The global promotion of democracy has emerged, according to the
Bush Administration, as the defining mission of contemporary
American foreign policy. Speaking in lofty and eloquent tones in his
second Inaugural Address, Bush insisted that it would henceforth be
"the policy of the United States to seek and support the growth of
democratic movements and institutions in every nation and culture,
with the ultimate goal of ending tyranny in our world."
Insisting that "America's vital interests and deepest beliefs are
now one", the president claims that the expansion of freedom is the
imperative of America's security, indispensable to the survival of
liberty at home and the achievement of world peace. The deepest
source of the vulnerability revealed on 9/11 is that "whole regions
of the world simmer in resentment and tyranny--prone to ideologies
that feed hatred and excuse murder." So long as that is the case,
"violence will gather, and multiply in destructive power, and cross
the most defended borders, and raise a mortal threat." Only one
force can break the trend, the president avers, and that is human
freedom.
The Bush Administration's embrace of a global crusade for
democracy may be understood at several different levels. It is, in
the first place, a bid to define Bush's place in history; the speech
invokes America's Founding Fathers and especially its "second
founder", Abraham Lincoln, who insisted, "Those who deny freedom to
others deserve it not for themselves; and, under the rule of a just
God, cannot long retain it." Placing the promotion of democracy at
the center of American foreign policy also seems calculated to rally
public support at home for the Bush foreign policies and is based on
the conviction--evidently shared by many preceding presidents--that
no foreign policy can long retain the support of the American people
unless it competes for the great spigots of American idealism. At
yet another level, the democratist crusade is aimed at restoring the
tarnished legitimacy of American power in the world. Fears of U.S.
domination and empire are to be eased and perhaps replaced by the
hope that the United States will henceforth act as a liberating
force, one that uses its unprecedented power for aspirations widely
shared in the world.
In Bush's first term, the "Bush Doctrine" meant above all the
avowal that the United States would not sit on its hands and await
the development of weapons of mass destruction in the hands of
tyrants but was prepared, on the contrary, to take the offensive
against them. Now it is the "being" and not the "doing" of
autocratic states that creates the security threat to the United
States, which can only be addressed by dramatic change in the
character of these governments, either through reform or revolution.
Though Bush concedes that ending tyranny is the work of generations,
he also styles it as an urgent task of American security. He
acknowledges, too, that such change is not primarily the task of
arms, but he does not exclude the possibility that it may in the
future be a task for arms, and he seems to pledge U.S. support to
all those who seek to revolutionize despotic governments. "All who
live in tyranny and hopelessness can know: the United States will
not ignore your oppression, or excuse your oppressors. When you
stand for your liberty, we will stand with you."
America's Traditional Mission
A central question raised by the Bush Doctrine is the extent to
which it comports with the historic understanding of the American
purpose. Normally, an active role in the propagation of free
institutions is attributed to Woodrow Wilson, and it has become
customary to identify America's recent presidents--especially Ronald
Reagan, Bill Clinton and George W. Bush--as "neo-Wilsonians." But
Bush goes further, insisting that the policy proclaimed in his
second Inaugural Address is a logical outgrowth of America's
historic commitment to free institutions: "From the day of our
Founding, we have proclaimed that every man and woman on this earth
has rights, and dignity, and matchless value. . . . Across the
generations we have proclaimed the imperative of self-government. .
. . Advancing these ideals is the mission that created our Nation."
The determination of the "intentions" or "original understanding"
of the Founding Fathers has often excited attention and speculation,
but as often as not their intentions have seemed shrouded in
ambiguity. The "silences of the Constitution" have often been as
important--and mystifying--as its plain avowals. But the questions
raised by the Bush Doctrine--whether it is rightful to propagate
changes in another nation's form of government and what role the
United States should play in the protection and expansion of free
institutions--often commanded serious attention, and the answers
given by the Founders and their epigones lend no support to the Bush
Doctrine.
