by LUKA GLUŠAC
When the drums of war begin to beat, who’s really banging them the loudest – soldiers in uniform or politicians in suits? That’s the heart of a long-standing academic clash between two heavyweight theories in civil–military relations: Military Conservatism Theory and Civilian Conservatism Theory. Both tackle a deceptively simple question: Who is more likely to push for war – the military or the civilians who control it?
The Military Conservatism theorists, championed by classic thinkers like Samuel Huntington (1957), insist that military officers are inherently cautious. They see war not as a tool of first resort, but of last, reserved only for situations where victory is near certain. Why? Because for soldiers, war isn’t abstract. It’s personal. It’s costly. It’s about risking the lives of their comrades.
According to Petraeus (1989), it’s often civilians, not generals, who are the “leading hawks” in the room. Civilians, unscarred by combat and enamored with military force as a tool of diplomacy, tend to underestimate the blood and chaos that come with war. Scholars like Gelpi and Feaver (2004) argue that this lack of experience makes civilian leaders more interventionist, while the military’s professional culture inclines it toward restraint. So, under this theory, the military is a conservative check on rash civilian enthusiasm for war.
But not so fast, say critics. Civilian Conservatism Theory flips the narrative. Far from being reluctant guardians, this view paints military institutions as eager participants or even drivers of conflict. Think of it as institutional self-interest: war brings bigger budgets, greater prestige, and a firmer grip on national policy. As Posen (1984) argued, militaries may be tempted to frame crises as solvable by force because that’s where their organizational advantage lies.
Here, civilians are essential gatekeepers. Without strong civilian oversight, the military’s bias toward warfighting can spiral into overreach. Scholars like Choi and James (2004) show empirically that when the military gains influence, the risk of conflict rises. Even military restraint may simply reflect fear of civilian punishment for failure, not any intrinsic pacifism. In extreme cases, as Michael Mann (2005) warned, civilian control becomes meaningless when civilians themselves are the chief militarists. Think of post-Cold War U.S. foreign policy, where the hawkish tone was often set by elected leaders, not generals.
So, who’s right? It depends on your angle. If you trust in the institutional professionalism of the armed forces, military conservatism offers a reassuring picture: generals as guardians of caution in a world of trigger-happy civilians. But if you worry about bureaucratic incentives and organizational culture, civilian conservatism raises the red flag: militaries may be more prone to conflict than they let on, and only tight civilian reins can prevent escalation. In the end, both theories agree on one thing: civilian control matters.
But let’s go one level deeper – why does it matter? Because the military, while built to protect the state, is paradoxically powerful enough to threaten it. As Peter Feaver (1999) put it, the same institution entrusted with defending the polity can become a danger to it. It’s the democracy paradox – the protector becomes the potential predator.
The danger isn’t theoretical. Just look at Myanmar. When the military launched its brutal campaign against the Rohingya minority in 2017, the civilian government stood powerless. Entire villages were razed, thousands slaughtered, and ethnic cleansing unfolded – all under a system where the generals ran the show and civilians were sidelined.
Now flip the globe to Tunisia, same period. Here, military officers were ordered by the president to crush a protest over natural resources. But the army refused to use force, letting demonstrators shut down an oil facility in peace.
So, what’s the key variable? Civilian control – or the lack of it – not only shapes military behavior but amplifies the unpredictability of it. Where oversight is weak, the military can either become an engine of abuse or a force of restraint. There’s no consistent pattern, just dangerous volatility.
Enter the unsung heroes of democratic governance: institutions of control and oversight. We’re talking about parliaments, audit agencies, and especially ombuds institutions – those watchdogs that bridge the military and the public, often stepping in where executive power gets shaky.
Ombuds institutions for the armed forces come in different shapes and forms, such general parliamentary ombuds institutions with the mandate over the armed forces (as in most of Europe, Latin America and Africa), specialized military ombuds institutions (as in UK, Canada, Germany, Norway, South Africa) or as an independent Inspectors-General (as in Australia). These bodies matter not just for democratic legitimacy, but also for real-world outcomes: how the military operates, how it treats service members, how it treats veterans, how it treats civilians, and how it views its role in society. They are how societies keep the armed forces sharp, effective, and, crucially, accountable.
According to Atipiboonsin’s (2024) groundbreaking constitutional dataset, a whopping 95% of the world’s constitutions mention the military, and almost half give it its own section. But here’s the twist: the military isn’t constitutionally treated as an independent “fourth branch.” Instead, its power is deliberately fragmented across legislative, executive, and judicial branches – classic checks and balances, retooled for the barracks.
But what happens when the military takes the pen and writes its own constitution? That’s not hypothetical. In 2023 alone, Gabon and Niger joined a growing list of countries (Burkina Faso, Chad, Guinea, Mali), where military regimes are dismantling democratic oversight piece by piece. In Niger, the national ombudsman (Médiateur) was suspended outright. In Burkina Faso, the Médiateur was literally erased from the constitution, most likely a first in global history.
This isn’t just bureaucratic cleanup. It’s a strategic deconstitutionalization of accountability. And it’s dangerous. Sure, research (Geddes et al., 2014) tells us that military regimes tend not to last. But the geopolitical tides of the 2020s are creating new safe havens for military rule, particularly in the Global South.
Civilian control of the military isn’t a nice-to-have. It’s the backbone of democratic resilience and the firewall against militarized abuse. Without it, we don’t just risk coups or conflict – we risk turning our guardians into ungovernable power centers, free to repress, silence, or even rewrite the rules of the game. So, keeping the military in check isn’t a procedural detail. It’s the difference between democracy and a junta.
Bibliography
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Bell, S. R., Clay, K. C., Kiyani, G., & Murdie, A. (2022). Civil–military relations and human rights. Armed Forces & Society, 48(3), 701–722. https://doi.org/10.1177/0095327X211006835.
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Luka Glušac, PhD, is Deputy Director and Senior Research Fellow at the Institute for Philosophy and Social Theory, University of Belgrade. His research centres on security, human rights, and good governance. He is particularly interested in national human rights institutions. His work has appeared in, among others, Politics and Governance, Human Rights Law Review, Journal of Regional Security, International Journal of Human Rights, Netherlands Quarterly of Human Rights and Journal of Human Rights Practice. His 2023 book (with Ubiquity Press and DCAF) explores the role of ombuds institutions in achieving the Sustainable Development Goals, with a focus on the security sector governance. Together with Daniel Reimers of DCAF-Geneva Centre for Security Sector Governance, he is working on a book manuscript focusing on the external oversight of the armed forces through the lens of ombuds institutions. The book should be out in 2026.
Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons
