just about the effective management of arms flows but also an intrinsic part of the process by which imperial gradations of race, culture, and threat were actually produced. Indeed, in this context, the performative of adherence to, and refinement of, regulatory processes was as important as actually achieving a concrete impact on arms flows. In Somalia, imperial policy combined permission with prohibition. In 1894, Italy concluded an agreement under which the Somali Sultan of the Mjertin adhered to the terms of the Brussels Act (Hertslett 1967, 1119). Further measures, aimed at preventing arms reaching Sayyid Muhamed Abdullah Hassan, the so-called Mad Mullah of Somalia, included the 1902 Aden Sea Traffic in Arms Regulation;34 the 1905 Ilig Agreement between Italy and a then-weakened Sayyid prohibiting his import of firearms (Hertslett 1967, 1120–23; Katagiri 2010, 38); and the British Somaliland Firearms Regulation of 1905 regulating the import of arms into their Somaliland Protectorate.35 At the same time, however, after 1909 the British combined arms restrictions with a policy of supplying arms to the “friendly tribes,” a policy that backfired when they turned their newly acquired arms on each other.36 Worse was to follow in 1914 when, in direct contravention of his orders, Richard Corfield, the commander of the Camel Corps, launched an attack that led to the virtual annihilation of his troops and Corfield's own death. Although a military disaster, back in England, Lord Emmot, Under-Secretary of State for the Colonies, observed to the House of Lords that Corfield: “… was what is called in common parlance “white all through,” precisely the sort of man one would desire to go tiger shooting with”.37 British policy on Somalia therefore illustrates the inadequacy of humanitarian, free trade, or strategic frameworks alone for understanding regulation of the arms trade in Africa (and indeed elsewhere). In this case, imperial motivations were laid bare—both proscription and permission were put to the service of making the spaces of empire safe for traders, administrators, loyal natives, and even visiting tiger hunters. Conclusion This article has offered a more complete understanding of the dynamics of arms trade regulation in the late nineteenth century. In this concluding section, I also draw on this understanding to provide insights into current debates about norms, arms regulation, and arms control as governmentality. The 1890 Brussels Act can be understood as the first matryoshka doll of arms trade governance—a discrete initiative that, in this case, aimed to regulate the import of a specified class of weapons into a specified area of Africa. From the perspective of proponents, the act was the outcome of a grand humanitarian campaign to restrict the arms (and liquor) trade to Africa. Indeed, it can be understood, in part, as an effort to graft a regulatory arms trade norm onto an established and constitutive anti-slavery norm. At the same time, policymakers were also motivated by a more prosaic concern to maintain qualitative military superiority over colonial subjects in Africa. Nevertheless, judged in isolation, the campaign for the Brussels Act can be understood as a relatively successful initiative that managed to merge the requirements of colonial order with a particularly paternalist and orientalist humanitarianism. Moreover, with the exception of the arms traffic to Abyssinia and Somalia, implementation of the act was more extensive than has generally been acknowledged. However, the Brussels Act represented just one element in a larger network of regulation aimed at restricting the supply of arms to colonial subjects in all the spaces of empire. This constituted the second Matryoshka doll of arms trade governance. Thus, rather than being an era of free trade in arms, the period was actually characterized by a dual regime of regulation: the operation of a peacetime liberal export norm for transfers from imperial metropoles combined with widespread efforts to manage arms flows into, within, and between the spaces of empire (using post-export blockades, import controls, internal regulations, and restrictions on transfers between colonial spaces). This contrasts with the contemporary emphasis on producer export controls as a primary (if not exclusive) vehicle for managing the global trade in conventional arms. When located in this broader network of prohibitory regulation, the humanitarian underpinnings of the Brussels Act are revealed to be far less significant than the concerns about the maintenance of colonial order and qualitative military advantage for imperial powers. Of course, the operation of a free trade in arms philosophy combined with competition for colonies, markets, and influence amongst imperial powers is generally deemed to have trumped substantive efforts at limiting arms flows. However, practices of proscription and permission were both part of the attempt to delineate who could legitimately use