Building a Maritime Strategic Architecture:
Montreux, HOPE, and the Institutional Lessons India Has Not Yet Drawn
Iran and the United States are now both running competing navigation management regimes at the world's most consequential chokepoint. The question this essay examines is not who wins that contest — it is what India must build before the contest reaches Malacca.
The first essay in this series established three things. That the operational pillar of the global maritime commons has cracked — shore-based anti-access systems have shifted the cost equation against surface fleets in confined waters, and no carrier battle group will restore what missiles and mines have contested. That the normative pillar has collapsed from the top — the Panama Precedent has removed the legal and moral ground from which the United States might have defended the transit passage regime it built. And that what is emerging in Hormuz is not disorder but a different order — Iran constructing institutional architecture above a military capability it already possesses, exactly as Gorshkov did before it.
This essay takes up the question the first left partially answered: what does building maritime institutional power actually look like, for a state that starts from disadvantage? The post-commons world is not being shaped by the strongest navies. It is being shaped by the most institutionally deliberate actors — states that understand that legal frameworks, access regimes, and diplomatic architectures are force multipliers as powerful as any platform, and that the time to build them is before the crisis, not during it.
The India-specific analysis — what this structural shift means for Delhi, and what decisions India cannot defer — is examined in a companion essay. This piece takes a step back to examine the method through three cases that India has studied insufficiently.
Three cases illuminate the method: Montreux, as a ninety-year demonstration of how a chokepoint legal regime is constructed, maintained, and strategically exploited by a mid-sized power. Iran’s Hormuz Peace Endeavour (HOPE), as a live example of managed-access architecture being built in real time above a military fait accompli. And Gorshkov’s institutional achievement, which is misread if it is understood only as fleet-building — it was equally a project of legal engineering, diplomatic positioning, and joint doctrine development.
I. Montreux: Ninety Years of a Chokepoint Regime
The 1936 Montreux Convention is the most durable chokepoint management regime in modern history, and it is worth understanding precisely because it was not designed by the dominant naval power of its day. It was designed by Turkey — a mid-sized, strategically situated state that controlled a waterway of vital importance to multiple great powers — and it has survived ninety years, two world wars, the Cold War, and the post-Cold War period without fundamental revision. Its durability is not accidental. It is the product of a specific institutional design that balanced great power interests against coastal state sovereignty with enough precision that every party calculated the arrangement preferable to contesting it.
The convention gave Turkey explicit authority over warship transits through the Bosphorus and Dardanelles. Non-Black Sea powers faced strict tonnage limits and prior notification requirements. The arrangement was not neutral. It was calibrated to give Turkey leverage — enough to make Ankara an indispensable party to any naval strategy in the region, while avoiding restrictions so onerous that a great power would find it worth the cost of overthrowing the convention by force.
For the Montreux Convention provisions and their Cold War exploitation, see Lyle J. Goldstein and Yuri M. Zhukov, ‘A Tale of Two Fleets,’ Naval War College Review, Vol. 57, No. 2 (Spring 2004), pp. 31–33. The authors document Soviet circumvention strategies including contingency declarations, the exploitation of NATO-Turkey tensions, and the redesignation of the helicopter carrier Moskva as a ‘large antisubmarine ship’ to evade the capital-ship clause.
What made Montreux strategically valuable to Turkey was not the letter of the convention but the practice of its exploitation. The Soviets found ways to work around its restrictions — including the redesignation of the helicopter carrier Moskva as a 'large antisubmarine ship' to evade the capital-ship clause. And Turkey allowed this, calibrating its enforcement to its own diplomatic interests, because the convention gave Ankara a permanent role in great power naval calculations that it would otherwise have had no standing to claim.
During the 1973 Yom Kippur War, Turkey’s easing of Montreux restrictions — granted in protest against US support for Israel — allowed the Soviet naval Fifth Eskadra to reinforce rapidly through the Dardanelles, directly enabling the peak force of ninety-six vessels that brought the Mediterranean standoff to its most dangerous phase. Turkey had converted a legal instrument into a diplomatic lever and then used that lever at the precise moment of greatest strategic value. This is not a story about Turkish naval power. Turkey had no fleet capable of contesting the Sixth Fleet or the Fifth Eskadra. It is a story about institutional architecture translating geographic position into durable strategic influence.
