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CENTRAL AND EASTERN EUROPEAN PERSPECTIVES
ON INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS
Crisis and
Ontological Insecurity
Serbia’s Anxiety over Kosovo’s Secession
Filip Ejdus
Central and Eastern European Perspectives
on International Relations
Series Editors
Petr Kratochvíl
Institute of International Relations
Prague, Czech Republic
Xymena Kurowska
International Relations Department
Central European University
Budapest, Hungary
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European Integration won the Book of the Year Award by the REL Section of
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More information about this series at

http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14885
Filip Ejdus
Crisis and Ontological

Insecurity
Serbia’s Anxiety over Kosovo’s Secession
Filip Ejdus
Faculty of Political Science
University of Belgrade
Belgrade, Serbia
Central and Eastern European Perspectives on International Relations

ISBN 978-3-030-20666-6 ISBN 978-3-030-20667-3 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-20667-3
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer
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Acknowledgements
This book has its origins in my Ph.D. thesis which I defended at the
Faculty of Political Science, University of Belgrade, in 2012. It is, how-
ever, only a distant relative to my dissertation, as over the years since my
viva I have not only updated the analysis but also revised and hopefully
refined my arguments. An important catalyst in the process has been the
feedback which I received from various reviewers, discussants and col-
leagues. Parts of Chapters 2 and 5 and the Conclusion have previously
appeared in my articles ‘Critical Situations, Fundamental Questions
and Ontological Insecurity in World Politics’ published in Journal of
International Relations and Development (Ejdus 2018) and ‘Not a
Heap of Stones: Material Environments and Ontological Security in
International Relations’ published in Cambridge Review of International
Relations (Ejdus 2017). They were reproduced in this book with the
permission of Palgrave and Taylor and Francis respectively.
My first gratitude goes to my supervisor Miroslav Hadžić who intro-
duced me to field of Security Studies and gave me the initial encourage-
ment to embark on a Ph.D. project. My wife Katarina provided endless
patience and support along the way. I am particularly thankful to Jelena
Subotić and Slobodan Marković for reading and commenting early
drafts of the book. I will certainly not be able to produce a complete
list of all the other people who have also helped me, either by talking
to me about the subject, reading earlier versions of the book chapters,
v
vi Acknowledgements
or simply being wonderful and supportive colleagues. Some of them

are (in alphabetic order): Gilberto Algar Faria, Lea David, Nataša
Dragojlović, Nemanja Džuverović, Timothy Edmunds, Adam Fagan,
Karsten Friis, Orli Fridman, Cornelius Friesendorf, Luka Glušac, Dejan
Guzina, Stefano Guzzini, Eric Herring, Dejan Jović, Ana E. Juncos,
Predrag Jureković, Danijel Kostić, Catarina Kinnvall, Sandro Knezović,
Marina Komad, Marko Kovačević, Amir Lupovici, Leon Malazogu,
Sabine Mannitz, Laura McLeod, Bogoljub Milosavljević, Jennifer
Mitzen, Iver B. Neumann, Branislav Nešović, Milan Nič, Dušan
Pavlović, Gazela Pudar, Florian Qehaja, Tijana Rečević, Marko Savković,
Dragan Simić, Brent Steele, Sonja Stojanović Gajić, Alaa Tartir, Nikola
Tomić, Milada Anna Vachudova, Nebojša Vladisavljević, Srđan Vučetić,
Nikola Vujinović, Ariel Zellman, Rok Zupančić and Dragan Živojinović.
I am also grateful to my students at the Faculty of Political Science
who were often the first interlocutors with whom I discussed ideas
advanced in this book. Among them I should especially single out Pavle
Nedić and Branislav Cvetković, who also served as my research assistants
for this book. I am also indebted to all my colleagues at the Department
of International Studies for their intellectual companionship over the
years. A big shout out also goes to everyone at the Belgrade Centre for
Security Policy, a think tank I joined in 2006 and never really left. Parts
of this book were also written during my research stays at the Norwegian
Institute for International Affairs (NUPI), Peace Research Institute in
Frankfurt (PRIF) and School for Sociology Politics and International
Studies (SPAIS)/University of Bristol, so my gratitude also goes to all
the colleagues there with whom I had a chance to exchange ideas and
hence intellectually grow. My special thanks also go to Alisa Koljenšić
Radić, who proofread the initial draft of the book, and Mary Fata at
Palgrave, who tolerated my numerous requests to postpone the submis-
sion deadline. In addition to these individuals, the book has certainly
benefited from my interactions with many other people with whom have
I discussed my ideas at numerous conferences, workshops, roundtables
and informal discussions. Should you find any errors or problems in the
book, please do not blame the above mentioned people and institutions
as the responsibility is solely mine.
Acknowledgements vii
References
Ejdus, Filip. 2017. ‘Not a Heap of Stones: Material Environments and Ontological
Security in International Relations.’ Cambridge Review of International Affairs
30 (1): 23–43.
Ejdus, Filip. 2018. ‘Critical Situations, Fundamental Questions and Ontological
Insecurity in World Politics.’ Journal of International Relations and Development
21 (4): 883–908.
Contents
1 Introduction 1
2 Crisis, Anxiety and Ontological Insecurity 7
3 The Construction of Kosovo as Serbia’s Ontic Space 39
4 Disintegration of Yugoslavia and Serbia’s Anxiety

Over Kosovo 65
5 Critical Situation: Kosovo’s Declaration of Independence 97
6 Dissonance and Avoidance: Serbia’s Quest for a New

Normal 127
7 Conclusion 161
Bibliography 169
Index 199
ix
About the Author
Filip Ejdus is an Associate Professor at the Faculty of Political Science,

University of Belgrade. In his research he investigates management of
(in)security during crises and beyond borders with a geographic focus on
the Western Balkans, European Union, Middle East and Horn of Africa.
Since 2012, he has served as the (co)Editor of Journal of Regional
Security. He has been closely involved with policy community as a board
member of the Belgrade Centre for Security Policy, academic coordina-
tor at the Belgrade Security Forum and co-chair of the Regional Stability
in South East Europe Study Group at the PfP Consortium of Defence
Academies and Security Studies Institutes.
xi
Abbreviations
DEPOS Democratic Movement of Serbia (Ser. Demokratski pokret Srbije)

DS Democratic Party (Ser. Demokratska stranka)
DSS Democratic Party of Serbia (Ser. Demokratska stranka Srbije)
EU European Union
EULEX European Union Rule of Law in Kosovo
ICJ International Court of Justice
ICTY International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia
IR International Relations
KFOR Kosovo Force
KLA Kosovo Liberation Army
LAPMB Liberation Army of Preševo, Medveđa and Bujanovac
LDP Liberal Democratic Party (Ser. Liberalno demokratska partija)
NATO North Atlantic Treaty Organisation
NIS National Industry of Serbia (Ser. Nacionalna industrija Srbije)
OSCE Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe
OST Ontological Security Theory
PfP Partnership for Peace
RTS Radio Television of Serbia (Ser. Radio televizija Srbije)
SAA Stabilisation and Association Agreement
SANU Serbian Academy of Arts and Sciences (Ser. Srpska akademija nauka i
umetnosti)
SNS Serbian Progressive Party (Ser. Srpska napredna stranka)
SPO Serbian Renewal Movement (Ser. Srpski pokret obnove)
SPS Socialist Party of Serbia (Ser. Socijalistička partija Srbije)
SRS Serbian Radical Party (Ser. Srpska radikalna stranka)
UDI Unilateral Declaration of Independence
xiii
xiv Abbreviations
UN United Nations
UNGA United Nations General Assembly
UNMIK United Nations Mission in Kosovo
UNSC United Nations Security Council
US United States
CHAPTER 1
Introduction
Why states sometimes risk their material interests and even physical security
to keep a certain identity narrative going? Think of Israel’s continued occu-
pation of the West Bank, which generates not only constant low-intensity
threats to Israeli citizens but also existential threats to the state of Israel
through a constant recurrence of wars and delegitimising campaigns. Think
of the refusal of neutral Belgium to grant German troops passage through
its territory, resulting in a quick and devastating defeat as well as one of
the greatest massacres of the First World War, also known as the ‘rape of
Belgium’. Think of any other state which acted in a seemingly irrational
way to defend its honour, dignity and a sense of healthy and continuous
self despite the material costs involved. When individuals put themselves
into danger to defend who they think they are, we are equipped with myr-
iad psychological and sociological theories to understand such behaviour.
When states behave in a similar way, we either tend to ignore such cases as
aberrations, ascribe them to human error and irrationality, or find dubious
rationalist explanations.
Despite often made prescriptive calls for clear-headedness in world pol-
itics, international political discourse abounds with reference to emotions.
Decision makers routinely refer to their states as being proud, happy, angry,
sad or surprised. This book is particularly interested in situations when
states are overwhelmed with anxiety due to their inability to maintain their
self-identity narratives. Anxiety as a feeling of inner turmoil in the face of
© The Author(s) 2020 1

F. Ejdus, Crisis and Ontological Insecurity,
Central and Eastern European Perspectives on International Relations,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-20667-3_1
2 F. EJDUS
uncertainty brilliantly captured by Edvard Munch’s famous painting which

is embellishing the cover of this book. By drawing on social-constructivist
approach to IR in general and Ontological Security Theory (OST) in partic-
ular, the point of departure in this book is that states, just like individuals,
are often ready to sacrifice their physical security in order to maintain a
healthy sense of self and hence fend off anxiety. States need stable self-
identity scripts to keep cognitive control over their environment, define
their interests and maintain a sense of purposeful agency.
Building on these important insights, this book makes two contributions
to the scholarship on ontological security in IR. First, in order to conceptu-
ally strengthen the distinction between ontological security and ontological
insecurity, the book develops the concept of critical situations. Drawing on
the work of Anthony Giddens (1984, 1991) this book defines critical situa-
tions as radical disjunctions that challenge the ability of states to ‘go on’ by
bringing into the realm of discursive consciousness four fundamental ques-
tions related to existence, finitude, relations and autobiography. In some
cases, a critical situation might be mild and involve only one fundamental
question, while in others ontological crises will be full-blown and involve
all four of them. Either way, the result is the flooding through of collective
anxieties which debilitates collective agency and leads to seemingly regres-
sive, hysterical or even schizophrenic behaviour. In those situations, states
will try, more or less successfully, to satisfy their ontological security needs
by re-establishing self-identity scripts and a sense of calm that stems from
daily routines.
Second, the book demonstrates that trust in the constancy of mate-
rial environments is also a source of ontological security in world politics
that is just as important as states’ relationship with their significant others.
Regardless of how important for grounding of the self routinised interna-
tional interactions might be, they are never fully controllable or predictable.
States therefore need stable material environments as an additional anchor
for their self-identity scripts. To assume this role, material environments
such as core territorial areas for example, but also landmark natural or urban
landscapes, need to be discursively linked to the project of the state self.
Once this process is accomplished, material environments become ‘ontic
spaces’, or spatial extensions of the collective self that cause state identities
to appear more firm and continuous.
These two theoretical innovations, one related to critical situations
and the other to the role of ontic spaces, will be illustrated in an in-
depth case study focusing on Serbia’s ontological insecurity over Kosovo.
1 INTRODUCTION 3
The empirical puzzle at the heart of the case study is Serbia’s seemingly
irrational but nevertheless relatively consistent behaviour vis-à-vis Kosovo
since the breakup of Yugoslavia. Serbia’s aggressive policies towards Kosovo
set into motion a process of Yugoslav disintegration with devastating ram-
ifications for both Serbia and the entire post-Yugoslav region. In 1999,
Serbia went to war with NATO over Kosovo, only to proclaim EU and
NATO membership as its goal a year later. From 2000 onwards, all gov-
ernments, from across the political spectrum, have balanced the policy of
counter-secession and non-recognition with their attempts to push Ser-
bia to the inner circle of the European society of states. They have done
so despite the inherent incompatibility between the two priorities, as the
vast majority of EU member states have recognised the independence of
Kosovo and do not intend to either revoke their decisions or let another
country with territorial disputes such as Cyprus join the EU. All this has
only reaffirmed a belief that Kosovo is ‘the most expensive Serbian word’.
How can we account for the extraordinary consistency in the pursuit of
policy that has achieved very little success and incurred great economic,
political and reputational cost for Serbia and held back the region for over
two decades? To answer this question, the case study methodologically
relies on discourse analysis with the aim of uncovering the politics of rep-
resentation and analyse both linguistic and material preconditions for what
is being said or done (Neumann 2008). In the case study, I triangulate
secondary sources such as books, articles and media reports with primary
sources such as statements and speeches of government officials, legislation
and government documents (i.e. strategies, parliamentary resolutions, etc.)
as well as semi-structured interviews with key decision makers involved in
the Kosovo policy.
The key argument put forward in the case study is that although Serbia’s
Kosovo policy may seem irrational or even schizophrenic at times, it can be
understood as an attempt to maintain biographical continuity in the face
of secession of what is widely construed as the national ontic space. Thanks
to the intensive discursive labour of a vast number of ontic-space builders
operating since the nineteenth century, Kosovo has been constructed into
a core geographical area that connects Serbia’s past, present and future
of the national imaginary. As a sedimented structure which has been in
the making for over a century, Kosovo’s ontic status in Serbia cannot be
undone either quickly or easily. As a symbol, Kosovo constitutes Serbia
as a political community by fusing glorious moments in its history and
its darkest hours with contemporary trials and tribulations into a single
4 F. EJDUS
collective destiny. In Serbia, Kosovo is a lens through which the polity sees
the world and tells friends from foes. Metaphors of Kosovo as the ‘heart of
Serbia’, ‘Serbian Jerusalem’, ‘foundation stone’, ‘holy land’, ‘iris in the eye’
and ‘cradle of nationhood’ overwhelm the contemporary Serbian political
discourse. Due to its strong symbolic and emotional resonance, invocation
of all things Kosovo is therefore the ultimate political argument in today’s
Serbia which defines who or what is reasonable, patriotic and just, and who
or what is not. For Serbia, Kosovo is therefore not just another piece of
land but an ontic space, to which its master-narrative was anchored and
then transmitted down the generations.
On the flip side, the prospect of losing Kosovo generates a deep state of
anxiety in Serbia. Faced with such a debilitating state of mind of an inter-
rupted and deeply undermined self, the priority for any political leader with
an ambition to capture the national imagination becomes restoring onto-
logical security and biographical continuity even if it comes at a price of
physical insecurity and other material losses. In 1989, Serbia stepped up
repression in Kosovo, destabilised the former federation and set off a series
of claims for independence from other Yugoslav republics. This ultimately
led to the destruction of Yugoslavia with disastrous consequences for most
of its citizens, including the Serbs themselves. In 1999, Serbia’s brutal
police and military operations in Kosovo led to NATO intervention and
loss of control over the province, which was placed under international pro-
tection. In 2000, Serbia replaced the isolationist regime ruled by Slobodan
Milošević with a pro-European democratic government, but its opposition
to Kosovo’s claims to independence continued unabated. Tensions reached
an apex in 2008, when Kosovo authorities unilaterally declared indepen-
dence. Despite democratisation and Europeanisation, processes expected
to bring Serbia to terms with the outcome of the Yugoslav disintegration,
Serbia has been fiercely opposed to Kosovo’s claims to independence at a
high economic, political and reputational cost. To protect its sense of self in
the face of secession and thus fend off the looming state of anxiety, Serbia
continues to walk the tight rope of becoming a European state without let-
ting go its symbolic attachment to Kosovo. While these actions might seem
irrational and self-defeating, they can be understood as desperate attempts
to keep away a deep unease stemming from the loss of Kosovo.
The rest of the book is organised as follows. Chapter 2 discusses the
existing literature on ontological security scholarship in IR and outlines
the approach taken in this book. This chapter is divided into three sections.
The first one discusses the present literature and identifies gaps. The second
1 INTRODUCTION 5
section develops a novel conceptualisation of critical situations. Drawing