The question of whether force might be used to revolutionize
foreign governments arose quickly after the making of the
Constitution, in the wars provoked by the French Revolution. The
British government, James Madison would later recall, "thought a war
of more than 20 years called for against France by an edict,
afterwards disavowed, which assumed the policy of propagating
changes of Government in other Countries." The offensive edict to
which Madison refers is the declaration of the French Convention on
November 19, 1792, that "it will accord fraternity and assistance to
all peoples who shall wish to recover their liberty"--a declaration
that bears an uncanny resemblance to the policy Bush announced in
his second Inaugural Address. Alexander Hamilton also took umbrage
at the doctrine and argued that the French decree was "little short
of a declaration of War against all nations, having princes and
privileged classes", equally repugnant "to the general rights of
Nations [and] to the true principles of liberty." Thomas Jefferson,
who unlike Hamilton strongly sympathized with the French Revolution,
nevertheless acknowledged that "the French have been guilty of great
errors in their conduct toward other nations, not only in insulting
uselessly all crowned heads, but endeavoring to force liberty on
their neighbors in their own form." Much as Hamilton and Jefferson
differed in their assignment of guilt to the warring parties, both
of them made their normative assessments of the European war in
terms that emphasized the illegitimacy of war for the purpose of
propagating changes of government in other countries.
The self-evident truths of the Declaration of Independence did
not justify the proposition that foreign states had any right to
revolutionize another political order, even a tyrannical one.
Jefferson also regarded it as a self-evident truth that all nations
had the right to determine for themselves the form of government
they would adopt. The United States, he wrote, "surely cannot deny
to any nation that right whereon our own government is founded--that
every one may govern itself according to whatever form it pleases,
and change these forms at its own will; and that it may transact its
business with foreign nations through whatever organ it thinks
proper." Such was the settled doctrine of 19th-century America.
"Among the acknowledged rights of nations", as Daniel Webster noted,
is that of "establishing that form of government which it may deem
most conducive to the happiness and prosperity of its own citizens,
of changing that form as circumstances may require, and of managing
its internal affairs according to its own will. The people of the
United States claim this right for themselves, and they readily
concede it to others." Americans, Webster noted, may "sympathize
with the unfortunate or the oppressed everywhere in their struggles
for freedom", but their imperative duty was to neither revolutionize
nor "interfere in the government or internal policy of other
nations."
The idea that the principles underlying the American regime might
have universal applicability is as old as the Founding, yet this
belief existed happily alongside the idea that the United States had
neither a right nor a duty to bring others to an appreciation of
these truths through force. Rather than being contradictory, these
ideas originated in the same school of thought. Like religious
intolerance, the denial of legitimacy to other forms of government
was seen to cause perpetual war, making for an international
environment hostile to the spread of free institutions. Underlying
this outlook was a profound conviction that force had a logic
ultimately inimical to liberty. Early Americans saw a historical
dynamic at work by which force begot the expansion of executive
power, inevitably hostile to liberty. It had been the ruin of free
states, producing Caesars, Cromwells and Bonapartes. It was, as
Madison held, "the true nurse of executive aggrandizement."
Madison's conviction that no nation could preserve its liberty in
the midst of continual warfare lay behind his view that a central
purpose of America was to seek "by appeals to reason and by its
liberal examples to infuse into the law which governs the civilized
world a spirit which may diminish the frequency or circumscribe the
calamities of war, and meliorate the social and beneficent relations
of peace."
Alongside these self-denying ordinances prescribing a policy of
non-intervention and non-entanglement was the belief that the
American example would ultimately lead to the progressive expansion
of free institutions across the world. Jefferson's words in the
declaration, wrote Abraham Lincoln, "gave liberty not alone to the
people of this country, but hope to the world for all future time."
For Lincoln as for Jefferson, however, it was the American example
rather than active intervention that was to be the agent of change.
"Our true mission", as Daniel Webster summarized the classic view,
was "not to propagate our opinions or impose upon other countries
our form of government by artifice or force, but to teach by example
and show by our success, moderation and justice, the blessings of
self-government and the advantages of free institutions."
The idea that Bush embraced in his second Inaugural Address,
though given isolated expression in moments of upheaval, was usually
voiced as a form of satire, the reductio ad absurdum of an
interventionist policy. We had "better proclaim ourselves the
knights errant of liberty and organize at once a crusade against all
despotic governments", wrote John Tyler in 1852. "We should announce
to all Nations our determination to advance with sword the doctrines
of republicanism" and proclaim that "there is but one form of
government upon earth which we will tolerate and that is a
Republic."
