Thursday, February 07, 2008

Daydream believers

Facsinating article, a book excerpt on by Fred Kaplan of his book of the same name. The excerpts, and the book itself, talk about how the current President and his administration's outlook on the world was based much more in fantasy and ideology than in reality, and the disastrous results that came from it.


When Condoleezza Rice became secretary of state, she hung a portrait of Dean Acheson in her office. As she explained in a Washington Post op-ed piece, Acheson worked in that office at the start of the Cold War, "as America sought to create the world anew." His portrait was to serve as a reminder that we too "live in an extraordinary time," that "the terrain of international politics is shifting beneath our feet," and we must "transform volatile status quos that no longer serve our interests."

George W. Bush liked to invoke the same era of history. In the fall of 2006, after the Republicans lost both houses of Congress, mainly as a result of the war in Iraq, Bush was said to be reading biographies of Acheson's president, Harry Truman. At a meeting of Republican congressional leaders, he noted that Truman's policies were unpopular in their day but were vindicated by history. The implication was that history would vindicate Bush, too.

But the comparisons that he and Rice invited were far from flattering. Where were Bush's new institutions and alliances, his Marshall Plan or NATO? Which of his doctrines would survive the year, much less the ages?

Truman and Acheson's legacies—the strategies of deterrence and containment—have been romanticized of late, but they endured and, on their own terms, succeeded because they fit the basic realities of their time. They were grounded in an understanding of history, technology, and the culture of America's allies and adversaries.

George Kennan, the State Department policy planner who laid out the ideas for containment, was a scholar of Russian history and a seasoned observer of Soviet politics. The pioneering nuclear strategists who spelled out the requirements of deterrence were versed in the power—and the limits—of nuclear weaponry. The advisers who built the institutions that revived Western Europe's prosperity and freedom—the Marshall Plan, the Bretton Woods agreement—were economists and bankers who understood the mechanics of finance. Finally, the decision makers—especially Acheson and, before him, George Marshall—understood that to be a global power, America needed strong allies, not puppets, and an international order with rules that it too would have to follow, if only to promote the compliance of others.

By contrast, Bush's strategies neither succeeded nor endured—not even through the two terms of his presidency—because they did not fit the realities of his era. They were based not on a grasp of technology, history, or foreign cultures but rather on fantasy, faith, and a willful indifference toward those affected by their consequences.

Those in charge of his policies cared little about the details of warfare, knew little about the realities of the Middle East, and had not thought through what made freedom work in their own country, much less what might make it work elsewhere.

When Acheson came to office, the world was clearly convulsed and transmogrified by world war, the atom bomb, and the crumbling of old empires. He realized that, although many things about the world had changed, the way the world worked—the nature of politics among nations, the basic motivations of human beings—had not. What he helped create was not a "world anew" but a set of strategies and institutions through which the emerging American superpower could advance its interests without triggering World War III.

To do that, he began not with an abstract vision or a rigid concept of "moral clarity," but rather with empirical observations. Communism tended to thrive amid poverty and chaos; so part of Acheson's strategy was to help make the West's war-ravaged nations more prosperous and stable. The atom bomb was imponderably destructive; so he helped build a security framework that contained Soviet expansion while also keeping the rivalry from spiraling out of control.

If America's Cold War presidents had adopted Bush's strategic post-9/11 strategic outlook, they would have attacked the Soviet Union at some point during the long standoff, on the grounds that Communism was the "root cause" of many problems. If Franklin Roosevelt and Winston Churchill had thought the way Bush did while planning the strategy for World War II, they would not have formed an alliance with the Soviet Union in order to beat Nazi Germany, because Communism, especially Josef Stalin's version of it, was evil, too. They might even have declared war on both Russia and Germany—and, in their high moral dudgeon, suffered catastrophic defeat.

The great divide in thinking about American foreign policy these past few years is not so much between Realists and Neoconservatives; it's between realists (with a small r) and fantasists. The split lies not in what is desirable over the long run but in what is possible here and now. It is a debate about not so much what America should do as what it can do—about the limits of American power in the post-Cold War world, about whether there are limits, about the way the world works.

In the opening years of the 21st century, the United States has been led by fantasists—by the sort of people that T.E. Lawrence decried as "dreamers of the day." Most people, he wrote, "dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds" and "wake in the day to find that it was vanity." But the daydreamers "are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible."

Lawrence acknowledged that he was one of those dangerous men, acting the British empire's dream of remaking Arabia at the turn of the 20th century. So too are America's present-day aspiring empire-builders, who dream of remaking not just the Middle East but the world.