on the work of Anthony Giddens critical situations are conceptualised as
radical disjunctions that bring into the public discourse four fundamental
questions related to existence, finitude, relations with others and autobi-
ography. The third section theorises the role of material environments in
ontological security processes in world politics. The key argument is that
material environments are turned into ontic spaces either through projec-
tion of state identity narratives onto material environments or introjection
of material environments into state identity narratives.
Chapter 3 goes back into history to investigate when, how, why, by
whom and to what effect was Kosovo constructed as Serbia’s ontic space
in the first place. The construction of Kosovo as Serbia’s ontic space, as
this chapter details, began in the early nineteenth century with a revival
of the Kosovo myth among the Serbian nation-builders and particularly
accelerated in the 1870s due to a specific set of changing geopolitical cir-
cumstances in Central Europe. The process waxed and waned during the
twentieth century, eventually contributing to the dissolution of Yugoslavia
that continues until this day.
Chapter 4 discusses the collective anxiety triggered by gradual Albanisa-
tion of Kosovo from the late 1960s onward, followed by the weakening and
disintegration of Yugoslavia and eventually war in Kosovo and the NATO
intervention against Serbia/Yugoslavia in 1999. The chapter also demon-
strates that existential anxieties unleashed by the potential loss of Kosovo
seemed more concerning in Serbia than a certain defeat in war. Serbia’s defi-
ance against, a much greater NATO force led by US as the only remaining
superpower at the peak of its post-cold war hubris, is then explained as
ontological self-help meant to satisfy Serbia’s ontological security needs.
In Chapter 5, the book focuses on the period after the regime change in
2000. This chapter demonstrates how physical desecuritisation which was
part and parcel of Serbia’s return into international society after Milošević,
coupled with a protracted secession of Kosovo, exacerbated ontological
insecurity in Serbia. This reached its apex in a critical situation triggered by
the Unilateral Declaration of Independence (UDI) of Kosovo on 17 Febru-
ary 2008. In order to restore a sense of calm, Serbia’s leaders carved up a
new narrative of eternal non-recognition of Kosovo. Tautological repeti-
tion of this self-referential and auto-communicative mantra has served ever
since to reassure the nation that Kosovo might be temporarily out of reach
physically, but that the self-identity script continues without interruption.
6 F. EJDUS
As Chapter 6 shows, this has put Serbia on a collision course with most
of the Western states, which recognised Kosovo and clearly required Ser-
bia to come to terms with this reality if it wanted full reintegration in
international society. As these two policy interests have been underpinned
by two fundamental identities, of an old Christian nation and a European
state in the making, this increasingly put Serbia in the situation of onto-
logical dissonance. This became particularly ostensible after 2012, when
Serbia embarked on a EU-facilitated process of normalisation with Kosovo
in order to stay on track to become an EU member. Despite the process of
normalisation which led to Belgrade’s gradually relinquishing its physical
control over Kosovo, Serbia’s officials have kept a very uncompromising
counter-secessionist and non-recognition policy discourse. Serbia was ready
to give up effective control over Kosovo in order to become part of the EU
but not to recognise Kosovo and hence interrupt its narrative of the self.
To reduce the dissonance generated by this situation, Serbia’s officials have
engaged in avoidance to acknowledge the fundamental incompatibility of
these policy goals.
References
Giddens, Anthony. 1984. The Constitution of Society: Outline of the Theory of Struc-
turation. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Giddens, Anthony. 1991. Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late
Modern Age. Stanford: Stanford University Press.
Neumann, Iver B. 2008. ‘Discourse Analysis.’ In Qualitative Methods in Interna-
tional Relations, edited by Audie Klotz and Deepa Prakash, 61–77. London:
Palgrave Macmillan.
CHAPTER 2
Crisis, Anxiety and Ontological Insecurity
The central assumption within the realist canon of International Relations

(IR) is that the primary goal of states is to achieve physical security, defined
in terms of physical survival and power. This has been challenged by the
Ontological Security Theory (OST), which is based on a premise that actors
in world politics are often ready to compromise physical security and other
important material gains in order to protect their sense of continuity in the
world. When states are unable to maintain a coherent sense of self, they are
overwhelmed by anxiety and other debilitating emotions which then lead
to all sorts of regressive and seemingly irrational behaviour. This insight
has been used to shed new light on a variety of other concepts in IR such
as security dilemma, securitisation, security communities or conflict resolu-
tion, and has informed numerous empirical investigations. The ontological
security argument has also been the subject of all pervasive debates in IR
about the unit of analysis and the agency/structure problem.
This chapter has three goals. The first is to discuss the key concepts of
the book—identity and ontological security as they evolved in philosophy,
psychology, social theory. Against such a backdrop, the chapter then zooms
into how these concepts have been theorised in IR with a particular empha-
sis on gaps in the literature which I find relevant for this book. Finally, the
chapter develops a novel theoretical conceptualisation of critical situation
and ontological insecurity in world politics and theorise the role of material
environments therein.
© The Author(s) 2020 7

F. Ejdus, Crisis and Ontological Insecurity,
Central and Eastern European Perspectives on International Relations,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-20667-3_2
8 F. EJDUS
Identity and Ontological Security in Philosophy

and Social Theory
In the broadest possible sense, identity refers to that which makes some-
thing what it is. If this sounds tautological and circular, it is because the
very word etymologically derives from the Latin translation (Lat. identi-
tas ) of a Greek word used to describe sameness (gr. tautotes ). While the
word itself in antiquity did not have political implications, bonds that hold
together a polity were considered crucial by many political philosophers
of the time. For Plato, for example, the role of any statesman is to weave
the bonds of a political community which in essence is a task of collective
identity building (Plato 1997; Neumann 2010). Despite this, from Aris-
totle to Leibniz, the dominant view among philosophers was that identity
is a mathematical rather than a philosophical problem, let alone a political
one (Hartman 1976).
The interest in identity as a project of the self was kick-started with
the advent of modernity (Taylor 1989). Instead of being a reference to
material sins, as had been the case during the Middle Ages, the modern
self became something that can be observed, known, worked upon and
eventually improved (Danziger 1997: 145). Via his interest in collective
psychology, Sigmund Freud was among the first to think about collec-
tive identity. Thanks to their need to live in harmony with others, Freud
held, individuals not only identify with their groups but often develop hyp-
notic fascination with them. This occasionally leads to regressive behaviour
driven by ‘cruel, brutal and destructive instincts’ (Freud 1949: 17). The
link between an individual project of the self and society was further picked
up by sociologists such as Charles Horton Cooley and Herbert Mead, who
stressed the importance of society and others for the development of the
self (Cooley 2017; Mead 1934).
Building on these insights, social psychologists associated with Object
Relations Theory investigated how mind develops through dynamic inter-
action with others such as parents and caretakers (Hughes 1990). One of
the most prominent scholars from this group, Erik H. Erikson developed
the concept of ‘ego identity’, which is a sense of coherence and continuous
self, constantly negotiated with others throughout time (Erikson 1950,
1968). If an individual loses a sense of continuity and coherence, she/he
experiences an identity crisis. In extreme situations, according to Ronald
Laing, this can lead to ontological insecurity or fundamental doubt con-
cerning the existence and continuity of the self and its place in the world.
2 CRISIS, ANXIETY AND ONTOLOGICAL INSECURITY 9
Ontological insecurity, for Laing, comes in three forms: engulfment, implo-

sion and petrification/depersonalisation (Laing 2010: 43–47).
Anthony Giddens imported the concept of ontological security into soci-
ology (Giddens 1984, 1991). In his view, to be ontologically secure is to
possess at the level of practical knowledge answers to fundamental questions
concerning existence and being, finitude and human life, the experience of
others and the continuity of self-identity (ibid.: 55). He defines self-identity
not as a collection of traits possessed by an individual, but rather as ‘the
self as reflexively understood by the person in terms of her or his biogra-
phy’ (ibid.: 53). Challenged by critical situations and unpredictable events
of great magnitude that disrupt everyday routines, individuals bring to
their discursive consciousness fundamental questions that invoke shame,
guilt, anxiety and ultimately inability to act in a purposeful fashion (ibid.:
35–109).
The concept of anxiety is of central importance for ontological security.
In the broadest possible sense, anxiety is a feeling of inner turmoil over the
uncertainty of anticipated events. For Søren Kierkegaard, one of the first
thinkers to systematically reflect about it, anxiety is unfocused fear which
stems from our ‘dizziness of freedom’, i.e. our ability to choose even the
most terrifying of the possibilities (Kierkegaard 1980: 119). Similarly, in
Freud’s analysis, anxiety ‘disregards the object’, whereas how far it will be
felt by an individual depends on the person’s sense of power and cognitive
control over the external world (Freud 1974: 395). In contrast to fear,
which is related to concrete physical and external dangers, anxiety is, to use
the words of Anthony Giddens, ‘essentially fear which has lost its object
through unconsciously formed emotive tensions that express “internal dan-
gers” rather than externalized threats’ (Giddens 1991: 44). Judging by the
number of publications across the social sciences and humanities on the
subject matter, we live in the age of anxiety. It is amplified by uncertainty,
complexity and speed in a risk society (Beck 1992) and in some accounts
makes part and parcel of the neoliberal project (Eklundh et al. 2017).
Identity and Ontological Security in World

Politics
As the twentieth century was coming to a close, the concept of identity
rose to fame across social sciences and humanities. Obsession with identity
has spread so much that Rogers Brubaker and Frederick Cooper wrote
in 2000 that ‘the social sciences and humanities have surrendered to the
10 F. EJDUS
word identity’. They also made a case to abandon the concept due to its
ambiguities and ‘reifying connotations’ (Brubaker and Cooper 2000: 1,
34). The concept of identity started to be translated into an IR idiom
by post-structuralists and critical constructivists already in the late 1980s
(Der Derian 1987; Campbell 1992; Neumann 1996, 1999; Ringmar 1996;
Buzan et al. 1998). This happened partly thanks to the ‘constructivist turn’
in social sciences more broadly, but also partly due to outbursts of identity-
driven conflicts that did not make much sense from the perspective of
dominant rationalist theories such as realism and liberalism (Lapid and
Kratochwil 1996).
In the 1990s, the concept of identity entered the mainstream IR thanks
to the rise of social constructivism ‘light’ which wedded its interest in the
role of ideas, culture and identity to a state-centric view of world politics
and scientific epistemology which had dominated the field (Wendt 1992,
1994, 1996, 1999, 2004; Katzenstein 1996; Adler and Barnett 1996).
Alexander Wendt, who championed such an approach, was also the first
to translate into the field of IR the concept of ontological security, which
he defines as ‘predictability in relationships to the world, which creates a
desire for stable social identities’ (Wendt 1994: 385).1 Along with physical
security, recognition and appetite, ontological security for Wendt is one of
the four universal national interests pursued by all states.
During the 1990s, translation of ontological security into an IR idiom
continued although usually in the passing rather than through a systematic
theory building. Jeff Huysmans for instance, distinguished ‘daily security’,
which is a strategy of survival and postponing death, from ‘ontological
security’ which is a strategy of stabilising social relations in a predictable
order (Huysmans 1998: 242). Physical insecurity, in his view, can become
an ontological security problem when there is a sudden loss of prioritisation
among threats that need to be countered, as it happened in the immediate
aftermath of the Cold War. Similarly, Bill McSweeney proposed the con-
cept of ontological security as a more reflexive alternative to the concept
of societal security developed within the Copenhagen School (McSweeney
1996, 1998, 1999). Ontological security, in his words, relates ‘to the sense
that the social order as practically conceived is normal, consistent with one’s
expectations and skills to go on in it’ (1999: 156). Ontological insecurity,
on the other hand, is created when the sense of collective identity is frac-
tured.
While these scholars imported the concept of ontological security into
the field of world politics, theoretical implications of this move were yet
rather unclear. The development of OST as a separate research agenda and

a distinct IR theory was spurred by the work of Jennifer Mitzen (2006a,
b), Brent Steele (Steele 2007, 2008) and Catarina Kinnvall (2004, 2006).
Their work has stimulated a considerable growth of the scholarship on OST
in IR over the past few years, including three recently edited special issues
on the subject matter in Cooperation and Conflict, Journal of International
Relations and Development and European Security (Kinnvall and Mitzen
2017, 2018; Kinnvall et al. 2018). The limited scope of this chapter cannot
do justice to all the theoretical and empirical discussions informed by this
strand of theorising world politics. Instead, I will briefly overview two of
its central and closely interrelated debates, position my argument within
them and point to some of the gaps that I intend to fill with this book.
The first debate concerns the unit of analysis, i.e. the question of who is
seeking ontological security. It is essentially a debate about the appropriate
unit of analysis between state-centric and individual-centric perspectives.
Although originally developed in social psychology and later sociology
to refer to individuals, Ontological Security Theory in IR has been applied
to states from the very outset. Drawing on the state-as-actor argument
in IR more generally, most ontological security theorists have anthropo-
morphised states and have treated them as ontological security seekers
(Mitzen 2006a; Steele 2007, 2008; Zarakol 2010; Rumelili 2015a, b). As
this approach will be adopted in this book as well, an overview of arguments
in favour of such analytical choice is in order.
Drawing on the state-as-person approach in IR, most famously articu-
lated by Alexander Wendt’s statement that ‘states are also purposive actors
with a sense of self’ (Wendt 1999: 194; 2004), at least four arguments have
been put forward in favour of treating states as ontological security seekers.
First, it is argued that the attribution of human needs and emotions to
states is a practice that is widely shared by practitioners and theorists
alike (Mitzen 2006a: 351). Both laypeople and statespersons do it on a
daily basis when they express but also act upon a belief that their country
is for example proud, angry, humiliated or else. Theorists also do it all
the time. Realists routinely attribute to states human emotions such as
fear and the need to dominate others. Liberals attribute to democracies
peaceful intentions. Moreover, both practitioners and theorists attribute
human-like qualities to polities other than states. Marxists routinely do
it with the working class, Islamists with Ummah and nationalists with
nations. ‘Honour of Islam’, ‘humiliation of the working class’ and ‘black
pride’ are not empty phrases, but powerful templates for political action
12 F. EJDUS
with significant security consequences. If everybody else can easily get