Woodrow Wilson's presidency marked a departure from the classic
doctrine in certain respects, but it is very doubtful that "Wilson
would recognize George W. Bush as his natural successor", as one
historian has recently claimed.1 Though Wilson saw, and saw rightly,
that the partnership of democratic nations would henceforth have to
be a fundamental desideratum in U.S. foreign policy, his objective
was not to overturn the rules traditionally governing the relations
of states. The League of Nations he championed was based squarely on
the need for the society of nations to devise defenses against
aggression, rather than on the need to transcend the society
altogether. The league contained no democratic entitlement, and
Wilson's concept of a world made safe for democracy did not mean
that the world should be made wholly democratic. For Wilson, the
preponderance of power the democratic coalition might achieve was to
afford the basis for a progressive disarmament, not eternal U.S.
military hegemony. His skepticism regarding military power and his
affinity with Jefferson's pacific system were reflected in his
belief that economic sanctions and the power of public opinion would
do the heavy lifting in the prevention of aggression--an idea a
world apart from Bush's readiness to make force the first rather
than the last resort of American statecraft.
Even Wilson's interventions in Latin America were far more
limited in scope than is often alleged. His intervention against the
Huerta government in Mexico was the only one that can plausibly be
seen as having the promotion of democracy as its central purpose,
and even that was pursued in very tentative fashion. When he sent
troops to Vera Cruz in 1914 the announced reason was to avenge an
insult to the American flag. Though it also had the purpose of
stopping the flow of munitions to the Huerta government, Wilson was
very uncomfortable with the position in which it placed him, and he
got out as soon as he could. The main result of Wilson's meddling in
Mexico in 1913 and 1914 was not to convince him of the imperative of
spreading democracy through force, but rather the reverse. "I hold
it as a fundamental principle that every people has a right to
determine its own form of government", he declared in 1915. "If the
Mexicans want to raise hell, let them raise hell. We have got
nothing to do with it. It is their government, it is their
hell."
If the crusade for democracy embraced by Bush differs materially
from that of its supposed avatar and progenitor--creating a gulf
between Wilsonianism and neo-Wilsonianism about as gaping as that
between conservatism and neoconservatism--it also differs sharply
from the policy of containment that guided U.S. policy during most
of the Cold War. The Truman Doctrine set forth a policy of
containing the Soviet Union and other communist governments, not of
overthrowing those governments. It pledged the United States to
support free peoples resisting armed minorities or outside
pressures, not peoples who had already lost their freedom.
Only with the Reagan Doctrine was the nation's power openly and
directly committed to extending freedom through force. Reagan sought
to justify intervention in support of those rebelling against
tyrannical--particularly Marxist-Leninist--governments. Based on the
assumption that a democratic revolution was sweeping the world, the
Reagan Doctrine asserted America's moral responsibility for aiding
popular insurgencies struggling against communist domination. Such
support was deemed to express the vital security interests of the
United States. Though characterized in the traditional language of
self-defense, the doctrine went beyond defense in its claim of a
right to overturn that part of the status quo regarded as
illegitimate. Even more, it amounted to the assertion that the
American government no longer believed in the reality of an
international order that transcended the respective interests and
moral claims of the two great adversaries in the Cold War.
Although a direct line can be traced from Reagan to Bush in their
common rejection of the traditional bases of international order,
there are nevertheless significant differences between the two--in
the character of the men who developed them and in the circumstances
in which they were pursued. Unlike Bush, Reagan did not see his
popularity dependent on the successful prosecution of a war. Then,
too, the Reagan presidency was conducted in the lingering shadow of
Vietnam. A Congress resistant to presidential power in foreign
affairs and a public still possessed of a Vietnam syndrome were
realities that had to be taken into account. A fragile foreign
policy consensus might be quickly shattered by the ill-advised use
of military power. From the start, Reagan accepted the domestic
restraints on the use of force that had emerged since Vietnam,
realizing that where the public did not perceive compelling security
interests to be at stake, and could not be persuaded otherwise, its
support of military intervention depended on costs remaining very
low and the duration of intervention being very brief. Bush has
thrived in a very different domestic climate, one in which
constraints on the use of force have been loosened considerably, in
large part due to the discovery of a way of war in which U.S.
casualties were minimized and that allowed--so the president
believed--for the rapid achievement of military victories.