which gradations of weapons according to where they were located in the triple hierarchies of civilization, loyalty, and utility to empire. This is not to deny that local actors constantly engaged in strategies of evasion or that imperial policies were perennially reversed or amended. Indeed, both permissive and proscriptive arms trade norms were the site of recurring contestation that played out in the form of competing appeals to transnational constitutive norms such as sovereignty, free trade, colonialism, and the standard of civilization. Nevertheless, the oscillations in policy this produced are better understood less as a failure of prohibition and more as constituting the fluid cartography of regulation that was (and is) a defining feature of arms control as governmentality. Moreover, the process of serially reinventing the border between legitimate and illegitimate ownership of, and trade in, the means of violence represented an important political project in its own right, irrespective of the actual material impact on arms flows. Indeed, the understanding of arms trade governance as a Sisyphean endeavor was (and remains) central to the legitimizing politics of arms control as governmentality; sanctifying the performative of regulatory and institutional refinement, an á la carte approach to normative frameworks (e.g. humanitarianism, free trade, military necessity) and their application to specific arms trade policy questions. Nevertheless, by the early 1900s colonial powers had developed fairly extensive mechanisms of regulation that, in general, were probably as effective as the mechanisms of contemporary arms trade regulation heralded by optimists as signaling a shift to a novel form of global arms governance. What insights, then, can we draw into contemporary debates in the literature on post-Cold War arms trade regulation? First, the simplistic claim that contemporary HAC initiatives, including those on small arms, are “novel” just does not stand up to historical analysis. This bears repeating time and time again given the frequency with which the former claim is recycled. What is more useful, therefore, is to reflect on the ways in which contemporary HAC is or is not novel compared to antecedents such as the Brussels Act and to use this reflection as the basis for evaluating current debates in the literature on HAC. There are some notable differences. The Brussels Act was concerned with restricting what were then considered new, modern, and technologically cutting-edge firearms, whereas contemporary small arms are generally viewed as a mature technology. Even more notably, the overt racism that characterized the discursive landscape of nineteenth-century HAC has largely disappeared. Similarly, a feature of contemporary transnational initiatives on small arms, landmines, and the ATT has been the way these initiatives have been actively promoted by key states and civil society organizations from the Global South (Efrat 2012, 66; Bromley, Cooper, and Holtom 2012, 1039). The global architecture of small arms regulation also includes regional agreements, such as the ECOWAS moratorium on SALW, that are composed solely of states from the Global South. This is certainly indicative of changes in power relations between North and South. Nevertheless, northern NGOs remain the primary gatekeepers determining what issues (e.g., landmines as opposed to thermobaric weapons) become the focus of civil society campaigns (Carpenter 2014). Northern actors have also been the largest funders of HAC campaigns on small arms, landmines, and cluster munitions, whilst northern NGOs have been the largest recipients of this funding (Stavrianakis 2011, 208; O'Dwyer 2014). Moreover, whilst HAC campaigns are certainly framed as expressions of cosmopolitan solidarism, they have also drawn on largely uninterrogated standard of civilization norms and are not immune to the recycling of orientalist assumptions about the legitimacy and motivations of different suppliers, recipients, and users of the instruments of violence (Stavrianakis 2011; Mathur 2014). Furthermore, there have been notable moves to liberalize arms exports, particularly with respect to intra-Western transfers (Cooper 2011, 147–49). This indicates the need to abandon the uncritical assumption of the optimists that the merging of arms control and humanitarianism must, by definition, be both positive and transformative. As demonstrated here, the merging of the two is not necessarily incompatible with colonialism, racism, and imperial violence. Moreover, both Brussels and the broader operation of arms control as governmentality illustrate how HAC initiatives may not represent a victory for “good norms” over “bad norms” but the way in which such initiatives are situated within the regulatory logics produced by both. Indeed, victories for HAC may neither challenge nor reconstitute hegemonic practices of security and economy. Instead, they may be achieved because apparently