away with this, the argument goes, then why wouldn’t ontological security
theorists also be allowed to anthropomorphise states and assume that they
too seek to be ontologically secure in order to avoid anxiety?
Of course, just because ‘everybody is doing something’, as parents often
parrot, doesn’t mean that it must be right. Hence another argument put
forward in favour of treating states as ontological security seekers is that
they provide an ontological security umbrella for their citizens. Research
in social psychology has confirmed that individuals control their anxiety
implied in their own mortality by emotionally investing in the continuity
of their groups (Sani et al. 2007). ‘Because losing a sense of state distinc-
tiveness would threaten the ontological security of its members’, Mitzen
posits that ‘states can be seen as motivated to preserve the national group
identity and not simply the national ‘body’ (Mitzen 2006a: 352). As Mar-
low put it, the role of government in maintaining ‘a degree of ideational
stability in the general populace - with regard to common and often ill-
defined public anxieties, insecurities and perceptions of risk’ is becoming
particularly important in advanced capitalist societies (Marlow 2002: 242).
Third, treating states as ontological security seekers can provide an
account of some macro-level patterns of state behaviour. In Mitzen’s words,
the assumption that states are not only physical but also ontological security
seekers provides ‘a sociological basis for understanding why we might see
different decision-makers acting similarly over time’ (Mitzen 2006a: 353).
Richard Ned Lebow demonstrates powerfully that the outbreak of the Pelo-
ponnesian War had to do with honour and self-esteem much more than
with the physical security of Athens or Sparta (Lebow 2008: 25). Macro-
level patterns of religious polities’ behaviour can also hardly be explained by
reference to the physical security imperative. From mass suicide of Jewish
zealot rebels in Masada in 73 CE, through medieval Christian doctrine of
Just War to Islamic fundamentalism today, one can witness the recurrent
proclivity of religious groups to sacrifice physical security for the sake of
the ontological.
The fourth argument why it is analytically legitimate to treat states as
ontological security seekers is the fact that they are represented by peo-
ple (Steele 2008: 18). State representatives may differ in their individual
ontological security needs. Some may have a high basic trust, and as such
tend to be less engulfed with ontological anxieties. Others may individually
have low basic trust resulting in lower cognitive control of their environ-
ment, mistrust and even paranoia. Regardless of the individual differences
between leaders, ‘they all share the same collective commitment to state
self-identity […] Anxiety over their respective state’s place in the world will
still be evident no matter how each individual feels about his or her own
sense of integrity’ (Steele 2008: 18–19).
In addition to these arguments, research on emotions offers additional
support to the attribution of the psychological need for ontological secu-
rity, as well as emotions such as anxiety or shame when this need is not
satisfied, to corporate entities such as states. Sociologists have long been
interested in emotions as shared experiences and products of social interac-
tions (Goffman 1959; Collins 2014). Recent research in neuroscience also
confirms that human brains are capable of simulating emotions perceived
in others through ‘mirror neurons’ (Keysers and Gazzola 2010; Iacoboni
2009). Bringing these insights into IR, Andrew Ross studies emotions as
‘circulations of affect’ or ‘conscious or unconscious exchanges of emotion
within a social environment’ (Ross 2013: 1). These circulations of affect,
sustained through a process of emotional contagion, are constitutive of
collective agents including states. ‘A state’, he argues, ‘consists of courts,
parliaments, agencies, and other political substructures but also constella-
tion of emotion and belief across its various participants’ (ibid.: 35).
Treating states and polities as ontological security seekers, however, has
not been a universally accepted analytical move (Krolikowski 2008; Roe
2008; Abulof 2009, 2015; Croft 2012). Alanna Krolikowski, for example,
has argued that ‘resorting to the assumption of state personhood obscures
important aspects of how the state, as an evolving institution, affects indi-
viduals’ sense of ontological security’ (Krolikowski 2008: 111). Similarly,
Paul Roe argues that just because states are providers of individual ontolog-
ical security, it does not follow that like persons, states too can have the need
to be ontologically secure (Roe 2008: 785). In his view, ontological secu-
rity seeking is an emotional preference of an individual, whereas the state
or any other social group is no more than a larger material and discursive
framework within which individuals build their self-identities. Taking cues
from Benedict Anderson, Stuart Croft makes a similar case and replaces
state with nation as an ‘institution that provides a structure for individual
self-identity’ (Croft 2012: 37; Kinnvall 2006; Marlow 2002).
Closely related but still a distinct debate in OST has been about the
source of ontological security in world politics. In the words of Ayşe
Zarakol, this debate, derivative of a wider agency/structure problem in IR,
has been revolving around the following question: ‘Are interactions and
the international environment the main source of ontological anxiety for a
14 F. EJDUS
state, or are the insecure interactions merely a consequence of the state’s

own uncertainty about its own identity?’ (Zarakol 2010: 6). Zarakol dis-
cerns three distinct approaches to the agency/structure problem in OST.
The first approach, adopted by Jennifer Mitzen, is social for it conceptu-
alises collective identity as being exogenously constructed through rou-
tinised relationships of states with their significant others (Mitzen 2006a:
355–359). Whether cooperative or conflictual, established routines help
the states to ‘bracket out’ fundamental anxieties, and serve as the source of
their ontological security. Building on the work of Giddens, Mitzen argues
that states are also strongly attached to such relationships, even when they
seriously undermine physical security, because they also provide the source
of state identity. Unlike realists, who argue that states want to escape from
security dilemmas but cannot do it due to uncertainty, Mitzen posits that
states prefer to maintain protracted dilemmatic conflicts for they repro-
duce state’s identity and thus provide ontological security (Mitzen 2006a:
355–359).
The second approach, which Zarakol calls individualistic, is exemplified
by the work of Brent Steele and is also followed in this book. It looks at
how biographical continuity of states gets constructed internally through
what Steele terms ‘dialectics of the Self’ (Steele 2008: 32, 50). Steele agrees
with Mitzen that ‘an agent must make sense of the social world to ensure
ontological security’ but in his view she ‘seems to overstate the role of oth-
ers in the ontological security process’ (Steele 2008: 5). Although Steele’s
work is also strongly influenced by Giddens, instead of social interactions
he analytically prioritises the internal dynamics of the self rather than inter-
action with significant others. To be sure, the individualistic approach does
not write off social interactions; it only highlights states’ reflexive efforts
to sustain and defend their self-identity narratives in the face of critical
situations.
Finally, Zarakol identifies the third, so-called middle-ground approach,
which builds on the assumption that ‘neither a fully intersubjective
approach nor one that focuses solely on the reflexive construction of self-
identity captures the full picture in either case’ (Kinnvall 2004; Zarakol
2010: 8). The middle-ground approach factors in both the internal quest
for biographical continuity and the external interactions of collective
agents. Such an approach is in Zarakol’s view exemplified by the work
of Catarina Kinnvall, who studied how globalisation generates existential
anxieties and an emotional need to ground the self in totalising identity
narratives of nationalism and religion (Kinnvall 2004). Instead of looking
at either agency or structure, Kinnvall is interested in understanding ‘secu-

ritized subjectivity as existing in the nexus of structural and psychological
processes’ (ibid.: 757).
While it is impossible to give in this place full justice to all the theoreti-
cal nuances and empirical richness of this rapidly growing research agenda
on ontological security in IR, several general remarks are in order. The
existing studies on ontological security in IR have significantly advanced
our understanding of why states often act in a seemingly irrational fash-
ion when faced with threats to their sense of self, dignity or continuity in
the world. In particular, the literature discussed above has exposed differ-
ent levels of agency in the ontological security processes, from individu-
als, through nation-states to international organisations. Moreover, these
works have expanded our perspective on both agentic and structural sources
of ontological insecurity in world politics. Finally, the research agenda on
ontological security in IR has opened new perspectives from which we can
revision other concepts in security studies such as securitisation, security
communities, security dilemmas or conflict resolution. However, there are
two issues relevant for this book that the existing literature on ontological
security in IR has largely left unaddressed, one related to critical situations
and the other to the role of materiality.
Critical Situations and Ontological Insecurity

The issue of critical situations which produce ontological insecurity of col-
lective actors has been a neglected topic in the literature on OST in IR.
So far, only a few authors have reflected on the role of critical situations in
ontological security processes in world politics. Drawing on Giddens, Brent
Steele for example argues that critical situations are unpredictable events
that affect a large number of individuals, catch state agents off-guard and
disrupt their self-identities (Steele 2008: 12). It is irrelevant, in his view,
whether or not a researcher decides if an event constitutes a critical situa-
tion; what matters is whether policymakers interpret them as such. Critical
situations are therefore not objective facts but social constructions pro-
duced in the very process of interpretation (ibid.). Dimitry Chernobrov
has a similar understanding of international crises as unpredictable set of
events that create great uncertainty and which states often (mis)recognise
because they rely on narcissistic self-conceptions (Chernobrov 2016).
While I fully concur that critical situations are radical and socially con-
structed disruptions that put self-identities to the test, they seem to be more
16 F. EJDUS
than that. In fact, such conceptualisation of a critical situation is so wide

and elastic that most crises in world politics, if not all, can easily fit into
this definition. For example, it could be argued that every terrorist attack
is usually unpredictable, affects a large number of individuals, catches a
state off-guard and disrupts self-identity narratives. And yet, if any crisis
can be treated by analysts as a critical situation, the concept of ontological
(in)security loses analytical sharpness and an important part of its value to
IR theory. As a result of this conceptual underdevelopment, we currently
have few conceptual tools in IR to identify and analyse critical situations
and the conceptual distinction between ontological security and ontologi-
cal insecurity remains elusive.
This book fills this gap by proposing a conceptual framework to study
ontological insecurity and critical situations. By drawing on the work of
Anthony Giddens, I define ontological security in world politics as pos-
session, on the level of the unconscious and practical consciousness, of
answers to four fundamental questions that all polities in some way need
to address. These questions are related to existence; finitude; relations and
auto-biography. Collective actors become ontologically insecure when crit-
ical situations rupture their routines, thus bringing fundamental questions
to the level of discursive consciousness. Their inability to ‘bracket out’ fun-
damental questions produces anxiety and a loss of agency.
What does it mean to be ontologically secure? According to Giddens,
‘To be ontologically secure is to possess, on the level of the unconscious
and practical consciousness, answers to fundamental existential questions
which all human life in some way addresses’. These fundamental existential
questions relate to existence and being, finitude and human life, the experi-
ence of others and the continuity of self-identity (Giddens 1991: 47). As he
noted, ‘To live our lives we normally take for granted issues which, as cen-
turies of philosophical enquiry have found, wither away under the sceptical
gaze’ (Giddens 1991: 37). In other words, in order to be ontologically
secure, agents have to be able to ‘bracket out’ these fundamental questions
through routines of daily life, thus building trust into the constancy of
their social and material environment and fending off existential anxieties.
If unable to put aside these existential trepidations related to death, tran-
sience of life and the continuity of the self and others, individuals simply
cannot ‘go on’ with their daily life.
Ontological insecurity, on the other hand, is a result of critical situa-
tions, circumstances of radical and unpredictable disjuncture ‘that threaten
or destroy the certitudes of institutionalised routines’ (Giddens 1984: 62).
Critical situations remove the protective cocoon created by routines and

move fundamental questions, previously taken for granted, into the realm
of discursive consciousness. The result is the ‘flooding through’ of shame
and guilt from the unconscious mind (ibid.: 57). The sudden inability of
agents to ‘go on’ by relying on the unspoken know-how unleashes an
upsurge of anxiety expressed in regressive modes of behaviour followed
by attempts to re-establish routines and regain cognitive control over the
changed environment (ibid.: 64). In these ‘faithful moments’ as Bahar
Rumelili calls them, ‘anxieties can no longer be controlled’ and ‘ontological
security comes under immediate strain’ (Rumelili 2015b: 11).
The distinction between discursive consciousness, practical conscious-
ness and unconsciousness is of paramount importance here (Giddens 1984:
41–45). Discursive consciousness is the ability of actors to verbally express
their actions. Practical consciousness, crucial for the maintenance of onto-
logical security, is tacit knowledge about how to ‘go on’ without a need to
express it discursively. Between practical and discursive consciousness there
is a free flow of information. When asked to give discursive expression of
something that is based on background knowledge, such as driving a car
or practising table manners for example, agents are more or less able to
do it but they do not need much knowledge to carry out a competent
performance. Finally, unconsciousness includes cognitions that are ‘either
wholly repressed from consciousness or appear in consciousness only in dis-
torted form’ (ibid.: 5). Unlike practical and discursive consciousness, the
unconscious mind is therefore separated from the previous two with a bar
of repression.
The starting point of this book is that critical situations can also affect
collective agents. However, in contrast to individual experience of anxiety
that does not have to be expressed discursively, I posit that when collective
actors are concerned, anxiety outbursts are performed through a public
discourse on fundamental questions. Several studies on ontological security
in IR have made a passing reference to this feature of ontological security as
the ability to ‘bracket out’ fundamental questions in order to ‘go on’ with
daily unfolding of international life (Kinnvall 2004: 759; Krolikowski 2008:
111; Steele 2008: 51). However, none of these studies have delved deeper
into what these questions were, their relationship with critical situations
and how all this could be translated into the field of world politics. In the
rest of this section, I intend to bridge this gap.
The first fundamental question is related to ‘existence and being’ that,
according to Giddens, is about an ‘ontological framework of external
18 F. EJDUS
reality’ (Giddens 1991: 48). This awareness ‘of being against non-being’
lies at the core of human freedom that generates anxiety. Giddens writes
that answers to this fundamental question (like all others) are lodged at the
level of practical consciousness. In pre-modern contexts, it was tradition
that provided answers to this existential question and creates a sense of
firmness of the world. In the context of high modernity, individuals can
try to rely on tradition but this will not provide them with safe ground.
Consequently, they have to continuously reflexively reorder their activities
in light of new information.2
This book posits that collective actors in world politics also need to have
trust in the continuity of their external environment. The society of states,
with all its traditions and institutions, offers one such ontological frame-
work for states (Bull 1977). To be ontologically secure in world politics,
polities need to possess a practical understanding of what to expect from
international society and build a sense of place in the existing order. To
feel at home in international society is a precondition of states’ ontological
security. The importance of home and dwelling to freedom from anxiety
and ontological insecurity has been well documented in psychology and
social theory (Dupuis and Thorns 1998; Padgett 2007). For individuals,
home provides ‘a site of constancy in the social and material environment’
(Kinnvall 2004: 747). For polities, feeling at home in international society
provides a sense of place in the international order and therefore a certain
degree of cognitive control over their regional and international environ-
ment.
Bracketing out the fundamental questions is accomplished through rou-
tinisation of what the English School calls the primary institutions of inter-
national society. Here I have in mind ‘deep and relatively durable social
practices’ such as diplomacy or international law that define legitimate
behaviour and build the shared identity of states (Buzan 2014: 17). But
the trust in durability of the secondary institutions of international society,
such as security regimes or international organisations, can also inoculate
states from existential anxieties. ‘States invest in international security insti-
tutions’, argue Berenskoetter and Giegerich, ‘because they enable states
to gain (and sustain) ontological security by negotiating a shared sense of
international order with friends’ (Berenskoetter and Giegerich 2010: 410).
Taking part in these durable practices of international society provides con-
stancy and thus helps contain—although falling short of fully overcom-
ing—the chaos that is lurking below the surface of everyday unfolding of
world politics.
Critical situations are generated by radical (real or perceived) ruptures in