Security through Freedom?
The incompatibility of Bush's crusade for democracy with central
elements of the American tradition does not show that it is wrong.
The earth, as one earlier "practical idealist" said, belongs to the
living. Even if the democratic crusade does not represent our
deepest beliefs and values, it may nevertheless respond to our vital
security interests. Does it?
It is, of course, the Greater Middle East that is the fons et
origo of the Bush Doctrine. Bush's initial reaction to the 9/11
terrorist attacks was to insist that the true source of Islamic rage
was the image the terrorists held of America as a free society.
"They hate what we see right here in this chamber", he told
Congress. "They hate our freedoms--our freedom of religion, our
freedom of speech, our freedom to vote and assemble and disagree
with each other." In due time, however, what the administration
originally saw as the cause of Islamic hatred--our freedom--came to
be seen as the remedy for it. As Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice
noted in her speech at Cairo's American University in the summer of
2005, "For sixty years, my country, the United States, pursued
stability at the expense of democracy in this region here in the
Middle East, and we achieved neither. Now we are taking a different
course. We are supporting the democratic aspirations of all people."
Rice subsequently explained that underneath the veneer of stability
a very malignant form of extremism grew up "because people didn't
have outlets for their political views." She went on:
"Imagine what a different Middle East it can be with an Iraq that
is democratic and unified and free, with a Palestinian state that is
democratic and free, and with reform in great countries like Egypt.
Imagine what a different Middle East that would be. It will
certainly not be a Middle East that produces people who want to blow
up other innocent people."
Despite this rhetorical commitment to democratic government,
there is as yet little sign that the administration intends to make
a serious effort to push democracy in Saudi Arabia, Pakistan or
Egypt. Indeed, its skittishness over any direct challenge to the
legitimacy of these regimes might easily lead to the conclusion that
it does not really believe U.S. security rests upon their
democratization. Pakistan's nuclear capability, together with its
vital importance in the campaign against Al-Qaeda in Afghanistan,
makes any destabilization of the Musharraf regime a very dangerous
proposition. The Bush Administration, though calling for free
elections in Egypt, has not challenged Egypt's proscription of the
Muslim Brotherhood; yet, any election without the participation of
this potent opposition group would scarcely deserve the appellation
of "free and fair." No one can predict with any certainty the kind
of government that free elections would likely yield in Saudi
Arabia, but that such a government would be pro-American or would
play a more responsible role in oil policy is very doubtful. The
last time a major oil producer was embroiled in revolution, in Iran
in the late 1970s, the result was a virtual collapse of oil
production and a tripling of oil prices. If the Bush Administration
really believed its own analysis, Saudi Arabia--whence hailed 15 of
the 19 hijackers who took part in 9/11--would clearly be the
centerpiece of any reform agenda in the Middle East. But the risks
of actions that seriously destabilize the regime seem clearly to
outweigh the possible rewards.
That unspoken doubts exist within the administration over the
cogency of its own analysis seems not too surprising, since the
analysis itself is of dubious merit. The sources of Islamic rage are
many, of which anger in the "Arab street" over U.S. support for
corrupt and unrepresentative regimes is only one factor. As
important is the virtually unconditional support the United States
has provided Israel. More important is the cavalier disregard for
Arab lives the United States demonstrated in the first war against
Iraq in 1991, followed by a decade of cruel and destructive
sanctions. For the largest number of Arabs and Muslims, the second
war against Iraq in 2003 drove hatred of the United States to yet
deeper levels of intensity, and it has not been seriously allayed by
the spectacle of the Iraqi elections in January. Though the Bush
Administration wishes to make Iraqi democracy a spur to the larger
democratization of the Arab world, the persistent anarchy that has
enveloped Iraq makes it an example to be avoided rather than
emulated. The imbroglio, in fact, is producing an alarmingly large
number of "people who want to blow up other innocent people."