disparate and divergent normative frameworks constitute historically contingent norm hierarchies that produce the conditions of possibility for the emergence of particular modes of arms trade governance and their associated logics of permission and restraint. Certainly, arms trade regulation in the age of empire, including its humanitarian variants, never challenged the logic of liberal militarism and in many respects was harnessed to it. The Brussels Act, in particular, represented an early example of the “devil's bargain” in which humanitarian restraint was achieved at the expense of legitimizing the arms, forms of violence, and ways of war practiced by hegemonic powers. There are similarities here with many contemporary HAC campaigns, which have been equally focused on controlling violence in the peripheries. Such campaigns have also been characterized by the way in which key groups such as the ICRC have sought to distance themselves from disarmament activists and antimilitarism to make HAC agendas more palatable to policymakers (Carpenter 2014, 105 and 117). This indicates the need for caution in assuming that successive limited humanitarian initiatives can change the dominant logics of militarism whilst also extracting a critique of militarism from those same initiatives. Of course, the recent success of the humanitarian campaign to ban nuclear weapons might suggest a shift in HAC towards a more effective merging of humanitarianism and antimilitarism. Even here, however, it is notable that campaigners have attempted to retain the distinction between legitimate and illegitimate weapons, and the distinction between disarmament as an overarching goal and strategy and disarmament as a weapons-specific tactic (Fihn 2017; UNIDIR 2017, 10). Moreover, it is notable that nuclear weapon states have neither signed the ban treaty nor abandoned expensive nuclear modernization programs (Korb 2017). Thus, both Brussels and contemporary HAC initiatives illustrate the “limits of possibility” inherent in pursuing the empty promise of tactical humanitarian “disarmament” without strategic demilitarization. It is worth noting in this context that in historical terms, the Brussels Act and the broader range of initiatives to manage arms flows in the spaces of Empire were essentially transitory—they did not produce a lasting change in arms trade norms or in the international system. In part at least, this was because prohibitory arms trade norms emerged as elements in the normative superstructure of the era rather than as constitutive norms in their own right. At the same time, it was also the case that from the 1930s onwards, changes in the substance of transnational constitutive norms pertaining to sovereignty, security, economy, and colonialism created the permissive conditions for a new set of regulatory arms trade norms to emerge through new processes of grafting and counter-grafting. There were, of course, elements of earlier approaches in the use of arms supplies to “the friendlies” in the wars of decolonization and anticommunism. More generally, however, arms trade regulation in the Cold War was characterized more by a sovereign approach to arms control that emphasized the creation and expansion of peacetime national export licensing systems and the use of regulation to achieve security between states. Arms trade norms were ultimately at the mercy of these far larger shifts in foundational constitutive norms. All this should prompt due modesty on the part of the optimists heralding the normative transformations supposedly wrought by HAC initiatives such as those on small arms. This article also highlights the need for a more thoroughgoing genealogical approach to the histories of both HAC and arms trade regulation (governmental and sovereign). This is more obviously the domain of the critical school of thinking on arms trade regulation. In the case of the optimists, both the evident flaws of humanitarian arms trade regulation in the late nineteenth century and its essentially transient nature demonstrate why they need to think more historically about the relationship between humanitarianism and arms regulation. Indeed, despite the differences between nineteenth- and twenty-first-century HAC, they have yet to convincingly demonstrate why things might turn out differently this time around. Acknowledgments I would like to thank Owen Greene, Caroline Hughes, Keith Krause, Nic Marsh, David Mutimer, Mike Pugh, Jo Spear and Mandy Turner for their feedback and suggestions on earlier versions of this piece. I would also like to thank the anonymous reviewers and the editors of the journal for their perceptive and helpful comments on the article. Footnotes 1 This includes research undertaken in the United Kingdom National Archives at Kew and the British Library. The paper is also informed by broader research undertaken at the United States National Archives in Washington, DC and at College Park, Maryland as well as the use of selected German archival material. I have also undertaken extensive keyword searches of newspaper articles available in the online British Newspaper archive (BNA) and the online archives of The Times. 