established routines of international society. As a result, the agent becomes
disoriented, overwhelmed by ‘the anxiety of meaninglessness’ and ‘the loss
of ultimate concern’ (Tillich 2000: 47; Rumelili 2015b: 12). Power tran-
sitions in the international system can engender ontological uncertainty
even for the most powerful states that are fully integrated into the inter-
national society (Chacko 2014). However, states that are suspended in the
outer tier of the society of states are much more vulnerable to ontological
insecurity (Neumann 2010; Ejdus 2017). Even memories from past exclu-
sion can provide fuel for the construction of critical situations. As Zarakol
forcefully claimed, intersubjective pressures and stigmata exerted in the
past by the ‘civilised’ society of states become with time an integral part
of late entrants’ self-identity with significant consequences for their onto-
logical (in)security (Zarakol 2010). ‘Rogue states’ such as North Korea,
entirely ostracised from international society, face even greater intersub-
jective pressures. Ontologically vulnerable actors can try to routinise their
subaltern position in the world through victimisation narratives and build
their self-identity upon this feature. However, their anomic position and the
relentless lack of trust in the world will occasionally fuel erratic outbursts
of anxiety followed by defensive measures. These may wrongly appear to
an outside observer as irrational behaviour, but they are in fact a form of
ontological self-help.
The second fundamental question is about ‘finitude and human life’. As
Giddens notes, ‘here there is also a fundamental temporal dimension, in
the guise of human finitude as compared to temporal infinity or the “eter-
nal”’ (Giddens 1991: 48–49). While the previous question concerned the
awareness of the self and of external reality, this one is about agents’ aware-
ness of their own finitude and the fear of the unknown that death brings.
The anxiety about death is not a simple fear of dying which is directed
towards particular life-threatening objects, but rather a deep unease about
its indeterminacy (Tillich 2000: 42; Rumelili 2015b: 12).
As Kierkegaard’s writes, ‘A human being is a synthesis of the infinite
and the finite, of the temporal and the eternal, of freedom and necessity, in
short, a synthesis’ (Kierkegaard 1980: 127). The awareness of death and
yet inability to die, sickness unto death as he calls the condition, gives rise
to despair. It is despair about subjective, not physical, death. Kierkegaard
notes the difference in his Sickness unto Death: ‘For to die signifies that
it is all over, but to die death means to experience dying, and if this is
experienced for one single moment, one thereby experiences it forever’
20 F. EJDUS
(Kierkegaard 1980: 80). Humans find answers to this question of finitude

through religious cosmologies and their storylines about cycles of life and
death. Without them, the anxiety about what Kierkegaard calls ‘sickness
onto death’ looms large (Kierkegaard 1983). Individuals rely on states (and
other polities) as ontological frameworks for mediating death and coping
with its indeterminacy. By constructing enemies and dangers, states help
individuals transcend their anxiety about the unknown into ‘a fear of the
concrete enemy or danger’ (Huysmans 1998: 237).
But finitude is not only the concern of individuals. Polities are indeed
by default much more durable than humans, but they are not immortal
either. For Thomas Hobbes, states are ‘mortal gods’, as they can always be
defeated by other sovereign powers or succumb to internal chaos (Hobbes
2008: 114). Given their central role in mediating individual anxieties about
death, even the slightest prospect of their dismembering may induce deep
unease at the collective level. The anxiety about finitude should be distin-
guished from both fear of physical survival and societal security concerns.
While their referent objects are different, physical and societal security are
both oriented towards objectified threats that can be known and repelled.3
Anxiety about finitude, on the other hand, is disconnected from any partic-
ular threat and stems from the unknown and the indeterminate. Although
polities may more or less successfully assuage their anxiety about finitude
through the construction of concrete threats, these concerns nevertheless
remain of an entirely different order.
To be sure, collective actors are less concerned about the question of fini-
tude then are individuals. This is especially the case with nations, since the
very condition of their existence is a belief in a trans-historic link between
‘time immemorial’ and ‘eternal future’ (Anderson 2006). However, as
Uriel Abulof points out, some nations are less confident than others in
their claim to immortality, while a minority of them—whom he calls ‘small
peoples’—are in a permanent fear of extinction (Abulof 2009: 229). One
of his examples are the Israeli Jews, the ‘ever dying people’ perpetually
obsessed with the prospect of their own extinction. The list could also
be expanded to include all ‘mortal nations’ that doubt their ‘past, their
future, or both’ (Abulof 2015: 18). These ‘mortal nations’ usually incor-
porate fatalistic future self-projections into the narrative of the self and
use it as a source of ontological security. While anxiety about death is an
inescapable feature of the human condition, these ‘mortal nations’ are less
capable of coping with it. In these polities, anxiety about political finitude
always lurks beneath the surface of everyday life. Critical situations kick in
when threats amass and the ‘discourse of ontological insecurity transpires’

(Abulof 2015: 38). Abulof calls this inability to know whether one’s polity
will exist in the future or not, an ‘epistemic insecurity’ (Abulof 2015: 34).
The third fundamental question is related to ‘the experience of others’
or ‘how individuals interpret the traits and actions of other individuals’
(Giddens 1991: 55). Here Giddens draws on insights reached by Object
Relations Theory, a psychoanalytic school developed in the 1940s. One of
the main concerns of the Object Relations Theory was how the self is devel-
oping through dynamic relations with others, especially during infancy. Erik
H. Erikson used the term ‘ontological security’ to denote existential trust
in the continuity of relationships with significant others (Erikson 1968).
Taking cues from the Object Relations Theory, Giddens concurs that ‘con-
fidence in the reliability of persons, acquired in the early experiences of the
infant’ is the backbone of basic trust and ontological security later in life
(Giddens 1991: 38).
In world politics, this fundamental question is about the ability of poli-
ties to maintain stable relations with their significant others. As Jelena Sub-
otić remarks: ‘It is not enough for states to feel secure in their view of
self; they also need to feel secure in the company of other states’ (Subotić
2016: 7). The relational aspect of ontological security is obviously closely
intertwined with the question of existence. However, there is a subtle dif-
ference between the two. While the sense of place in the existing order
is based on routinisation of certain practices of international society such
as international law, the relational aspect of ontological security is about
the constancy of relationships with a particular set of significant others.
Jennifer Mitzen has forcefully demonstrated the relevance of stable rela-
tionships with significant others, either cooperative or conflictual (Mitzen
2006a). As the other is constitutive of the self (Campbell 1992; Neumann
1999), disruption of routinised self/other relationships is by default going
to impinge upon the relational aspect of ontological security.
Whereas the existence of an enemy threatens physical security, its disap-
pearance may produce what Bahar Rumelili calls ‘peace anxieties’ (Rumelili
2015b). When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, the very idea of ‘the
free world’ saw the same fate. Similarly, ontological insecurity produced in
the West by the end of the Cold War triggered a quest for a new opponent.
The September 11 terrorist attacks provided an opportunity for the US
to rediscover radical Islam as its archenemy and reinvent itself in the War
on Terror (Campbell 1992; Qureshi and Sells 2003). Although less stud-
ied in IR, friendships also ‘tame anxiety’ as they stabilise meaning, enable
22 F. EJDUS
learning and burden sharing but they also increase mutual vulnerability
(Berenskoetter 2007). The loss of a friend with whom a polity cultivates
a ‘special relationship’, or even identifies, can also create critical situations
and trigger a deep sense of ontological insecurity. In her study of the Suez
crisis and temporary rupture in Anglo-American alliance, Janice Bially Mat-
tern writes that ‘preserving their Self meant sustaining the narrative of the
Special Relationship’ (Mattern 2005: 15). When friends are lost, collec-
tive identity of polities is questioned. In critical situations, the previously
bracketed and taken for granted issue of self/other relationships bursts into
the public discourse. As a result, polities are overwhelmed by anxiety and
disoriented, especially in their foreign policy.
Finally, the fourth fundamental question, which needs to be ‘bracketed
out’ as a precondition of ontological security, is related to ‘the continuity
of self-identity’ or ‘the persistence of feelings of personhood in a continu-
ous self and body’ (Giddens 1991: 55). Self-identity is not a collection of
objective traits of a person but rather ‘the self as reflexively understood in
terms of her or his biography’ (Giddens 1991: 53). Agents with stable self-
identity can sustain biographical continuity across time and space through
re-enactment of their daily routines. In contrast to them, agents with a
fractured self-identity have a harder time sustaining their autobiographi-
cal narratives. In the case of critical situations, this results in a paralysing
inability to act in a purposeful way. In contrast to the relational aspect
of ontological security, which is about external and social aspects of self-
identity, what Herbert Mead calls ‘Me’, this biographical aspect is about
internal and reflexive ‘I’ (Mead 1934).
In world politics, in order to be ontologically secure polities too need
to ‘bracket out’ the question of ‘the continuity of self-identity’. Auto-
biographical narratives are constructed as continuous in time and space
(Berenskoetter 2012). Whereas in time, biographies unfold through past
experiences or future visions, in space they situate the self around imaginary
centres, but also in the exploration of new horizons (ibid.: 276). By chal-
lenging states’ collective memories alternative narratives of a shared past
might be securitised as mnemonic dangers to the sense of continuous self
(Mälksoo 2015). If polities are not able to synchronise their past or current
activities with their autobiographical narratives, the fundamental question
of ‘the continuity of self-identity’ bursts into the discursive domain; if not
competently answered, it produces shame and what Tillich calls ‘the anxiety
of guilt and condemnation’ (Tillich 2000: 51; Rumelili 2015a: 11; Steele
2008: 52–57).
The paramount biographical narrative for Westphalian states pertains to

their corporate identity as sovereign entities (Wendt 1999: 224). In order to
be able to ‘go on’ in world politics, states have to take their own sovereignty
for granted. Individuals who act on behalf of states know, at the level of
practical consciousness, how to be sovereign through everyday practices
such as diplomacy, military drills or border patrols, to name just a few. It is
only if those who represent states cannot sustain those practices that they
bring the issue of sovereignty back to the level of discursive consciousness,
resulting in the creation of an ontological insecurity problem.
In addition to being sovereign, states can also have a number of other
narratives about the self that can only be maintained through certain prac-
tices (Ringmar 1996; Steele 2008: 114–148). Brent Steele compellingly
showed how the German ultimatum of August 1914 created a critical sit-
uation for Belgium. Against the realist expectations that states put physi-
cal security before anything else, Belgium eventually decided to reject the
German request for free passage through its territory and trumped physical
security in order to defend its honour as a militarily neutral state (Steele
2008: 94–114). Several scholars have pointed out how the interpretation of
9/11 attacks as an assault on ‘the way of life’ disrupted ontological security
in the US (Zaretsky 2002; Epstein 2007).
Imagined communities such as nations, which may or may not coincide
with the boundaries of the state, also need to bracket out the fundamental
question of self-identity in order to ‘go on’. By default, nations are held
together by master-narratives about the continuous self-moving through
time and space. This storyline imagines the self as stretching from time
immemorial—from the golden era and common ancestors through chosen
glories and shared traumas to the present, which periodically returns to yet
another critical juncture on the path towards eternal future. For example,
by reiterating the story that modern Macedonians descend from Alexander
the Great (356–323 BC), contemporary Macedonian nation builders are
recursively reproducing a particular biographical narrative about a trans-
historic self which is attached to a certain space.
For a nation to exist, it has to connect its dead, living and yet unborn
to an imaginary community (Anderson 2006). This requires a powerful
story, which Yael Zerubavel calls the ‘master commemorative narrative’,
a ‘basic “storyline” that is culturally constructed and provides the group
members with a general notion of their shared past’ (Zerubavel 1995: 6).
A master commemorative narrative tells a story that is based on selection
and omission of key events, remembering and forgetting, that led to the
24 F. EJDUS
group’s emergence and evolution as a distinct entity. The story is usually

periodised into major stages, in which dark ages are usually juxtaposed
with earlier golden eras and on-going revivals. The master commemorative
narrative is held together by political myths. The political myth connects
history and legends into a powerful vision that creates commitment of each
individual member to his or her community.4
On the contrary, casting a doubt on this trans-historic unity automati-
cally disrupts ontological security and expands the space for fundamental
political contestations. Debates about the modern invention of the Jewish
nation and the land of Israel and its repercussions for the legitimacy of Israeli
policies in the West Bank, as well as the public outcry they provoke in Israel
and across the Jewish Diaspora, are an illustrative case in point (Sand 2010,
2012). As Uriel Abulof points out, ‘historical novelty is a grave threat to
ethnic ontological security, since it undercuts the primordial claim’ (Abulof
2015: 38–39). In critical situations, amassed inconsistencies in autobiog-
raphy are brought to the forefront of public discussion, pushing nations
into the paralysing vortex of shame and self-doubt.
The key feature of critical situations is the inability of collective actors to
bracket out the above described fundamental questions about unreliability
of the international order, finitude of polities, impermanence of relation-
ships and inconsistency of collective autobiographies. They are usually cre-
ated by unpredictable events that break established routines and prompt
polities to seek, more or less skilfully, answers to fundamental questions
at the level of discursive consciousness. In critical situations, as Rumelili
points out, ‘anxieties that can no longer be contained by existing social
and political processes are unleashed in varying ways and varying degrees’
(Rumelili 2015b: 12).
Critical situations and responses to them vary from case to case. In some
cases, critical situations will be of such magnitude that all four aspects of
ontological security involving discursive interventions of top political lead-
ership will be equally undermined. In others, the disruption will be of
lower intensity and may not impinge on all four fundamental questions
uniformly or involve the entire political establishment. Either way, the
flooding through of collective anxieties debilitates (to varying degrees) col-
lective agency and leads to seemingly regressive, hysterical or schizophrenic
behaviour. In some situations states will rigidly attach to old routines, even
if they are self-inflicting (Mitzen 2006a). In others, they will selectively use
identity narratives to mitigate anxiety (Subotić 2016). In cases when sev-
eral identities are simultaneously disrupted, states can resort to avoidance
or denial (Lupovici 2012; Zarakol 2010). The choice of defensive response

in the face of ontological insecurity will depend on the severity of the crisis
and options that are available to states.
Critical situations are complex phenomena in which all four aspects of
ontological security are usually closely intertwined. To begin with, all fun-
damental questions are central to the narrative of the self. Feeling at home in
international society is closely related to the biographical continuity of each
sovereign state with a particular type or role identity. Identity of the US as
the leading liberal democracy is therefore constitutive of its sense of belong-
ing to the liberal international order. An unprecedented amount of anxiety
created by the presidency of Donald Trump, both at home and abroad, is
the best illustration of what happens when a state suddenly loses the sense
of how it fits with the broader international society. Moreover, states’ expe-
rience with international society is inextricably linked with self/other rela-
tionships, both being soft-wired into their biographical narratives. Finally,
polities’ concern with their finitude is directly linked to their relationship
with others or with polities’ position within the international society. How-
ever, the move to analytically disentangle ontological insecurity into four
fundamental questions has a twofold heuristic purpose. First, it allows us to
keep a holistic view proposed by Giddens that incorporates different aspects
of ontological security without prejudice to an otherwise highly relevant
agency/structure debate. Second, by deliberately oversimplifying complex
situations of ontological insecurity in world politics into four ideal-typical
aspects, we will be able to better understand particular outcomes (Jackson
2011: 142).
Material Environments and Ontological Security