They believe that America emerged from its Cold War victory as not only the most powerful nation but the only nation whose power deserved heeding. From there, it was a short leap to view America's values and interests as identical with those of the world; to assume that, deep inside, everyone would want to live the way Americans live, if only they were set free from tyranny. Combine these notions with America's technological superiority, and the stage was set for the delusions that followed.

The high-tech weapons developed in the 1990s—the smart bombs and the computerized intelligence networks—certainly gave the U.S. military an unrivaled edge on the open battlefield. But they don't win wars; they can't achieve the political objectives that inspire a war in the first place. They're useful for toppling regimes, but of no use in inspiring order afterward. In the end, the old verities—boots on the ground, shrewd strategy, knowledge of the local language and culture—remain key.

Finally, the world might be a more peaceful place if every nation were free and democratic (or all alike in some other way). It's merely utopian to believe that this someday might happen; it's folly to base policies, as Bush did in his second term, on the premise that this utopia is imminent.

There is no Universal Man marching inexorably down a common path to freedom. Real human history is molded, not fated; and its raw materials are the culture, geography, traditions, and past events of particular areas. It's not only naïve but reckless to believe that blowing off a tyrant's lid will unleash the geyser of liberty. It will unleash only whatever social forces have been teeming or festering underneath. If those forces are favorably disposed to democracy, as in some of the central European nations after the Soviet empire fell, democracy will have a good chance of flourishing. If they're not so well disposed, as in, for example, Iraq, the chances for democracy will be dim.

George W. Bush violated these common-sense precepts to an unprecedented degree and at staggering cost. But the Democrats have not presented an alternative approach. They may lament the skyrocketing defense budget, but they rarely cut or challenge specific weapons systems and veer away from military strategy. They criticize Bush's unilateralism, but only rhetorically. They stop short of acknowledging that America's interests might differ from those of prospective allies and that, therefore, building alliances often requires serious compromise.

In short, they sidestep the central challenge of foreign policy in a fractured world—facing up to the limits of America's power while preserving its stature and influence.

If a country is ruled or taken over by extremists who promote terrorism, or who torture and slaughter civilians, should they be allowed to get away with their behavior—should their regime be allowed to continue existing—just because they claim the immunity and privileges of a sovereign state?

In other words, is there a difference in principle between, say, President Clinton's "humanitarian intervention" in Bosnia and President Bush's "regime change" in Iraq? A classic Realist would argue (and some did) that there is no meaningful difference and no good reason to intervene militarily in either case. But for those of a different mind, it's a disturbing question. At least one prominent liberal advocate of using force in Bosnia suffered a crisis of conscience after finding himself opposed to the war in Iraq. He dealt with the contradiction by abandoning his earlier stance and dismissing the whole concept of "humanitarian intervention" as a ruse for neo-colonialism.

It may be hard to devise an ideological argument for embracing one type of intervention and protesting the other. But it is not so hard to make distinctions on practical grounds. It's reasonable to base a foreign policy chiefly on traditional concepts of national interest—and still sometimes go out of the way, maybe go to war, in order to help a ravaged people or oust a monstrous tyrant, even when those interests are not directly at stake.

One tangible litmus test for getting involved in such "wars of choice" is whether other powers or international bodies endorse and join the fight. This is not to make a moral pitch for multilateralism, but it is to make a pragmatic case. The purpose behind wars of choice is to enforce international norms. One central fact of our time is that the U.S. government can no longer claim that it embodies these norms—that it holds the right to be judge, jury, and executioner on matters of when, where, and how to enforce them. The U.S. government's recent actions—the willful disregard of international treaties, the tortures at Abu Ghraib, the illegal "renderings," in the eyes of some the occupation of Iraq—have undermined America's authority as a moral or legal arbiter.

America's record in this respect was hardly perfect during the Cold War. Even so, America as a model was clearly preferable to the alternative superpower. And when the Soviet Union fell, those who had lived under its yoke all those decades celebrated and cherished America's embrace—at least initially.

This is not remotely the case with those whose hearts and minds the U.S. government—which represents only one of many alternatives—is attempting to win over now.

As a result, to the extent America might want to go to war for moral purposes—or to conduct foreign policy with a moral dimension—it needs other, less tainted powers to come along. It needs these allies, in part, to share costs and burdens, because it lacks the money and manpower to do much on its own. More vitally, it needs allies to provide legitimacy.

The war in Bosnia was successful, in part, because it was—and, just as important, was seen as—a joint effort by the nations of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization to quash tyranny and ethnic violence in the heart of Europe, NATO's area of operation and therefore a mission of common interest.