Montreux’s lesson for India is not that India should seek a convention governing its own approaches — though that question deserves more serious examination than it receives. The lesson is that the architecture matters as much as the fleet, and that mid-sized powers build durable influence by designing frameworks that great powers find it cheaper to work within than to overthrow.
The Andaman and Nicobar chain sits astride the northern approaches to the Malacca Strait. India has garrisoned it, developed it slowly, and debated its strategic role for three decades without resolving what, precisely, it intends to do with the leverage that geography provides.
New plans for a major transshipment terminal and associated infrastructure at Great Nicobar underscore a broader pattern: India’s economic maritime strategy is moving ahead to monetise location and capture cargo flows, while its military maritime strategy has yet to decide how hard, and in what ways, to translate that same geography into sustained sea‑control or sea‑denial power.
The Montreux precedent suggests the question India should be asking is not ‘how do we defend these or from these islands’ but ‘what institutional framework — what managed-access architecture, what notification regime, what role in regional maritime security governance — converts this geographic position into durable diplomatic weight?’ Turkey answered that question in 1936. India has not answered it yet.
The Bosphorus and the Malacca Parallel
The parallel to Malacca is direct enough to warrant examination. The Malacca Strait is governed by a 1971 trilateral arrangement between Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore that asserts the coastal states’ primary responsibility for the strait’s safety and navigation — a framework that deliberately stops short of the transit‑passage regime the US Navy prefers, while stopping equally short of the innocent‑passage claim that would give coastal states veto power over passage. It is, in effect, a managed ambiguity, calibrated to give the three coastal states a standing role in strait governance while avoiding restrictions that would trigger US or Chinese contestation.
India is not a party to this arrangement, which is precisely the problem. India’s trade moves through Malacca; its naval deployments east of the Andamans depend on Malacca’s relative openness; and its security partnerships with Singapore and Indonesia — including access to Sabang at the north‑western gate of the strait — give it privileged relationships with two of the three coastal states. Yet India still has no formal institutional role in Malacca governance, no guaranteed seat at the table for whatever arrangements might succeed the 1971 framework, and no articulated position on what its interests in the strait require beyond a generic commitment to freedom of navigation — a commitment that, as Part I established, is now normatively weakened by the Panama precedent. India’s Malacca interest is substantial. India’s Malacca institutional architecture, even after Sabang and other overseas technical and replenishment (Operational Turn Around — OTR) arrangements, remains strikingly thin.
II. HOPE and the Architecture of Managed Access
Iran’s revival of the Hormuz Peace Endeavour — the HOPE framework first proposed in 2019 — is more institutionally sophisticated than Western commentary has generally recognised. It is not a ceasefire proposal. It is not a bargaining chip. It is the construction of a legitimising architecture above a military fait accompli, designed to convert coercive capability into durable institutional standing. Understanding what Iran is building is necessary for India, because India is being offered a place in that architecture — and accepting or rejecting the offer without understanding its terms is exactly the kind of strategic inadvertence that compounds structural exposure.
HOPE as originally proposed brought together eight countries — Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Oman, the UAE, Kuwait, Qatar, Bahrain, and Iran — in a framework for intra-regional security dialogue grounded in principles of non-interference and good neighbourliness. It went nowhere in 2019 because Iran lacked the leverage to make participation attractive to its Gulf rivals. Iran now has that leverage — and is exercising it. What was a revival in April is now an operating regime. Iran has published navigation maps rerouting traffic through Iranian territorial waters past Larak Island, established IRGC-controlled transit corridors, and is charging tolls reported at up to $2 million per vessel. The IMO traffic separation scheme — the legal baseline for Hormuz navigation — has been almost entirely abandoned in practice.
The architecture being constructed has three tiers. The first is bilateral access arrangements: selective passage permitted to states that maintain functional diplomatic relationships with Tehran, with the informal framework already operating for China, Russia, India, Turkey, Iraq, Thailand, and Pakistan serving as the proof of concept — though since the US blockade began on 13 April, Iran has suspended even this selective framework, closing the strait to all foreign-flagged vessels until the blockade is lifted.. The second is co-management authority: Oman is expected to formalise a joint management role for the strait, modelled explicitly on the Panama and Suez canal authorities, giving the arrangement a veneer of multilateral legitimacy that pure Iranian unilateralism would lack. The third is the pending Strait Security Arrangements bill in the Iranian parliament, which converts the informal selective-access regime into domestic law — establishing Iran’s claimed jurisdictional authority, service fee structure, and navigation management role as statutory rather than discretionary.