Another aspect of ontological security which has been neglected in IR is the
role of material environments. Anthony Giddens, for example, argues that
routinisation of relationships, so central to the sense of biographical conti-
nuity, is always situated in certain locales or, as Giddens calls them, ‘settings
of interaction’. This ‘sense of place’ is an important source of ontological
security as it provides, according to Giddens ‘a psychological tie between
the biography of the individual and the locales that are the settings of the
time-space paths through which that individual moves’ (Giddens 1984:
367). The role of materiality for ontological security processes has already
been addressed in other fields of social inquiry (Giddens 1984: 367; Dupuis
and Thorns 1998; Padgett 2007; Newton 2008; Grenville 2007, 2015).
26 F. EJDUS
In IR, virtually all of the existing studies focus on the significance of social
environment for ontological security in World Politics.5 In other words, IR
scholars have been almost exclusively investigating how relationships with
significant others, be they friends, partners, competitors or enemies, affect
the ability of states to achieve biographical continuity. Consequently, the
role of material environments, such as architecture, natural landscapes or
other locales from which states can also draw their sense of continuity in the
world, has remained largely unaddressed in ontological security literature
in IR.
This book posits that collective actors also require constancy in their
material environment in order to have a sense of continuity in the world.
Routinised relationships with significant others are indeed an important
source of ontological security of states, but they are not the only ones.
However stable and routinised social relationships might appear to be, they
are never fully predictable as the agency of the other may lead to unfore-
seen action. Consequently, this book argues that states need an additional
anchor for their collective self-identity script that will stabilise their sense of
self and conceal or mend its essentially contested, fragmentary and plural
nature. In the face of transient relationships with significant others, states
use landmark cityscapes or familiar landscapes to tell stories about their
continuous selves and provide a material anchor of agency.
Familiar and symbolically important material environments such as char-
acteristic landscapes or architectural forms can be incorporated into self-
identity so as to become, as it were, extensions of the self. As visible, tangible
and durable extensions of the self, material environments make collective
identities appear more firm and real in space. By anchoring self-identity
in the material environment, the project of the self ‘brackets out’ what is
an inherently fragmentary and contested enterprise and enables a sense of
coherent collective agency.
Material environments that represent past events serve as repositories
of memories and therefore help collective actors narrate the self as con-
tinuous in time. They provide polities with a sense of what Rowles called
‘autobiographical insideness’ that entails ‘not only the place of the present
but also a series of remembered places, of which the drab contemporary
setting is but a remnant’ (Rowles 1983: 303). Thus, material environments
can serve as a screen on which real or imagined events from the polities’
past are projected, enabling a sense of continuity and durability in the face
of unavoidable transience and change.
Not all locales, however, are of equal relevance for the ontological secu-
rity of polities. While individuals draw their sense of constancy from ‘homely
places’ through embodied routines of everyday life, collective actors such
as states need to discursively link their self-identities into their material
environments. Some locales that have little functional utility or material
value can be imbued with higher, or even sacred meaning, while others
that seem to be of much greater practical value may bear little importance
for collective identities. The relevance of natural or built environments for
ontological security of states, therefore, does not stem from their inherent
properties but results from a process of discursive linking which can take
at least two forms.
The first form of linking material environments to state identity narra-
tive is introjection and it involves absorption of the material environment
into the project of the self (Leach 2006: 78). Introjection entails appro-
priation and incorporation of physical objects into collective self-identity
narratives. Perhaps the most widely diffused practice of introjection is to
simply delineate a space and ascribe it a special status as a place where
important imaginary or real nation-forging events occurred. Most if not all
states have ‘ethnoscapes’ (Smith 1999) or ‘core territories’ (White 2000:
41) that are of paramount importance for national identity. When imbued
with religious symbolism, these landscapes acquire sacred status which fur-
ther strengthens emotional attachment to them. A case in point is the
central position of Jerusalem and the Holy Land in the Zionist identity
narrative (Sand 2010, 2012).
Introjection can also be achieved through a narrative that depicts
national identity as a product of particular natural landscapes. Thus for
example, discourses on national identity started to emerge in the late nine-
teenth century, portraying Alps as the landscape that transformed polyeth-
nic Switzerland (or ‘the North’ in the case of Canada) into homogenous
wholes (Kaufmann and Zimmer 1998). A similar way of introjecting natural
environment into collective self-identity is portraying particular landscapes
as reflections of the national character. For example, in England it is ‘the
South’, tame and civilised, which has been constructed as a reflection of
true Englishness as opposed to the rugged periphery in ‘the North’ (Shields
2013: 231). In contrast to this, in Canada it is widely held that it is the
tough North that expresses the national spirit, while in Scotland, Switzer-
land or Austria the same quality is ascribed to their rugged mountains
(Palmer 1998).
28 F. EJDUS
Built environment can also be introjected into collective identity narra-

tives. One way of doing this is through archaeology. The emotional power
of archaeology, as Silberman has pointed out, is that it links ‘the present to
a particular golden age’ (Silberman 1995: 295). Through archaeological
excavations, stories about time immemorial become ‘tangible’ and there-
fore appear more real. This helps nation-states maintain their biographical
continuity and fend off existential anxieties. For example, archaeology in
Israel has been used as one of the key instruments for establishing the con-
tinuity between the biblical past and the contemporary Jewish state (Gori
2013: 216). By focusing primarily on the biblical period, it has been clearly
used as an instrument of legitimisation of the Jewish state. Moreover, by
obscuring pre-Jewish and Arab cultural heritage it has also been an instru-
ment of de-legitimisation of Palestinian political claims. In the words of
Benjamin Netanyahu, the ‘Western Wall Tunnels and the Herodian and
early Jewish remains’, excavated after Jerusalem was captured by Israel in
the Six-Day War of 1967, ‘became the bedrock of our national existence’
(Silberman 2001: 500).
The second form of linking material environments to collective iden-
tity narratives is projection, which involves extrapolation of the self onto
the material environment as if it were a screen. As Neil Leach writes, ‘the
nation, in effect, needs to read itself into objects in the environment in
order to articulate that identity’ (Leach 2006: 85). When the built envi-
ronment is concerned, projection usually starts in the planning phase and
involves the design of an object so that it can directly represent collective
identity. This is usually the case with sites of great symbolic importance
such as seats of governments, religious centres or historic monuments that
represent polities and serve as their repositories of memory. In contrast to
structures erected in the heyday of the romantic effusion with the nation-
state, contemporary landmark cityscapes use more subtle narration of the
self. This is the case, for instance, with the One World Trade Center, built
at Ground Zero in New York. Here, the national script is subtly projected
onto the structure through its 1776 feet tall Freedom Tower, obviously
alluding to the year of the signing of the US Declaration of Independence
(Jones 2006: 558).
Polities can also read their identity narratives into the natural environ-
ment. For example, an important component of the Zionist enterprise,
especially after 1948, has been to return the Israel i landscape to its Biblical-
era shape. The principal way of projecting the Zionist self-identity narra-
tive onto the land has been through agricultural practice. By reintroducing
plant species mentioned in the Bible, some of which had disappeared from
the area centuries ago, Zionist agriculture has had the role of securing the
continuity between the golden era, the present times and the promised
future.6 Another iconic example of projection is the ‘natural monument’
at Mount Rushmore, South Dakota. By featuring carved faces of four US
presidents, Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Roosevelt, the monument
projects four phases in the first 150 years of US history: birth, expansion,
preservation and development. Historian Herbert Samuel Schell depicts the
mountain-sculpture ‘as a symbol of greatness and durability which embod-
ies the dreams, ambitions, and accomplishments of the American people’
(Schell 1975: 378).
By firmly anchoring the self into the material world, states are inoculated
from existential anxieties brought about by the prospect of rapid and thor-
ough change. However, no matter how firmly it is attached, no anchor can
fully protect polities from unavoidable tides of change. Self-identities are
in a continuous state of social negotiation and flux. Material environments,
both built and natural, also undergo changes. As a consequence, the link
between the self and the material environment is inherently unstable and in
need of continuous monitoring, maintenance, repair or reinvention. The
more self-confident polities are, as Jane Grenville has suggested, the more
prone they will probably be to reinventing the connection with their mate-
rial environments. The less ontologically secure they are, the more likely it
is that they will rigidly maintain and repair the established interpretations
of their physical settings of action (Grenville 2007).
Within this process of discursive linking of state identity to material envi-
ronment through projection or introjection, states bear agency but operate
within the existing identity discourses over which they never achieve full
control. In fact, I agree with Steele that continuity of the self is constructed
by and large internally through what he terms ‘the dialectics of the Self’
(Steele 2008: 50). State action to discursively link the self to the material
environment is nevertheless constrained by the pre-existing discourses that
define how people already think about collective identity. To be sure, these
identity discourses are in the long run always predominantly constituted
by state actions, but they nevertheless constrain state representatives and
define the parameters of legitimate discourse. Politicians can try to de-link
state identity narratives from their ontic spaces, but chances are that this
will generate anxiety in their compatriots who will therefore repudiate this
move. However rewarding it may appear to be in terms of its potential rep-
utational or physical security benefits, to symbolically un-anchor the self
30 F. EJDUS
from a particularly important material environment threatens to rupture