2 Derby Mercury. “London, August 30.” 2 Sept 1790. BNA, Accessed November 2017 (https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000052/17900902/013/0002?browse=true); Caledonian Mercury. “House of Lords. January 1.” January 5, 1793. BNA (https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000045/17930105/002/0002?browse=true), Accessed November 2017; Order in Council, Prohibiting the Exportation or Carrying Coastwise or Gunpowder, Salt Petre, or any Sort of Arms or Ammunition for Two months from The Date of the Said Order, April 6, 1803. UK Parliamentary Papers (PP), Accessed November, 2017 (https://parlipapers.proquest.com/parlipapers/result/pqpresultpage.gispdfhitspanel.pdflink/$2fapp-bin$2fparliamentary-paper$2f3$2f1$2f1$2fc$2f1802-000398_01-04.pdf/order+2B;council+prohibiting+gunpowder+salt+x0024;40$2fapp-gis$2fparliamentary-paper$2f1802-000398$40Parliamentary+Paper$40null$40January+01,;1803?pgId=054a9160-49fb-49a9-ba52-097712667394&rsId=163BB90EF49). 3 See also Kentish Mercury. June 10, 1848. BNA, Accessed November 2017; and Liverpool Mail. June 10, 1848, 5. BNA, Accessed November 2017. 4 Also see: PP. Order in Council, for Permitting Ships and Vessels Trading in Africa to Take on Board and Export Gunpowder, Arms and Ammunition for Trade There; and also to Take on Board Gunpowder, Arms and Ammunition for the Defence of the Said Ships, in Certain proportions and Under the Conditions Mentioned in the Said Order, May 11, 1803. Accessed November 2017 (https://parlipapers.proquest.com/parlipapers/result/pqpresultpage.gispdfhitspanel.pdflink/$2fapp-bin$2fparliamentary-paper$2ff$2f0$2f0$2f4$2f1802-000400_01-04.pdf/order+in+council+for+permitting+ships+and+vessels+trading+to+africa$40$2fapp-gis$2fparliamentary-paper$2f1802-000400$40Parliamentary+Paper$40null$40January+01,+1803?pgId=61180562-13bc-4397-9e25-5d44f1cf163d&rsId=163BB936D81). 5 See: Correspondence Respecting the Conference Relating to the Slave Trade Held at Brussels, 1889, F0 881/5981. 6 No 113, Foreign Office to the Treasury, November 1, 1889. 7 British Plenipotentiaries to the Marquis of Salisbury, Brussels. February 25, 1890, in F.O. 881/6197, Part II: Further Correspondent Respecting the Conference Relating to the Slave Trade held at Brussels, 1890., No 111, 111. 8 Africa No 8a, Translation of Protocols and General Act of the Slave Trade Conference held at Brussels, 1889-90, London: HMSO, C.6049-I, 1890, 2. 9 Ibid, 2. 10 Ibid., 128. 11 No. 48, Lord Vivian to the Marquis of Salisbury, Brussels, September 29, 1889, FO 881/5983, Part 1, Correspondence Respecting the Conference Relating to the Slave Trade Held at Brussels, 1889, 525–31. 12 No 118, Memorandum by Sir John Kirk on Proposed Conference Programme, November 4, 1889. 13 PP. Africa No 3. Report by Sir John Kirk on the Disturbances at Brass, London: HMSO, 1896, 26. 14 PP. Report by Sir John Kirk, op. cit, 23. 15 “Verfügung des Gouverneurs von Kamerun, betreffend Waffenkontrolle, Vom 1 März, 1906” in Die Deutsche Kolonial-Gesetzgebung, Zehnter Band, Jahrgan 1906, Berlin 1907, 122–23. 16 PP, Colonial Report – Annual, No 96. Sierra Leone: Annual Report for 1892, London: HMSO, 1894, C-6857-46, 3; “Memorandum by Sir Hugh Clifford, Governor of the Gold Coast, January 25, 1917,” Committee of Imperial Defence, Sub-Committee on Arms Traffic: Report, Proceeding and Memoranda, CAB 16/44; No 346. 17 PP. Report by Sir John Kirk, op. cit., 23. 18 Ibid. 19 Ibid., 24. 20 Northern Nigeria: Report for the Period from January 1900 to March 31, 1901 by the High Commissioner of Northern Nigeria, Cd 788-16, London: HMSO, 1902, 17; Colonial Office to FO Nov 24 1908, IOR, L/PS/10/158 Arms Traffic, Brussels Conference. 21 Memorandum on the Arms Traffic with the Natives of Africa, in Brussels “Arms Traffic Conference, May 1908,” ADM 116/1046. 22 Morocco No 1, 1906, Despatches from the British Delegate at the International Conference at Algeciras Forwarding the General Act of the Conference Signed at April 7, 1906 and Other Documents Relating to the Affairs of Morocco, July 1906, London: HMSO, Cd 3087. 23 Cd. 3299, Treaty Series No. 2, Agreement between the United Kingdom, France and Italy, Respecting the Importation of Arms and Ammunition into Abyssinia, Article 2, December 13, 1906, London: HMSO, 1907. 24 No. 56 From Sir Maurice de Bunsen to Sir Edward Grey, Madrid, April 15, 1907, in Traffic in Arms and Ammunition in Africa and the Persian Gulf, 1907, Confidential Print (9185), March 1908, L/PS/20/FO41. 25 Treaty Series No. 29, 1908. 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TI - Race, Sovereignty, and Free Trade: Arms Trade Regulation and Humanitarian Arms Control in the Age of Empire
JF - Journal of Global Security Studies
DO - 10.1093/jogss/ogy013
DA - 2018-10-01
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