Iran is the great historic instance where the United States
garnered hatred for its role in installing and helping to maintain
in power an unpopular regime. The role that the United States played
in overthrowing the Mossadeq government in 1953 undoubtedly "blew
back" on this country when the shah was overthrown in the Islamic
revolution of 1979. In retrospect, of course, it is easy to see that
a nationalistic regime that exercised sovereignty over its natural
resources was a far better bargain for the West than the Islamist
regime that succeeded it. By blocking one path of development that,
though disagreeable, was compatible with U.S. interests, the
Eisenhower Administration helped prepare the ground for a regime
that regarded the United States as the "Great Satan." This sequence
confirms the historian in the judgment that the role played by the
United States in 1953 was wrong and counter-productive, but the
policymaker also ought clearly to see that the overthrow of the
shah's regime did not exactly square the historical accounts and
lead the Iranians to view America with favor. The tentative
approaches the Bush Administration has made toward reform in the
Arab world bear comparison to the criticism of the shah's regime
that the Carter Administration made in 1977. That in the present
case, as in the previous case, the United States might help set
forces in motion that it cannot control and that threaten its vital
interests seems a distinct possibility. The most dangerous moment
for a bad government, as Tocqueville observed, is when it begins to
reform.
Though the administration has renounced "sixty years" of good
relations with Arab despots and now insists that "stability has not
brought us security", the formulation is altogether too sweeping.
Stability has brought us security in certain respects--for example,
in ensuring access to oil. And even if it is accepted that stability
has not brought us security in all respects, it scarcely follows
that instability will do so. That assumes that things cannot get
worse than they are, a hazardous assumption for a statesman to make
and one belied by much of human history. The advocates of the push
toward democracy concede that "democratization is the same as
destabilization", that it entails "the dismantling of whole
political cultures", and that it cannot be done "easily, swiftly, in
conformity with an American notion of efficiency, or with a perfect
understanding of the intellectual and political demands of the
task." They concede, too, that "it will not be done peacefully", nor
with any certainty that the values we trumpet will not be "cynically
manipulated by American interests."2
If all this is true, however, it suggests that the Bush
Administration will in fact draw back from pressure on Egypt, Saudi
Arabia and Pakistan. The administration is pushed by the logic of
consistency to bring pressure against these friendly regimes, but it
is pressed by the logic of interest and security to shudder at any
serious confrontation with them. Its actions show plainly that the
equation drawn between vital interests and "deepest beliefs" is
false.
What really underlies the Bush Administration's emphasis on
democracy in the Middle East is the need to justify the continuing
war in Iraq and to step up the pressure against Syria and Iran. It
is our presumed enemies, rather than our historic friends, that are
the real objects of the Bush Doctrine. But the results of the policy
do not bear out the confident prediction that out of the ashes of
war comes liberal democracy. Iraq cannot be both Ground Zero in the
global War on Terror and a model for liberal reform in the region.
In this barricaded and devastated country, the liberal virtues of
cooperation, reciprocity and compromise are most unlikely to take
their storied flight. In fact, such anarchy breeds the conditions
for a garrison state, not a liberal democracy. The plea of national
safety has always been the most potent argument for surrendering
freedom. So it has been in Iraq and even, to a very considerable
degree, in the United States since the onset of the War on Terror.
The Iraq War, indeed, has displayed a deep contradiction between
the democracy the United States says it is trying to build and the
methods it has employed to battle the insurgency. For all the effort
that American officials put into enshrining various individual
rights in Iraq's Transitional Administrative Law (TAL), the United
States has been equally insistent that the restraints on
governmental power that the TAL incorporated do not apply to the
coalition forces that have actually held most of the police and
military power in the country. "The American position", noted one
Iraqi closely involved in negotiations over the interim
constitution, "was that they did not want any restriction on their
movements. And they wanted to make it clear that the Bill of Rights
only applied to the Iraqi government. Only the Iraqi government
would need an arrest warrant; the multinational force could break
down doors." There have been few constitutional restraints on the
actions of U.S. military forces in Iraq and none reachable by Iraqi
authorities. U.S. forces have relied on military intelligence, often
defective, rather than judicial warrants to conduct raids and pursue
suspects. They have arrested and imprisoned many individuals without
even a pretense of fair and public hearings by impartial courts and
have often left family members with no knowledge of the whereabouts
of their kin or the charges brought against them. Even if the plea
is accepted that such measures are justified on grounds of military
necessity, the flouting of liberal principles by U.S. forces cannot
but undercut the U.S. case for democracy. Such conduct communicates
to Iraqis that while limitations on the power of the state ought to
be enshrined in the constitution, they may easily be brushed aside
by the appeal to national security.