What Iran is constructing is the institutional equivalent of what Gorshkov built above the Fifth Eskadra’s missile batteries. The guns establish the fact. The law formalises it. The multilateral framework legitimises it. By the time the international community has formulated a coherent legal objection, the architecture will be operating and states will have accommodated themselves to it.
The legal position is more contested than Iran's critics acknowledge. The Strait of Hormuz is not a clear-cut case under UNCLOS. Iran signed UNCLOS in 1982 but never ratified it; the United States never signed at all — non-parties by different routes, both invoking or contesting its provisions selectively according to their interests.
The strait lies entirely within the territorial waters of two coastal states — Iran and Oman — which creates genuine ambiguity about whether the transit passage regime, as enshrined in Part III of UNCLOS, applies as customary international law to a state that has never ratified the instrument. Iran’s invocation of the innocent passage doctrine from the 1958 Geneva Convention — which gives coastal states significantly more authority over foreign warships than transit passage — is not legally frivolous. Some scholars argue that fees tied to real services (security coordination, environmental monitoring, navigation management) may be legally defensible even under a transit passage framework, provided they are applied without discrimination between flag states.
For the legal ambiguity, see the discussion in Eslami and Malakouti, ‘Hormuz is not a tool to end the war but how Iran wins the aftermath,’ Responsible Statecraft, 4 April 2026, drawing on recent scholarship on UNCLOS applicability to straits lying entirely within territorial waters. The 1936 Montreux precedent is relevant: Turkey’s explicit coastal state authority over the Bosphorus and Dardanelles was accepted by the major powers precisely because the alternative — contesting it by force — was more costly than accommodation.
The Gulf neighbours’ dilemma sharpens the picture for India. Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Qatar, Kuwait, and Bahrain face an uncomfortable choice: participate in HOPE on Iran’s terms and implicitly legitimate Iranian control of the strait, or exclude themselves from the framework and watch it take shape without them. Iran has made the offer asymmetric by design — participants receive discounted passage fees and a consultative role; non-participants pay full tolls and have no voice. The Gulf states are calculating. Some will accommodate. The framework will have Gulf Arab participants before it has a formal UN endorsement, and that participation will provide the multilateral legitimacy Iran is seeking.
India’s position in this calculus is structurally analogous to the Gulf states’ in one critical respect: India needs the strait open, has no military option to force it open, and transited occasionally on Iranian goodwill. The difference is that India has a wider strategic interest at stake. If India participates in HOPE — even informally, by continuing to transit under the selective-access framework without formally contesting its legal basis — India is contributing to the normalisation of a managed-access model that will be applied against India’s interests in Malacca and the South China Sea by a more powerful actor. If India refuses to participate, it risks its energy supply. There is no clean choice. But there is a choice, and it should be made deliberately — with full understanding of the institutional precedent being set — rather than by default.
III. Gorshkov’s Real Achievement: The Institutional Lesson
Gorshkov is remembered as a fleet-builder. The assessment is not wrong, but it is incomplete in a way that matters for how India reads the lesson. What Gorshkov built was not merely a blue-water navy. He built an integrated system — fleet capability, legal architecture, diplomatic positioning, and joint operational doctrine — and he built them in a specific sequence: capability first, to establish the fact; law and diplomacy second, to legitimise and extend it; doctrine third, to make the capability operationally coherent against a superior adversary.
The 1973 Mediterranean standoff shows the doctrine at work. The Fifth Eskadra was not designed to defeat the Sixth Fleet in a conventional engagement. It was designed to impose unacceptable costs on the Sixth Fleet’s freedom of action — to make the use of American carrier aviation in the eastern Mediterranean sufficiently costly and uncertain that Washington would be constrained in its political options. The anticarrier groups trailing the Independence and the Franklin D. Roosevelt were not there to sink the carriers. They were there to ensure that the order to sink the carriers could be given in minutes, so that the Americans would have to factor the possibility of losing two carrier battle groups into every political decision they made about the Arab-Israeli war.