The first war against Iraq, in 1991, succeeded in large measure because it was waged by a genuine coalition, which included Arab nations—Egypt, Saudi Arabia, even Syria—that not only openly supported the war but sent divisions of soldiers and squadrons of jet fighters. U.S. diplomats labored strenuously to create this coalition and hold it together. The Arab armies didn't make a vital military contribution, but their presence was vital to the war's political aims—one of which was to make clear that this was not a Western crusade, that pushing the Iraqi army out of Kuwait was widely seen as a proper enterprise, even in the eyes of other Arabs and Muslims.

In April 1991, the month after the first Gulf War ended, Dick Cheney, then the first President Bush's defense secretary, said it would have been a mistake for American or coalition forces to go all the way to Baghdad and overthrow Saddam Hussein, because they then would have had to form a new government and keep troops there for years to protect it. "It would have been a mistake," he said, "for us to get bogged down in the quagmire inside Iraq."

Surely Cheney hadn't forgotten this remark by the spring of 2003. (It had been quoted back to him many times over the years.) What was different was that he, and many of those around him, believed that the world had fundamentally changed. They thought that the absence of Arab allies—who had constrained the mission in the earlier war—freed the second Bush administration to muse more grandly about what war could accomplish. And they thought that the collapse of the Soviet Union—which had opposed the first Gulf War—removed the constraints definitively; that America now had the power to make all its musings come true.

Bush, Cheney, and the others didn't realize that many things about the world, especially the basic things, had not changed. More disastrous, some things that they thought were no longer important—for instance, the value of allies—had grown more important still.

A future president who recognizes this reality must also accept the fact that in the coming years wars of choice will be a less open option. Achieving major goals, military or otherwise, requires allies, and allies are no longer guaranteed. An alliance depends on common goals. Persuading others to go along on risky missions requires appealing to their interests, and this sometimes entails modifying the mission's goals or the means to achieve them. It is hard to convince a number of countries that some specific threat, conflict, or injustice can be dealt with only through war.

Frustrating as these restraints may be, one consequence of ignoring them will be more American defeats. Whatever policies a nation wants to pursue, its ambitions should not far exceed its abilities. Short of a dire threat to national survival, Americans are not likely to bring back the draft or redouble military spending. It will therefore be impossible to vanquish all foes, capture all terrorists, or topple all tyrants through American power alone.

America needs to advance its interests more through diplomatic routes, not because (or not just because) diplomacy is preferable to war, but because there is no alternative. This doesn't mean that America should be less assertive about its interests; since global power is so dispersed, its leaders must actively lead. But to do that, they must prove they're worth following. Leadership is about inspiring some combination of fear and respect. The limits of power and the quagmire of Iraq have made America less fearsome; the next president must restore its respect.

The neocons have no exclusive claim on the idea of standing up for freedom; it is an idea deeply ingrained in America's history, and it must continue to be if its foreign policy is to muster popular support. But it is one thing to defend free nations that are under attack or in danger of collapse; it is another thing to act as if freedom can be imposed at will, anywhere, by sword and fire.

Ironically, in one of his debates with Al Gore during the 2000 presidential campaign, George W. Bush said that the United States should "project strength" but also humility. "If we're an arrogant nation, they'll resent us," he said, when asked about other countries' perception of America. "If we're a humble nation but strong, they'll welcome us."

"Humble" may have gone too far. Wily, shrewd, calculating, manipulative—these, too, are qualities that a world power must occasionally harness in pursuit of its interests, and everyone knows this. But if candidate Bush meant that America doesn't always know what's in other nations' interests and can't impose its will at whim, then he wasn't off the mark. He would have done well to hang on to that insight and to explore its implications, as the crises of his presidency exploded and his advisers' dreams and ambitions summoned his darker and holier instincts.

What was abandoned in the subsequent pursuit of absolute power and universal values was the concept of statecraft—the art of conducting the affairs of state. The term has always implied the meshing of interests and ideals with reality, while navigating the shoals of a dangerous world. On this voyage, which determines life and death for millions, "moral clarity" can be an aid, but it's not a goal, much less a strategy. It's one thing to be a visionary, another to have visions. At serendipitous moments, a particularly powerful nation can try to reshape an agenda. But it can't toss away maps or ignore laws of physics just because they impose unpleasant restrictions. Those limits have to be taken into account, even if doing so means setting aside a great dream. Whatever their ultimate hopes, the leaders of nations have to survive and thrive among the common elements. They have to deal with the world as it is.

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