If the Bush policies have brought neither security nor freedom in
the Middle East, they do not promise better results elsewhere. It is
a necessary consequence of making the "end of tyranny" your aim that
all tyrannical regimes, and even those suspected of tyranny, are
converted into an enemy. States have immemorially set aside
differences in regime type and negotiated with adversaries across
those boundaries, because it is the only way to reach the goal of
security they have set for themselves. The Bush Doctrine proposes,
in effect, a reversal of this ancient logic. Strong as the United
States is, the result cannot fail to be a worsening of the American
security predicament if the doctrine is given anything like a
consistent application.
This is a vital lesson of the North Korean crisis. Since the
prospect of a North Korean bomb emerged in the early 1990s, a
settlement of the issue that deprived the North of its nuclear
capability has meant a willingness on the part of the United States
to accept the existence of the regime and to renounce the objective
of overthrowing it by force. That had to be at least part of the
quid for the North Korean quo--that is, its surrender of a nuclear
capability. Clinton went a considerable distance in this direction,
though even he did not adhere to the terms of the Agreed Framework
signed with North Korea in 1994, which called for a normalization of
relations. Bush, however, greatly disliked even Clinton's partial
concessions. He preferred the route of maximum pressure on Kim
Jong-il up to and including the threat of force. He found the North
Korean leader despicable and said so. All options were on the table
for dealing with him and the threat he represented. It would be hard
to demonstrate that the subsequent breakout of the North in nuclear
weapons capabilities improved the security of the United States or
of North Korea's neighbors. There are signs that the administration
has eaten of this fruitful lesson, though whether it has been fully
digested is unclear. Having taken a very high ground, it now has the
additional burden of finding a graceful way to retreat if it wants
to make a settlement.
The general lesson is clear. One cannot seek to delegitimize
regimes and make their demise a declared objective of U.S. foreign
policy, and then hope to reach agreements with them on vital issues.
That applies, though perhaps in varying measure, across the board to
regimes we dislike for ideological reasons but whose cooperation is
needed if security threats are to be minimized and addressed without
violence--that is, to China, Iran, Russia, Saudi Arabia and others.
We are, of course, free to imagine a distant world in which all are
free and democratic, after which conflict among peoples abruptly
ceases to spill over into violence. On this side of utopia, however,
security arrangements--cooperation with sometime friends, deterrence
of sometime enemies--need to be made with existing regimes.
The more moderate supporters of the administration immediately
reply that Bush intends no crusade for democracy but will continue
to work with autocratic governments. Those assurances are welcome,
since the tentative and inconsistent application of a bad policy is
undoubtedly better than its determined and consistent application.
One may hope that such realistic calculations find expression in the
administration's policy, but if they do, it will be because
administration officials realize that their larger analysis linking
the achievement of security to the aggressive pursuit of free
institutions is mistaken.
Restoring Legitimacy
These various contradictions and tensions within the U.S. stance
suggest that the Bush Administration will have difficulty making its
crusade for democracy the basis for either rallying public support
behind its policies or restoring legitimacy to U.S. actions in the
world. Indeed, polls by the Pew Research Center and the Chicago
Council on Foreign Relations, among others, show consistently low
support for the abstract goal of promoting democracy in foreign
countries. The public does not object in principle to such
promotion, just as it does not object in principle to improving
living standards in other countries through foreign aid. But its
willingness to bear serious costs for such objectives is weak to
non-existent.