This is sea denial as strategic instrument, not as consolation prize. Gorshkov understood what the US Navy’s strategic revival in the late 1970s and 1980s — documented in Hattendorf’s authoritative Newport Paper — was forced to grapple with: that a continental power with geographic disadvantages, logistical constraints, and technological inferiority had nonetheless constructed a naval force capable of denying the world’s supreme carrier navy its assumed freedom of action in a theater of vital American interest. The Americans took a decade to formulate a doctrinal response. That response — the Maritime Strategy of the early 1980s, which called for taking the war to Soviet home waters rather than waiting to defend Atlantic sea-lanes — was itself a recognition that Gorshkov had forced a strategic recalculation.
John B. Hattendorf, The Evolution of the U.S. Navy’s Maritime Strategy, 1977–1986, Newport Paper No. 19 (Naval War College Press, 2004), Chapters 3–5. The Maritime Strategy’s forward offensive posture — striking at Soviet naval bastions in the Barents Sea and Sea of Okhotsk — was explicitly designed to force the Soviet Navy to fight defensively in home waters rather than contesting the Atlantic SLOC. It was, in Hattendorf’s analysis, the American institutional response to Gorshkov’s challenge.
The Joint Command Problem
But the 1973 standoff also reveals the failure mode that institutional fragmentation produces — and this is the warning India has not adequately absorbed. The Fifth Eskadra’s operational difficulties were not primarily technological. They were institutional. The Mediterranean squadron commander, Admiral Volobuyev, operated under the authority of the Black Sea Fleet command in Sevastopol, whose officers did not appreciate being corrected by subordinates and whose priorities did not align with the Eskadra’s operational requirements. Moscow’s insistence on deploying diesel submarines in an environment where the enemy controlled the air — over the explicit objection of Fifth Eskadra commanders who understood the submarines were being tracked and surfaced with embarrassing regularity — reflected a command structure in which institutional prerogative overrode operational judgement.
Semenov's journal records the consequences: intelligence failures that sent ships into 'the mouth of the enemy,' and logistical dependence on offshore anchorages that forced SSM-equipped ships to break off carrier-trailing operations to refuel rather than maintain targeting solutions.
Goldstein and Zhukov, op. cit., pp. 43–44, 50. Semenov’s journal records the command tensions with Black Sea Fleet headquarters, the diesel submarine dispute, and the intelligence failures. The ‘mouth of the enemy’ formulation is Semenov’s own, from chapter 2, p. 14 of his unpublished manuscript. The Soviet lesson from 1973 was not that sea denial works despite institutional fragmentation. It was that sea denial almost failed because of it — and that the margin was narrow enough to be alarming.
India’s theatre commands debate is, at its core, the same institutional question Gorshkov spent twenty years trying to resolve.
Rear Admiral Henry Eccles, whose theoretical work Hattendorf identifies as foundational to the US Navy’s subsequent strategic revival, articulated the principle precisely: naval strategy cannot stand alone. Maritime power is a component of overall national power, and its employment requires coordination with every other element of that power — land-based air, cyber, space, diplomatic, and economic instruments. A strategic concept, in Eccles’s formulation, must specify not only what to control and for what purpose, but how to control — which requires an institutional architecture capable of integrating all available instruments toward a single strategic objective.
Eccles, cited in Hattendorf, op. cit., Chapter 1, p. 6. Eccles’s definition: ‘A strategic concept is a verbal statement of: What to control / For what purpose / To what degree / When to initiate control / How long to control / And, in general, how to control in order to achieve the strategic objective.’
The emphasis on ‘how to control’ as requiring institutional integration, not merely platform capability, is the lesson India’s ITC and the GNI debate has not yet fully absorbed.
India’s Integrated Theatre Commands (ITC) debate has been framed almost entirely as an administrative question about civil-military relations, service prerogatives, and the pace of institutional change. The Hormuz crisis and the 1973 Mediterranean standoff together reframe it as a strategic question of the first order. What joint command architecture does India require to respond to a chokepoint interdiction contingency in its own maritime approaches? What is the doctrine for integrating land-based air from the Andamans with naval surface forces, submarine operations, and diplomatic engagement in a Malacca contingency? These are not administrative questions. They are the questions Gorshkov spent a career answering for a state in worse strategic position than India occupies today.