biographical continuity of the polity.
Conclusions
After reviewing the existing literature on identity and ontological security
this chapter has made two contributions to the Ontological Security The-
ory in IR. First, I have conceptualised critical situations as radical disrup-
tions which thrust fundamental questions of existence, finitude, relations
and autobiography into the realms of public discourse. As a result, col-
lective actors experience anxiety, exhibit regressive behaviour and attempt
to restore the calm through rigid attachment to routines. The theoreti-
cal implication of this move is to make the meaning of the terms ‘critical
situation’ and ‘ontological insecurity’ more intelligible. By carefully trans-
lating additional analytical tools developed by Giddens into the field of
IR, I developed a framework that allows us to identify critical situations in
world politics and study them empirically in a systematic and comparative
manner.
Second, I have argued that material environments serve as an impor-
tant source of ontological security not only for individuals but also for
states. In the face of transience of both international social relationships
and domestic contestations and fragmentations, states need an additional
anchor for their collective identity narratives. By mooring their identity to
material environments, states secure their sense of biographical continuity
and fend off anxieties stemming from the prospect of a divided and frac-
tured self. However, material environments do not play this role in and of
themselves. In order to assume this role of an ‘ontological seabed’, material
environments need to be discursively linked to projects of the self, which
can be accomplished either through introjection or projection. Although
state representatives hold some agency in the process, they certainly do
not operate in a vacuum but rather within pre-established and often sedi-
mented identity discourses. In the rest of the book, I use these theoretical
insights to explore ontological insecurity produced in Serbia by Kosovo’s
secession. However, to make full sense of the contemporary anxiety gener-
ated in Serbia by this critical situation, one needs to rewind the story and
understand how Kosovo became Serbia’s ontic space in the first place.
Notes
1. According to Wendt, state identities fall into four categories: corporate, type,
role and collective. Corporate identity refers to the intrinsic qualities shared by
all states, such as sovereignty for example. Type identity refers to inherent but
variable characteristics of states such as regime types, forms of state, economic
systems and so on. Although characteristics that give rise to type identities
are pre-social, as Wendt explains, ‘role identities are not based on intrinsic
properties and as such exist only in relation to Others’ (1999: 227). For
example, a state can only be neutral in relation to others. Finally, collective
identity implies a process of identification with others (1999: 229). That a
state can be Western or Islamic state is a case in point.
2. In Giddens’ view, ontological security at the individual level is challenged as
a consequence of modernity characterised by rapid and accelerating changes,
separation of time and space, disembedding of social systems and reflexive
reordering of social relations. The ‘institutionalisation of doubt’, which is
characteristic of high modernity, creates enormous potential for ontological
insecurity. The only thing that protects humans from being engulfed by
anxiety is the basic trust which originates in early childhood. See Giddens
(1990: 176).
3. The referent object of societal security is collective identity. The concept
of societal security was first developed by Barry Buzan as one of the five
sectors—together with military, environmental, political and economic—in
the widened security agenda (Buzan 1991). The concept was later appro-
priated by the Copenhagen School of Security Studies (Wæver et al. 1993;
Buzan et al. 1998). The concept of societal security was fiercely critiqued
by Bill McSweeney for its objectivist and reified understanding of iden-
tity (McSweeney 1996, 1998, 1999). In order to conceptualise identity
more reflexively, McSweeney draws on the concept of ontological security
(McSweeney 1999: 156).
4. Political myths vary. Some myths emphasise common ancestors, as is the case
with Abraham for the Jews. Others stress a common mission as in the case of
the ‘city on the hill’ in the US. Finally, some myths are about a foundation of
the polity, as in the case of Romulus and Remus and the founding of Rome
(Smith 1999: 57).
5. To the best of my knowledge, the only exceptions to this are Kinnvall (2004),
Ejdus (2017), and Mitzen (2018).
6. Seven plants mentioned in the Bible are palm dates, wheat, barley, grapes,
fig, pomegranate and olives. How important was this for the nascent Israeli
state is best illustrated by the fact that Israel launched a secret operation of
transferring 75,000 date palm trees from Iraq to Israel in 1955 (Weiss 2010:
206).
32 F. EJDUS
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On les entend rire dans l’escalier. «Il fait frais ici», dit l’un. Une femme
pousse un cri, et se plaint de n’y rien voir. Les voix s’éloignent; et le bruit
sourd des pas sur les marches se perd enfin. Puis, les voici qui, parvenus au
sommet, poussent des clameurs joyeuses. Ils s’entassent sur la terrasse
étroite, et font un cercle noir derrière le balcon. Ils découvrent le vaste
horizon. La splendeur déserte de la mer s’offre à leurs yeux: ils s’en
détournent, et regardent vers le Nord. Ils cherchent à reconnaître le coin de
terre où ils sont nés, et où ils seront, à leur tour, des morts.
Une fois sortis, ils se mêlent les uns aux autres, et se prennent à la taille.
Mais leurs bras rudes n’ont point de prise grossière sur les épaisses
ceintures. A la fin, l’une, la plus jolie, dont les cheveux sont légers comme
un rayon, se met à courir; et tous la suivent, chacun emportant sa chacune,
ainsi qu’à la danse...—«En voilà une bande!» murmure en riant celui qui
reste. C’est un matelot, carré, jeune, d’une force mesurée qu’on sent celle
d’un athlète: il est rasé, d’une peau fine comme une femme, le teint rouge à
cause de la chaleur et du repas qu’il a fait. Tel qu’il est là, roide sur le
chemin, le visage enflammé aux traits tirés et longs, il semble un terme de
brique, où s’épanouit la fleur de deux yeux bleus en faïence de Delft. Puis,
quand il voit que ses amis sont déjà loin, il se donne un coup de poing sur la
tête, et, au galop, part à leur poursuite.
XIX
PETITS BRETONS
En Benodet.
Le petit Lawik veut qu’on lui ôte ses souliers, pour mettre de petits
sabots noirs, qu’il tient à la main... Sa mère, occupée, ne s’en soucie pas...
—Laisse ces sabots, dit-elle; ce sont ceux de ton frère; tu vois bien qu’ils
sont trop grands pour toi...
Mais lui s’entête: c’est justement ce qui le tente, de faire danser ses pieds
dans les sabots du frère aîné, qui a sept ans. Il suit sa mère à la cuisine; il
tourne, en trottant, autour d’elle; sous l’âtre, il cherche à la saisir par la
jupe. Comme elle ne s’y prête pas, il se met en colère; un gros pli se forme
entre ses sourcils froncés, et le sang lui monte au front. Il piétine: et il crie,
en tendant une jambe:
—Mets-moi-les, mamm... Je serai gentil, mamm... Je serai mignon à toi...
Si tu les mets pas, j’irai le dire à M. le Recteur...
Naïk ne peut se tenir de rire. Et, sans le vouloir, comme si elle répondait
à ma pensée, son fils entre les bras, elle le regarde avec amour, et dit:
—Mon petit Breton, mon petit Breton...
Deux marmots, laids et ridicules, une petite fille de huit ans, au nez
pointu, et son frère qu’elle bourre: il n’a pas quarante mois. Ils sont vêtus à
la mode des villes par des parents aussi laids qu’eux, demi-bourgeois. La
petite et le petit ont un béret de marin; sur le ruban de l’un, on lit l’Océan et
sur l’autre, le Neptune. Voilà ce que les petits Bretons gagnent à ne plus
porter les charmants bonnets du pays; et quand ils voient passer un de ces
admirables petits gars, tout ronds dans leur robe d’infante, les cheveux d’un
si bel or sous la calotte rouge, le Neptune et l’Océan s’en moquent. Ils l’ont
vu faire à leurs parents, plus rustres cent fois que les bonnes gens qu’ils
prétendent tourner en dérision.
Les petits paysans sont hommes plus tôt que les enfants des villes, par
les besognes qu’on leur confie et qu’ils sont forcés de faire. Mais elles
prolongent l’enfance en eux, loin d’y mettre un terme avant le temps; et
c’est ainsi que de grands paysans, forts et musclés comme des athlètes, ont
une âme enfantine et des regards d’enfants. Les jours de fête, ce sont des
écoliers lâchés.
Tous les enfants s’ennuient. Ils ne savent que faire. Ils sont nuls. Ils
jouent, faute de mieux. De là, outre la contrainte, que les petits paysans font
les hommes si tôt à la campagne, mènent le bétail, vont et viennent aux
travaux. Ce sont, d’abord, autant de jeux. La servitude ne commence qu’à la
longueur et au temps régulier de la tâche. Et ces enfants s’ennuient alors,
comme tous les enfants.
Ils se vengent en jouant avec les bêtes, comme les petites filles avec les
poupons qu’on leur met aux bras.
Un jeu de petits Bretons.

Ils prennent de vieux bâtons; ils y pendent des haillons, d’antiques
loques; ils se jettent sur le dos un torchon ou une serviette; puis, l’un
derrière l’autre, par rang de taille, et le plus orné au milieu de la bande, ils
font la procession.
Ils élèvent haut leurs bannières. S’ils ont un chapeau, ils l’ôtent; et ils
tournent à pas solennels, en chantant à tue-tête tout ce qu’ils savent de
l’office et de mots latins. Ils vont, d’un grand sérieux, et sans jamais rire du
jeu, tant qu’il dure. On entend interminablement: Alleluia... ah!—Ora pro
nobis—Et spiritu sancto—pax—pax vobiscum. Le plus petit, en queue, qui
n’a pas trois ans et parle à peine, récite: «Ave, maris tella, tella...»
Ils jouent à la messe, avec une dignité imperturbable et une sorte
d’onction.
Le plus beau, c’est le vieux Crozon, qui croit à toute sorte de signes et de
mauvais présages. Il a toujours peur d’une profanation, d’un blasphème,
d’un hasard coupable, et que le Ciel ne châtie l’imprudent. Excès de respect
que lui souffle la crainte extrême qu’il sent de la mort. Il ne peut souffrir ce
jeu de la messe. Il prétend que les enfants, tournant autour de la maison,
«font un enterrement». Et sitôt qu’il les entend chanter en latin, il sort en
colère de la salle où il fume sa pipe; et, fort irrité, met les petits en fuite, les
menaçant de son bâton.
Dans son berceau, sous les rideaux en ogive, le petit Lawik dort. Il est
rose, couché sur le dos, un peu penché sur l’épaule droite. Si immobile, que
ce charmant sommeil émeut vaguement; le souffle imperceptible, la bouche
déclose, la petite lèvre en l’air. Il a le bras gauche nu, mollement posé le
long du corps. Il tient sa joue de la main droite; et le bras nu jusqu’au coude
est gracieux comme la branche qui porte un fruit. Un bout de ruban rouge
descend de ses cheveux blonds jusqu’à ses lèvres; et des boucles presque
blanches collent à ses tempes où brille une rosée de sueur.
La vieille femme, à la peau tannée et ridée, comme une outre, vêtue de
noir, regarde dormir l’enfant, et dit ses prières. La chienne rentre par la
porte entr’ouverte, fait le tour de la chambre, et, voyant tout dans l’ombre,
disposé pour la nuit silencieuse,—silencieusement aussi tourne en rond
quatre fois sur ses pattes, soupire en ramenant sa langue juteuse d’un bord à
l’autre de la bouche, et se couche devant le foyer.
XX
ANNONCIATION DU SOIR
A B., le 30 septembre.
Sur la mer, le ciel est une pensée bleue tombée sur des feuilles de saule.
Caresse tiède aux yeux, tout est velours de ce qu’ils voient, tout est soie.
Je regarde passer trois longs nuages d’or, fuseaux que laisse échapper de
ses mains la journée défaillante: ils courent légers au-dessus des chênes.
La mer terrible est ivre de ses charmes. Mais en vain: si séduisante et si
cruelle, dans son repos elle pousse soudain un soupir qui déchire, et qui
appelle. Elle est amoureuse, et toujours triste.
L’inquiétude et le rêve se cherchent des lèvres, au bord de l’eau. La
roche retient l’algue mouillée. Sur le sable de velours fauve, les cailloux
polis luisent comme des pierreries. Le soleil couchant allume des rubis et
des topazes sur la plage.
L’inquiétude délicieuse griffe le cœur. Le troupeau cherche la vachère; et
le taureau, immobile sur ses sabots noirs, tend le cou. Les cornes noires de
la vache semblent l’ombre d’une fourche dans l’air lumineux. On appelle
sur l’autre rive. Un chien qui aboie. Un enfant qui rit.
Puis le silence, tandis que la lumière semble l’écho d’un concert
inaccessible. Et la mer murmure.
Le rêve mortel ondule sur la mer. Qu’est-ce que tout cela? La pensée
d’un mort, qui médite la vie?... Ou la vie qui s’adore elle-même, dans la
langueur? Ou...
On m’appelle, de l’autre rive.
XXI
BRUMAIRE
Un petit port de pêche. En novembre.
La mauvaise saison est venue, qui ne s’en ira plus de cinq ou six mois,
hargneuse hôtesse. La Toussaint a mis fin au bel automne. Les jours
heureux sont tombés comme les feuilles; et Brumaire arrive pour ensevelir
ses morts.
Quelquefois, le matin, le ciel paraît pur: et un clair soleil se lève. Mais
on ne gagne qu’une heure; et jamais on n’est sûr de celle qui la suit. La mer
elle-même avertit que les gros temps sont établis pour de longues semaines:
par une calme matinée, elle se montre encore irritée et douteuse; elle fait
prévoir la tempête même au joli temps. Elle se forme dès la veille; et son air
mystérieux est celui de la menace. Il n’y a plus de douceur ni
d’enchantement dans l’énigme de son sourire.
Novembre enveloppe le petit port d’un suaire. Il fait mauvais, pour les
gens de la ville, quand il pleut; pour les marins, ce n’est pas la pluie qui fait
le mauvais temps,—c’est le vent et la brume. Les canots restent à l’ancre:
qu’iraient-ils faire en mer? Avec une seule misaine, ils ne vont pas assez
dans le vent; chaque lame passe par-dessus bord, et vous couvre d’eau. On
ne pêche plus guère. Et la misère s’abat lourdement sur ceux qui ayant fait
quelque gain dans la bonne saison, ont déjà tout bu.
Je vois ces hommes entrer en hiver, comme dans une caverne d’ennui.
S’ils n’ont le travail de la pêche, cet affût continuel dans le danger de la
mer, que leur reste-t-il? Tous ces petits ports bretons sont plongés dans un
ennui polaire, qui dure six mois. Encore les femmes ont-elles la peine de la
maison, et les souffrances aiguës de la misère: les enfants qui crient, et ceux
qui sont malades; le problème éternel de la nourriture, posé chaque jour, et
qu’il faut résoudre, coûte que coûte; les querelles entre elles, et les
humiliations réciproques: la douleur de vivre occupe. Mais les hommes
connaissent le sentiment raffiné de l’ennui. Ils ont l’ennui épais, qui
convient à leur nature rude, mais ils l’ont: l’homme des villes n’éprouve pas
cette passion triste, il ne sent que son écrasement; et, quand il relève la tête
sous la meule, il ne connaît que l’envie. L’ennui de ces Bretons est à celui
des raffinés, comme leur eau-de-vie à la morphine et aux autres narcotiques.
Ils se traînent sur la cale, s’il ne pleut pas, le bonnet descendu jusqu’aux
yeux, enfoncés dans leur tricot et leur double veste de drap et de toile; les
pieds dans les lourds sabots, que fourrent les chaussons. Les uns en loques,
les autres rapiécés de tous les bouts; et d’autres, les moins âgés quelquefois,
à l’abri de bons vêtements. Si un rayon de soleil perce le ciel gris, ils
lézardent le long du mur humide où se pose la pâle clarté d’or. Ils ne parlent
guère; ils n’ont plus rien à se dire. Les enfants jouent et se poursuivent à la
sortie de l’école, pareils en tout aux poules sur un tas de sable...
Puis, le soleil se cache; et la brume accourt, épaisse, étouffante, qui
bouche l’horizon. Les hommes bâillent; et, la pipe entre les dents, ils
aspirent l’âcre brouillard avec la fumée chaude du tabac. Leur esprit est
confus et lourd comme la haie brumeuse, où tout se brouille. Ils ont froid.
Les épaules remontées, et les mains dans les poches, ils n’osent pas remuer,
pour ne pas laisser l’air aigre leur mouiller les os. S’ils rentrent chez eux,
iront-ils se mettre au lit et dormir pendant quinze heures? Ils n’ont point
envie de leurs femmes... Ils demeurent mornes, et sans paroles. Ils passent
alors par un des états les plus nobles du monde: ils rêvent et ne pensent pas.
Mais tout est trop obscur dans ces âmes confuses: l’esprit ne distingue point
les images qui le hantent, et le cœur ne s’en émeut pas. Et la même humeur,
qui fait des poètes, fait des ivrognes avec ces hommes-ci: car, frissonnant
d’ennui, et ne sachant que faire, ils vont secouer tous leurs brouillards à la
lumière de l’auberge.
XXII
LE JOUR DES ANGES

Près de Plouh..., en Pont-l’Abbé.
I
Le bruit doux de la fontaine chantait Amen au jour tranquille. Le
murmure disait: «Je suis là, je suis là...» et: «Venez...»
Plusieurs paysans parurent sur le chemin. Chacun de son côté, ils
venaient avec leurs femmes; et leurs enfants les précédaient. Ils
descendaient isolément le raidillon, près du bois humide. Quoique ce ne fût
pas dimanche, ils avaient leur air et leurs habits de fêtes. Ils marchaient
avec une sorte de gravité; et par la main les femmes tenaient de petits
enfants parés comme pour une procession.
Ils ne parlaient pas beaucoup. Se rencontrant, ils se saluaient à peine
d’un mot bref. Ils étaient sérieux, et pareils à ceux qui vont à l’église, dans
l’intention d’y prier. Les enfants, quelquefois, partaient pour rire; mais ils
s’arrêtaient aussitôt, et leur petite moue d’attention semblait reprendre un
rôle. Ils avaient des yeux gais et des mines graves. La petite Yvonnik, ayant
vu sa mère rajuster les plis de son tablier, en frappant du bout des doigts
l’étoffe sur la hanche, tapotait le sien, tantôt d’un bord, tantôt de l’autre, en
se dandinant.
Les femmes étaient larges, dans l’étroit chemin, sous les branches. La
plupart étaient jeunes; et il y en avait deux en robe de bure bleue, qui
avaient la semblance de gros bluets ouverts, d’une espèce rustique.
Ils allaient en silence, descendant la pente du vallon. La fontaine
bruissait sous leurs pas, comme les chuchotements de la compassion.
L’humble vallée était vaste par l’air de solitude qu’on lui sentait, et par une
grâce farouche. Elle était retirée entre des clairières, comme une bague au
creux de la main à demi fermée d’une femme. Il faisait plus doux qu’on ne
peut dire, de cette douceur moelleuse qui alanguit l’espace avant les orages.
Un peu de brume fluide fumait à l’horizon. L’air était lilas.
Le coucou appelait faiblement dans le bois, de sa flûte en sourdine. Un
nuage passa... Et l’eau fut grise.
II
Elle pleurait; et son mari, assis sur un coffre, serrait les lèvres, le regard
perdu, résolu de ne rien dire, ni un mot de consolation, ni rien de ce qu’il
éprouvait. Il gardait son sentiment comme un secret. Pourtant, sa femme
ayant bégayé dans un sanglot: «C’est... c’est la seconde fois... ah...»—les
muscles de sa face se rétractèrent, et il eut les larmes aux yeux...
—Habillez-le, dit-il.
Il se roidit; et, le plat de la main appuyé sur le coffre, il suivit d’un
regard avide cette toilette...
Elle, cependant, avait disposé les beaux habits sur le banc d’honneur,
devant le lit de famille. Un autre lit était resté ouvert: la mère prit sur
l’oreiller un pâle enfant aux blonds cheveux. L’enfant ne faisait pas de bruit,
et il ne tendait pas les bras à sa mère. Elle, de ses mains rouges tenait Yvon;
et elle frémissait, toute. Les battements du sein soulevaient son corsage
maigre, tiré vers la taille; et deux sillons de larmes marquaient son menton
carré comme à la craie.
Quel enfant sage et doux: d’une pâleur mortelle, en vérité, et d’une
docilité taciturne qui faisait mal. Il pouvait avoir trois ou quatre ans. Ses
blonds cheveux, où la mère passait une main caressante et plaintive, étaient
très longs. Il fallait que ce petit Yvon fût bien malade, pour être à ce point
silencieux. Il devait être fort lourd: ses bras retombaient sans force et si
lourdement... Mais la tête surtout suivait tous les mouvements de sa mère,
le front baissé et donnant du menton sur la poitrine haletante. Le front
bouclé vint à portée des lèvres maternelles: elle le baisa avec passion.
—Il est chaud, dit-elle. Il est chaud...
Et elle éclata en pleurs.
—Donnez-le-moi, fit l’homme à demi-voix.
Elle le lui tendit, et retomba sur le coffre, près du lit clos.
L’enfant était en jupon de laine: ses pieds nus semblaient de pierre, salie
de boue par endroits; les orteils étaient droits, sans mouvement. L’homme
prit l’enfant sur ses genoux. Il le contempla douloureusement. Il était
gauche en ses gestes; et l’excès de douceur, qu’il y voulait mettre, le rendait
malhabile. Puis, comme ayant longtemps résisté au désir, il appuya la joue
de l’enfant contre ses lèvres, et le baisa ardemment.
—Petit Yvon, murmurait-il, mon petit Yvon...
Mais le petit Yvon ne répondait rien, et paraissait ne pas entendre. Le
père soutenait la tête levée, qui fût retombée sans cette aide. Qu’elle était
pâle et livide contre le visage hâlé du paysan... Et de quel étrange et lourd
sommeil cet enfant était possédé... Il avait les yeux fermés et retirés au
dedans des orbites par un rêve absorbant. Sa petite bouche violette était
entr’ouverte: un double pli, plus lourd encore que le reste de ce visage
accablé, creusait les coins de cette bouche un peu gonflée; une ride plus
profonde que celle des vieillards les plus chargés d’âge s’était gravée au
burin dans cet enfant de trois ans.
Sur le coffre, la mère assise, jeune et presque belle en sa simplicité
pesante, faisait face à l’homme, fort et haut sur le banc.
—Il est encore chaud, dit-il à son tour. Prenez-le, Marie.
Elle avait bien pleuré. Maintenant, elle était tranquille et presque
souriante, comme au milieu de la pluie, quand un rayon impuissant de
lumière brille. Avant de reprendre le petit Yvon, elle fit le signe de la croix,
sur elle et sur lui. Elle lui mit les bas et le bonnet multicolore, où dominait
le rouge; elle le chaussa; elle ajusta la robe riante et le gai vêtement sur le
petit garçon, immobile comme un jouet. Elle était résignée. On eût dit
qu’elle n’avait pas pleuré à sanglots, naguère. Elle faisait l’habilleuse avec
soin et sans hâte. Un des bras de l’enfant était posé sur son épaule, et l’autre
allait et venait selon que la mère le maniait. Il fléchissait sur ses jambes, qui
gardaient leur pli avec roideur.
Mais, quand elle eut fini, et qu’elle l’eut couché entre ses bras, ayant
senti la peau déjà plus froide, et voyant la tête renversée comme dans un cri,
elle s’écria tout en pleurs:
—Mon Dieu, mon Dieu... C’est donc vrai qu’ils vont venir... pour toi, ô
mon Yvon très cher... mon petit enfant... pour toi aussi... ô mon Dieu...
Et, ne pensant plus à le baiser, elle sanglotait amèrement; et ses larmes
tombaient sur le visage, rigide entre les bords du bonnet, le visage du petit
mort...
III
Dans la maison, les parents étaient assemblés, les vieux plus près de
l’âtre profond et noir, avec ses bancs de chaque côté du manteau; les
moindres, plus voisins de la porte. Et les femmes du pays entrèrent, menant
leurs enfants, les belles poupées blondes, en robes vertes, rouges, jaunes,
coiffées de pourpre ou de bleu.
Par la porte ouverte, on voyait le sentier. Les douces haies s’inclinaient
aux pieds du vallon. Le murmure de la fontaine versait sa plainte égale. Un
vent faible et chanteur bruissait entre les branches. Et le ciel bas et doux, le
ciel violet, semblait le regard triste que penche sur l’étroite fenêtre un
passant, qui s’est arrêté, et qui s’afflige, regardant du dehors une douleur
rencontrée.
Le petit Yvon était couché dans son cercueil, comme une statuette parée
dans sa boîte. L’eau bénite, près de lui, allait continuellement de la tasse, où
les doigts la prenaient, sur le pâle visage. Et les mains parlaient le langage
alterné des signes de croix. Les mères conduisaient leurs enfants au
cercueil. «C’est le petit Yvon, disaient-elles, embrasse-le... Il va en
paradis...» Ils se dressaient sur la pointe des pieds, les bras écartés et trop
courts dans la robe longue: et les mères haussaient les plus petits jusqu’aux
lèvres du mort. On voyait leurs chaussures dans le cercle de la jupe, comme
les pieds en bois des jouets, quand on les soulève. Des petits tendaient leur
bouche ronde et s’amusaient à ce jeu du baiser, naïvement; et presque tous
regardaient de côté l’assistance, les yeux loin du visage que leurs lèvres
touchaient. Plusieurs faisaient un signe de croix, très long, très large. Ils
recommençaient, et se regardaient faire. Et parfois ils se trompaient, ne se
rappelant plus quelle épaule il faut toucher la première: ils attendaient que
leur mère se signât, pour l’imiter.
Ils étaient tous très graves et très recueillis. La petite Jeannette, qui avait
six ou sept ans, s’approcha, tenant obstinément la tête baissée. Elle se
rappelait bien le pauvre petit Yvon. Il y a quelques jours encore, ils jouaient
ensemble, tous les deux. Il était si joli... Elle l’aimait; elle le préférait à tous
les autres enfants... Puis, c’était le filleul de sa mère. Jeannette est tout
éperdue. Voilà qu’Yvon est mort... Un mort, c’est un grand chagrin pour
tout le monde... Un malheur obscur et vague... On ne parle pas dans la
maison des morts... On pleure. Un grand malheur... elle ne sait pas lequel.
Être mort, c’est ne plus être là... Mais Yvon est là encore; et pourtant, il est
mort. Elle craint de le voir défiguré: il est tout noir, peut-être? ou sans
tête?... Ou qui sait si on ne l’a pas changé? S’il ne remue pas, sans rien dire,
comme ces bêtes qu’on voit quand on bêche: puisque les morts vont sous
terre.
Elle est rouge d’émotion, de regret et de peur. Lorsque enfin, au bord du
cercueil, elle lève les yeux, elle aperçoit son petit Yvon, comme elle l’a
connu, mais pareil aux statues de la chapelle,—si blême, si raidi... Elle le
touche des lèvres: il est froid comme la pierre. Alors son cœur lui saute
dans la poitrine, et lui monte à la gorge, poussé par l’affliction et la crainte.
Elle pâlit; elle se met à pleurer longuement, prête à défaillir.
—Il ne faut pas pleurer, Janik... Il est en paradis, lui répète-t-on.
Elle est bien contente qu’Yvon soit en paradis: mais elle pleure. Tout
bas, deux petits garçons, ayant beaucoup réfléchi, se disent quelques mots:
—Yvon est mort... C’est comme ceux qui sont toujours malades, si on
était couché... Les enfants vont au ciel...
Une femme en deuil laissa sa petite fille au milieu de la pièce, et courut à
la mère. Elle l’embrassait étroitement, et se prit à pleurer de compassion,
remuée dans son cœur par un cruel souvenir. Mais la mère semblait
maintenant insensible: comme son mari, elle faisait les honneurs de sa
maison, et présidait à la cérémonie.
Un poupon, que sa nourrice pencha sur le cadavre, poussait des cris
perçants; et son frère, un petit noiraud aux jambes en arc, éprouvant la
même peur, pleura.
Tous les enfants sont rangés silencieux; et le petit mort semble l’un
d’eux, que les autres regardent, couché dans un coffre blanc, et qui joue
peut-être au silence avec eux. Ils sont plus graves encore qu’au début: ils
sont touchés, ils ont peur et s’ennuient. A plus d’un, le sommeil fait des
avances. Leurs cheveux blonds brillent dans l’ombre, sous le bonnet. Une
lumière verte vient de la porte et du sentier: les robes éclatantes y
resplendissent étrangement. Ils se tiennent sagement, leurs bras courts
repliés sur le corps. Ils regardent tous du même côté. Leurs lèvres attentives
sont entr’ouvertes; on dirait qu’ils vont chanter: il ne leur manque que des
ailes.
XXIII
PENMARC’H
En novembre, l’après-midi.
Temps gris,—et, d’abord, quelques grains. Puis la pluie.

Une tristesse terrible. Sans espoir, sans retour, sans consolation. Depuis
le commencement des âges, il doit pleuvoir ainsi sur ce pays sinistre; et il
pleuvra de même sur ces roches mornes jusqu’à la fin des siècles.
Des blocs et des blocs; des montagnes éboulées; et, partout où il y eut
des vivants, ce sont des débris et des ruines. Si Kérity, Penmarc’h et Saint-
Gwennolé n’ont formé jadis qu’une seule ville, si elle était plus grande et
plus somptueuse qu’une capitale, si les cathédrales de l’Ouest et les
châteaux forts de l’Occident s’élevaient ici,—on en discute; et plus encore,
si des flottes entières, le vaste commerce et les entreprises des négociants
ont eu ces sables et ces rocs pour métropole. Mais il le faudrait. Et le grand
port de l’Atlantide méritait d’être placé entre les chevaux monstrueux de
Penmarc’h, si les Atlantes furent une race vouée au sépulcre, et aux
profondes catastrophes de l’Océan.
Pas un arbre. Seuls règnent le sable et le granit.
Sous la lumière douteuse et louche de l’automne, tous ces grands corps
de pierre prennent d’étranges formes. Une armée, une cavalerie pétrifiée
que montent, au loin, les brouillards aux écharpes grises. Et là-bas, dans le
fond, c’est un navire amiral, qui porte toute sa voilure noire de nuages...
Pas un arbre. Sur cette terre virile, toute en os et en promontoires,
pareille aux squelettes décharnés d’un ossuaire de géants, on se prend à
reconnaître la puérilité infinie de la verdure, et la douceur des arbres se fait
sentir par le regret. Mais l’on éprouve mieux encore ce que la vie a
d’enfantin, et la vanité de ses promesses à l’aspect de ces puissances
éternelles, parce qu’elles sont infécondes: la terre de granit, et la mer
désespérée.
Que ferait ici le jardin? et même la forêt? Point de feuillages: ils
amollissent la ligne des pierres. Et le chant des oiseaux ferait pitié, près de
la lamentation immense qui obsède l’espace. Les feuilles ont le charme des
enfants, jouant échevelés et rieurs sous les yeux de leurs mères. Ici, l’œil du
ciel est fermé. Que les oiseaux, en Arcadie, gazouillent au soleil, comme
bruissent les feuilles: mais ce n’est plus qu’un sifflement piteux qui vient
des créatures, quand les mornes immensités se parlent, et qu’au souffle de la
marée, les îles et les rocs se comparent.
Un sombre pays, plus beau que sous le soleil et la lumière,—beau sous le
ciel sombre. Le vent perfide ne souffle encore que de côté: et, jusqu’ici,
faiblement. Mais déjà les vagues roulent avec fracas. Le murmure est
éternel,—et presque toujours la violence. C’est un canton de deuil, un
littoral sans pitié, le plus riche en naufrages. Et même à terre, la côte est
pleine de dangers. Les lames sourdes, parfois, se forment et balayent tout ce
qu’elles touchent, sournoises comme la mort, rapides comme l’infortune.
Une vague, plus haute qu’une maison, a mangé d’un seul coup cinq
personnes, assises par un beau jour au haut d’un rocher pareil à une colline.
Comme la gueule d’un monstre caché au fond de l’eau, elle en est sortie et a
happé sa proie, plus prompte que la pensée; puis elle s’est refermée sur ces
fétus, cinq vies détruites...
Une légère brume monte de l’horizon. La pluie a cessé. La mer cruelle a
l’éclat sombre et gris d’un regard de triomphante haine. Les rocs se font de
plus en plus noirs, et se penchent sur leur ombre, comme des monstres en
méditation.
Un aigre souffle humide passe sur la terre. On frissonne. Il est temps de
revenir sur ses pas, car le gouffre de la nuit va bientôt s’ouvrir sur le gouffre
de l’étendue. Et tout déjà se fait abîme.
XXIV
ARCADIE
De Benodet à Beg Meil. En août.
Matin.
Un chemin désert, en pente sinueuse, tout trempé d’ombre violette. Le
soleil matinal n’éclaire encore la cime des arbres que d’un côté, de loin,
comme un tireur mal assuré qui s’exerce. Au bas de la route, un cheval
alezan, que tient par la bride une bonne femme en coiffe. Le joli animal est
immobile, la tête baissée contre le mur, la queue épaisse et longue, d’un poil
plus foncé que le robe; il attend sur trois pattes, et ploie la jambe gauche de
derrière en accent circonflexe: le sabot noir ne semble pas toucher le sol; et
le beau membre replié, dont la branche haute s’élargit à la cuisse, se détache
dans l’ombre comme un fragment de statue inimitable: dans le repos bat le
rythme merveilleux de la vie. La bonne femme tient la bride à bout de bras,
prudente et gauche. Elle est noire près du beau cheval blond. Une porte
s’ouvre: toute la route s’illumine d’or vert: la muraille a fait place à un voile
de feuilles rondes qui tremblent au soleil; elles sont rondes comme des
doublons, et d’un vert si jeune qu’elles paraissent transparentes; on les
dirait faites de rayons, et les disques de lumière qui dansent avec elles, d’or
végétal. C’est le soleil entre les arbres, qui fait largesse de pièces d’or et de
feuilles. Puis, comme la brise courbe une branche, derrière ce voile aux
blondes mailles, se montre couchée, riante, à demi rêveuse encore, la mer
bleue comme les yeux.
Midi.
Le soleil brûle. La vieille Mar-Jann, plus noire que sa jupe, parle à sa
vache couchée sur le flanc. «Qu’avez-vous? lui dit-elle... Je vois bien que
depuis lundi vous n’allez guère... Vous ne mangez plus, donc?... Vous ne
voulez plus manger?... Et qu’est-ce que je ferais, alors?... Je vous mènerai le
médecin, peut-être?... Vous le voulez, dites?... Mais s’il ne veut pas, lui?...
Ah! mon Dieu, mon Dieu... Et il faudra que je paie pour vous? Et combien
donc?... Mais comment ferai-je, dites?... Je ne suis qu’une pauvre femme,
une pauvre femme, donc. Vous êtes malade, je le vois bien... Quel
malheur... Il vaudrait mieux que ce fût moi... J’en étais sûre, j’aurais dû
faire à ma tête, et envoyer votre queue à saint Herbot... Pourtant, je ne vous
ai pas fait travailler, ni les bœufs, ni les chevaux au temps du pardon, et les
jours durant toutes les bêtes se sont reposées... Attendez-moi là, et ne
remuez pas, donc... je vais prier pour vous... Il faut que je vous
recommande au bon saint Herbot... On dit qu’il a pitié des pauvres
paysans... C’est sûr, alors, qu’il les écoute. Le petit pain de saint Tugean
m’a bien guérie du mal de dents, et mon homme encore...»
Nuit.
Le lune, au bas de sa course, descend rapide derrière les arbres. On dirait
une tête brillante et pâle, qu’on tire au bout d’un fil invisible. Voilée d’une
fumée légère, elle descend d’un glissement égal, impassible et ne s’arrête
pas. Elle semble vouloir être vue à travers les branches, et ne pas voir. Elle
ne tourne pas la tête pour regarder qui la regarde. Elle descend entre les
feuilles, triste et belle. Dans sa pâleur brillante, elle rayonne de passion et
de rêverie; la légère fumée qui la voile, chaude, rappelle la buée des larmes.
Que les arbres noirs, découpés en ombre chinoise devant elle, paraissent
grands dans leur repos que pas un frisson ne trouble! Le bord des branches
s’argente seul d’un reflet lunaire. Le ciel bleu règne, profond et sombre. Un
crapaud flûte dans un coin. Comme un lac, s’étend le large calme.
La mer dort. Toujours plus bas, sous les arbres maintenant, voici
descendre la lune...
XXV
CALVAIRE
Au Drennec. 29 octobre.
Bordée de fossés bruns et de haies rouillées, la route se fait plus étroite et

s’ouvre, comme l’entrée d’un parc seigneurial, en longue allée couverte
d’ombre. De très minces et très hauts pins, grands arbres au fût nu qui ne
portent de branches qu’à leur sommet, se suivent des deux côtés, en
perspective de noires colonnades. Leurs cimes sont si noblement arrondies
au-dessus des colonnes qu’elles semblent posées sur le ciel triste et gris,
tendu comme un voile bas entre les deux longues lignes. Tout est mouillé; la
terre épaisse est battue en boue aux reflets louches d’eau dormante; et le
long des troncs noirs coule parfois une lourde goutte, pareille à une vieille
larme trop longtemps retenue. Sur un bord de l’allée, un carrefour d’où
partent des sentiers vers les landes, et le chemin désert. Par delà d’autres
arbres, on découvre un toit pointu et les pans aigus de quelques chaumes,
dont le poil d’or bruni brille obscurément sous la bruine: ainsi une note de
cor se prolonge chaudement, tandis que frémissent les violons en sourdine.
Et un calvaire se tient, les bras ouverts, étrange et immobile, à la croix
des chemins, la face tournée vers les grands arbres.
Quatre marches de granit, hautes et larges, portent le socle, pareil à une
borne funéraire. Comme les degrés et la croix, le socle est tout vêtu de
mousse, un duvet court, plus vert que la feuille de mai, tissu printanier que
les ans, la vétusté et les pluies lentes ont strié de raies noires, crêpe végétal
de la pierre. Qui dira la tristesse inébranlable de ce calvaire, dans la
campagne? C’est une lourde croix, aux bras pesants, à la taille trapue, d’un
granit sombre aux angles verdis: elle regarde la route et les pins d’un air
éternel, plus triste et plus gris que le ciel bas et la pluie grise. Le silence
règne à l’entour; et l’on dirait que rien jamais ne le trouble.
Une femme vint du fond de l’allée, paysanne au pas robuste, et l’air
paisible. Comme tant d’autres, elle n’avait pas d’âge; ses cheveux étaient si
serrés sous la coiffe, qu’on n’en eut pas su dire la couleur; le visage était
bruni par le hâle; mais, ayant baissé la tête, on vit la peau laiteuse de sa
nuque, là où commence le cou. Elle monta lentement les degrés du calvaire,
et fit longuement le signe de la croix; puis elle se mit à genoux, ayant soin
de s’agenouiller sur son tablier de toile. Elle pencha le front jusqu’à toucher
le socle, après avoir jeté un rapide regard derrière elle, comme pour
s’assurer d’être seule. Elle priait sans bruit; ou, peut-être, sa prière était-elle
sans paroles. De loin en loin, elle poussait un fort soupir; et elle avait plaisir
à soupirer sans doute. Elle se prosternait, parfois, d’un élan brusque du
buste; et sa jupe courte laissait à découvert ses pieds, chaussés de gros bas
bleus dans les sabots.
Le vent bas de la pluie poussait les feuilles mortes dans le fossé... Le

calvaire brillait, avec ce morne reflet que les pierres humides empruntent
parfois aux maigres os des visages en larmes... Sous le ciel gris et la bruine,
cette croix était triste, avec cette femme à ses pieds, et sur sa tête baissée
ces deux bras de granit ouverts et rigides.
XXVI
SEIGNEURS
En toute saison.
En canot, descendant la rivière, le vieux Crozon raconte ses souvenirs.
—Un bon seigneur, c’était M. de M***, qui vivait encore, il y a vingt

ans... Oui... il en aurait plus de cent aujourd’hui. Il était vieux quand il est
mort; mais il est parti bien trop tôt encore, bamm[F], oui!... Il était connu de
tout le monde dans le pays. Il n’avait pas son pareil pour être un brave
homme... On n’en voit plus de cette façon là, bamm, non!... Il vivait sous
l’œil du bon Dieu, et il le voit maintenant en paradis. Tout le monde
l’aimait, parce qu’il aimait tout le monde. Il n’était pas dur aux pauvres
gens... On allait le trouver, et il disait: «Allons, qu’est-ce qu’il te faut? Tiens
donc, qu’il disait; prends cette pièce, prends; va-t’en à tes affaires; et viens
me voir le mois prochain... Nous verrons à te tirer de là... Sois honnête, et
prie Dieu de te venir en aide...» Et l’on s’en allait content, monsieur. Oui,
bamm! on se sentait tranquille...
Les jours de fête, donc, il laissait entrer qui voulait dans son domaine. Et
il y en avait qui n’étaient pas raisonnables, non, bamm!... des gâte-tout qui
n’avaient pas de soin, qui lui mettaient le feu dans ses bois... ils ont brûlé
souvent. Mais lui, il n’y faisait pas attention. On lui disait:
»—Pourquoi ne fermez-vous pas la propriété, donc? Elle est à vous. Ils
vous brûleront le château, un de ces jours...
»—Hé, ils n’ont pas de campagne, et j’en ai une, qu’il répondait; il faut
bien qu’ils se promènent...
»Toutes les noces de Kemper et du Pont-l’Abbé se faisaient chez M. de
M***. Ils venaient tous en bande dîner sur l’herbe dans le bois, et ils
allaient prendre le sel et le poivre au château. M. de M*** avait donné
l’ordre une fois pour toutes: «Vous ne refuserez jamais le sel et le poivre»,
qu’il avait dit... Et souvent on goûtait aussi le cidre nouveau... Pour un
digne homme, bamm! c’était un digne homme.
»Et puis il a eu ses malheurs. «Dieu m’a éprouvé donc...» qu’il disait. En
rien de temps, il a tout perdu, sa femme et ses enfants. Il ne lui est resté
qu’une fille. Il avait pour lors ses soixante ans, peut-être... Le pauvre bon
Monsieur, il est entré dans les Ordres; et il a encore été meilleur abbé que
bon maître. Dans ce temps-là, il n’y avait rien du tout aux Glénans, ni
église, ni chapelle, ni rien donc... Alors, le bon abbé de M*** a été faire un
tour par là.
»—Ma foi, qu’il dit, ce n’est pas possible que des chrétiens restent sans
secours comme cela, et qu’ils n’aient pas même une petite cloche. Ce n’est
pas des païens, n’est-ce pas?...
»—Mais comment faire?
»—Je suis là, qu’il dit; et avec l’aide de Dieu, je ferai le nécessaire.
» Et il l’a fait comme il l’a dit. Il a bâti une église dans l’Ile; on l’a
consacrée; et lui-même, le bon Monsieur, tous les dimanches il
s’embarquait, quelque temps qu’il fît, et il allait leur dire la messe... Vous ne
l’auriez pas retenu... Oui, bamm! un bien bon homme, celui-là...
—Et depuis?
—Ah, depuis, ce n’est plus la même chose, bamm! On a vu du
nouveau...
J’ai toutes les peines du monde à savoir quoi. Le vieux Crozon ne veut
plus rien dire. Il répugne toujours à juger autrui et à n’en pas faire l’éloge: il
voudrait ne connaître les grands de la terre, les riches, les châtelains, les
vieilles familles que par les beaux côtés. A la fin, il avoue: car il n’est pas
dupe.
—Hé donc, l’héritier ne ressemble guère à M. de M***. Il trouvait qu’on
lui gâtait son bien, qu’on lui brûlait ses bois. Il n’a plus voulu le permettre,
bamm! Il a tout fermé, la forêt, les collines, de tous les bords... C’est son
droit, donc, c’est son droit... Il a mis des gardes partout, M. de P***.
Personne ne peut plus entrer chez lui... C’est son droit. Et les gardes, bamm!
ils ont la consigne... Si quelqu’un passe dans le bois, on lui tire dessus,
comme sur un lapin... Attrape!... Maintenant, on est sévère... Un coup de
fusil,... comme sur un lapin...
Il se tait un instant; puis, comme s’il regrettait d’avoir jugé un plus
puissant que lui, pour effacer la médisance il conclut:

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Crisis and Ontological Insecurity:

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The Rise of Neo-liberalism and the Decline of Freedom

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Crisis and Ontological

Central and Eastern European Perspectives on International Relations

Cover illustration: ‘The Scream’ by the artist Edvard Munch

or simply being wonderful and supportive colleagues. Some of them

2 Crisis, Anxiety and Ontological Insecurity 7

3 The Construction of Kosovo as Serbia’s Ontic Space 39

4 Disintegration of Yugoslavia and Serbia’s Anxiety

5 Critical Situation: Kosovo’s Declaration of Independence 97

6 Dissonance and Avoidance: Serbia’s Quest for a New

Filip Ejdus is an Associate Professor at the Faculty of Political Science,

DEPOS Democratic Movement of Serbia (Ser. Demokratski pokret Srbije)

© The Author(s) 2020 1

uncertainty brilliantly captured by Edvard Munch’s famous painting which

section develops a novel conceptualisation of critical situations. Drawing

Crisis, Anxiety and Ontological Insecurity

The central assumption within the realist canon of International Relations

© The Author(s) 2020 7

Identity and Ontological Security in Philosophy

Ontological insecurity, for Laing, comes in three forms: engulfment, implo-

Identity and Ontological Security in World

rather unclear. The development of OST as a separate research agenda and

with significant security consequences. If everybody else can easily get

state, or are the insecure interactions merely a consequence of the state’s

at either agency or structure, Kinnvall is interested in understanding ‘secu-

Critical Situations and Ontological Insecurity

than that. In fact, such conceptualisation of a critical situation is so wide

Critical situations remove the protective cocoon created by routines and

Critical situations are generated by radical (real or perceived) ruptures in

(Kierkegaard 1980: 80). Humans find answers to this question of finitude

when threats amass and the ‘discourse of ontological insecurity transpires’

The paramount biographical narrative for Westphalian states pertains to

group’s emergence and evolution as a distinct entity. The story is usually

or denial (Lupovici 2012; Zarakol 2010). The choice of defensive response

Material Environments and Ontological Security

Built environment can also be introjected into collective identity narra-

from a particularly important material environment threatens to rupture

Un jeu de petits Bretons.

LE JOUR DES ANGES

Temps gris,—et, d’abord, quelques grains. Puis la pluie.

Bordée de fossés bruns et de haies rouillées, la route se fait plus étroite et

Le vent bas de la pluie poussait les feuilles mortes dans le fossé... Le

En canot, descendant la rivière, le vieux Crozon raconte ses souvenirs.

—Un bon seigneur, c’était M. de M***, qui vivait encore, il y a vingt

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DEPOS Democratic Movement of Serbia (Ser. Demokratski pokret Srbije)