The Great Nicobar project (GNI) sits at the intersection of all three questions — and answers none of them. A dual-use airport and a deep-water port at Galathea Bay are instruments. Eccles's formulation is precise: the strategic concept must specify not just what to control but how to control — which requires the institutional architecture to integrate those instruments into a coherent operational response. Without the joint command architecture, without the chokepoint doctrine, without the maritime strategy document that specifies what Great Nicobar is for, the infrastructure at the southern tip of the Andaman chain is a platform without a theory. Gorshkov did not build the Fifth Eskadra and then ask what it was for. He built the theory first and the fleet second. India is proposing to build the fort first and leaving the theory for later. In the post-commons world, later is the one timeline that is no longer available.
IV. What Building the Architecture Actually Requires
The three cases — Montreux, HOPE, and Gorshkov’s institutional project — converge on a single analytical point: maritime institutional power is not a byproduct of naval capability. It is a separate project that must be built deliberately, in advance of the crisis that will test it, by actors who understand that legal frameworks, access regimes, and diplomatic architectures are as consequential as platforms.
For India, building this architecture requires clarity on four things it currently lacks.
First: A Position on Hormuz
India has only recently begun to articulate a position on the legal status of transit through the Strait of Hormuz, with New Delhi now describing it as an international strait where “no permission is required” for passage under international law, even though, in practice, Indian ships were until April relying on ad hoc clearances and assurances from Tehran. Before the US blockade took effect on 13 April, that uneasy arrangement allowed Indian‑flagged tankers to slip through; it has now broken down into a coercive stand‑off in which Iran is using threats and force to restrict selected foreign shipping, dozens of Indian‑linked vessels remain stuck in Gulf waters, and India’s exposure has shifted from diplomatic vulnerability to direct economic disruption — what was once strategic absence now looks much more like strategic paralysis. India's legal assertiveness at Hormuz sits uneasily alongside its historically restrictive position on foreign military transit through its own EEZ — a tension the post-commons world will not allow India to manage through studied ambiguity indefinitely.
India needs a position, and that position has to be developed with full awareness of its Malacca implications. The most defensible stance is neither an uncritical alignment with Washington’s increasingly hollow freedom‑of‑navigation rhetoric, nor an endorsement of Iranian‑style jurisdictional claims that India would not want applied to its own interests downstream. It is a position that distinguishes between service fees tied to genuine maritime services — charges that are broadly defensible under prevailing interpretations of customary international law and that India might accept as a pragmatic accommodation — and jurisdictional control that gives a coastal state discretionary authority to exclude vessels on political grounds. India can live with the first without legitimising the second. But making that distinction requires stating it clearly, which India has not yet done.
Second: An Institutional Role in Malacca
India’s strategic interest in the Malacca Strait is substantial and growing. Its institutional role in Malacca governance is negligible. This gap needs to close, and closing it requires active diplomatic engagement with Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore on what a successor framework to the 1971 trilateral arrangement might look like — one that gives India a formal consultative role commensurate with its stake in the strait’s openness.
The Montreux precedent is instructive here not as a template but as a principle: durable chokepoint regimes are those in which every state with a substantial interest in the passage has a formal institutional stake in its governance. The 1936 convention survived because both the Soviets and the Western powers found it preferable to work within the arrangement than to overthrow it — and Turkey’s position as the indispensable party to that calculation gave Ankara influence far exceeding its military weight.
India’s position in the Malacca approaches, combined with its security partnerships with Singapore and Indonesia, gives it the relational assets to construct something analogous. It requires the strategic decision to pursue it.
Third: A Joint Doctrine for Chokepoint Contingencies
The operational lesson of Hormuz, read through the 1973 Mediterranean lens, is that the decisive constraint on sea-denial operations is not platform capability. It is the capacity to integrate available instruments — submarines, surface combatants, land-based air, shore-based missile systems, and diplomatic signalling — into a coherent operational response under unified command. India has each of these instruments in its own maritime approaches. It does not have the joint doctrine or the command architecture to integrate them.
The Integrated Theatre Commands (ITC) debate needs to be reanchored in this operational reality. The question is not whether the Navy resists unified command or whether the Air Force will subordinate its assets to a maritime commander. Those are institutional politics.
The strategic question is: what does India need to be able to do in a Malacca contingency, an Andaman approaches contingency, or a western seaboard interdiction contingency — and what command architecture makes that operationally possible?
Working backward from that question produces a different and more tractable institutional design than working forward from service prerogative negotiations.
Fourth: A Maritime Strategy Document
India does not have a published maritime strategy. It has a maritime doctrine, a maritime security strategy, and a series of maritime perspectives documents. These are not the same thing. A doctrine describes how the Navy fights. A maritime strategy specifies what India is trying to achieve through maritime power, in relation to what adversaries, in what geographic contexts, over what time horizon, with what combination of naval, diplomatic, legal, and economic instruments. It is what Gorshkov wrote and rewrote across his career. It is what the US Navy developed — painfully, with multiple revisions and institutional battles — between 1977 and 1986 in response to the Soviet challenge Gorshkov had constructed.
Hattendorf’s study of that process is instructive not primarily for its strategic conclusions but for what it reveals about the process itself: that the development of maritime strategy requires the sustained engagement of senior naval officers with strategic theorists, intelligence analysts, and civilian decision-makers, over a period of years, with enough institutional protection for heterodox thinking to survive bureaucratic resistance. The US Navy’s Maritime Strategy of the 1980s emerged from exactly this kind of deliberate, protected intellectual effort. India’s naval strategic community is capable of the same. It requires the institutional mandate to undertake it.
V. The Architecture India Needs to Build
As this essay publishes, the United States has announced “Project Freedom” — a plan to escort commercial vessels through the Strait of Hormuz using destroyers, over 100 land‑ and sea‑based aircraft, and multi‑domain unmanned platforms. Iran and the US are now both operating navigation management regimes at the same chokepoint simultaneously. For anyone tempted to treat such operations as benign, it is worth recalling that USS Vincennes was also on tanker‑escort duty in these same waters when it shot down Iran Air Flight 655 in 1988, killing 290 civilians after misidentifying a passenger jet as a hostile aircraft. The institutional architecture argument this essay makes has been validated in the most direct way possible: the question is no longer whether chokepoints will be managed, but who manages them, on what legal basis, and whether India has a position on either.
The post-commons world is not going to wait for India to finish its theatre commands debate, develop a Malacca institutional position, and publish a maritime strategy.
The lesson of all three cases is the same: the states that shape maritime order are the ones that build the institutional frameworks before the crisis that makes them necessary — not the ones that respond to crises with capability alone.
India has the geographic position. It has the naval capability — growing, though not yet adequate to the full range of its maritime interests. It has the diplomatic relationships with the critical states in its maritime neighbourhood. What it lacks is the institutional deliberateness to convert these assets into durable maritime influence: the legal positions, the access regimes, the joint doctrine, and the maritime strategy document that would give Indian sea power a theory adequate to the environment it actually operates in.
Gorshkov’s achievement was not the Fifth Eskadra. It was the understanding, held consistently across three decades of fleet-building, legal engineering, and doctrinal development, that a continental power aspiring to maritime influence must build the architecture before it can exercise the influence. The ships come first in time. But the institutions are what make the ships matter. India knows how to build ships. It is the institutions that remain unbuilt.
The earlier part of this maritime strategic series closed on the observation that the other shore doesn’t wait. This part’s closing argument is sharper: the other shore is already building. The question is whether India is building too, or whether it will arrive at the architecture debate after the frameworks have been set by others — and find, as it has found in Hormuz, that the practical dividend of strategic autonomy is access at Tehran’s discretion rather than access as a right.
The ceasefire expired on 22 April without extension. The maritime confrontation has hardened — the strait remains effectively closed to most international shipping, hundreds of vessels are stranded in Gulf waters, and Iran and the United States are now both operating competing navigation management regimes at the same chokepoint simultaneously. As this essay publishes, the United States has launched Project Freedom, escorting commercial vessels through the strait with destroyers, over a hundred aircraft, and unmanned platforms, while diplomatic channels have partially reopened with Trump describing talks as “very positive” and Iran reviewing a US counter-proposal via Pakistan. Whether this produces a durable settlement or a temporary accommodation that hardens Iran’s institutional leverage remains to be seen.
What will not resolve itself automatically is the question this series has raised from the beginning. India has studied all three cases — Montreux, HOPE, Gorshkov — insufficiently. The Hormuz crisis is an invitation to study them seriously, and to build before the next crisis makes building impossible.
A Subscriber Note published today surveys where the situation stands.
© Nitividya. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission from the editor. For permissions, contact: editor@nitividya.com.