The Bush Administration also misreads world public opinion on
this score. Opinion abroad is unnerved by an administration that
claims for itself a wide variety of potential justifications for the
use of force. Rather than expanding such justifications, as the Bush
Doctrine does in both its preventive war and democratist guises,
most foreigners want to see them contracted. It is the prospect of
an "America unbound" that most unsettles world public opinion, and
it demands as a condition of support for American aims that the
United States place itself under the restraints of international law
and international institutions. If America wishes to gain legitimacy
for uses of force going beyond the principles of self-defense
embedded in the UN Charter--as, for instance, in humanitarian
interventions--world opinion insists that the exception must be
granted by international institutions that provide a voice, however
modest, for the world's governments. It objects strongly to a stance
in which democracy is loved in the abstract but hated when the
peoples of the world give expression to their outlook in the UN and
other international institutions.
The Bush Administration is no doubt right in insisting that U.S.
foreign policy must seek to harmonize the nation's interests and its
ideals. Where it and its neoconservative followers err is in the
belief that there is only one way to read the requirements of
morality, justice and idealism. The idea that force ought to be
subject to certain restraints is based on principle as well as
prudence, and it reflects a central conviction in the heritage of
liberal constitutionalism that the neoconservatives themselves
claim. The principle that the right of revolution belongs to the
people of a given territory is equally central to the liberal
tradition. To insist that actions that violate these norms are
imprudent does not mean that they are not also condemnable on
grounds of principle. In fact, they violate a central conception of
the society of states and propose a world in which the ancient
principles of sovereignty, self-determination and non-intervention
are abandoned in favor of a global cosmopolis, with America as
judge, jury and executioner.
None of this should suggest that American ideals and institutions
lack universal appeal. The constitutional principles on which this
nation is founded--representative government, freedom of expression,
the separation of church and state, federalism, the legal protection
of private property and individual rights, restrictions on the
powers of government--have shown remarkable applicability in
cultures vastly different from our own. But we must also remember
that in the liberal tradition, the rights of nations--above all the
right to determine their own domestic institutions--were just as
essential as the rights of individuals and that the right of
revolution belonged to each people and no one else. The Bush
Administration itself bows to the principle of national independence
in claiming that "the United States has no right, no desire, and no
intention to impose our form of government on anyone else." But as
this declaration is deemed compatible with invading another country
for the purpose of liberating its population and is considered
applicable only after a violent external revolution has been
effected, the conclusion is inescapable that its actions betray its
words.
At bottom, what is most objectionable about the Bush Doctrine is
the junction it postulates between freedom and force. When John
Quincy Adams declared that America should be the well-wisher to the
freedom and independence of all, but the champion and vindicator
only of her own, he argued that the contrary policy would entail an
insensible shift in our maxims "from liberty to force." By the
maxims of force he meant what today would be called militarism--"a
tendency", in Andrew Bacevich's words, "to see international
problems as military problems and to discount the likelihood of
finding a solution except through military means." That was the way
of the "war system" of the European powers to which the Americans of
Adams's day had such strong objections, and it is also the way of
the contemporary United States.
Charity, it has been said, begins at home. So does respect for
the principles of freedom. If we are to hope that others might gain
instruction and profit from our example, we ought to make certain
that our example is a good one. The current generation of Americans
might gain instruction from the liberal tradition as much as others.
The prohibition against the "midnight knock of the secret police"
does not have attached to it a large asterisk that allows the
supposed apostles of freedom to engage in such practices when they
find it necessary or convenient. Above all, the liberal tradition
condemns a promiscuous attitude toward the use of force. Nothing can
be more damaging to the tradition of civil freedom than invoking the
name while the substance is violated, nothing more revolting than
the prostitution of the "sacred fire of liberty" to purposes at odds
with its central precepts. "Observe good faith and justice toward
all nations; cultivate peace and harmony with all", observed George
Washington in his Farewell Address. "Religion and morality enjoin
this conduct; and can it be, that good policy does not equally
enjoin it?" Washington believed that "the fruits of such a plan
would richly repay any temporary advantages which might be lost by a
steady adherence to it." It is a measure of the distance we have
traveled from the principles of our Founding that these temporary
advantages are now seen as dispositive, as the supposed dictates of
necessity repeatedly trump respect for principles dear to the
liberal heritage. Such an attitude mocks, rather than respects, "the
honorable achievement of our fathers."
1. David M. Kennedy, “What ‘W’ Owes to ‘WW’”, The Atlantic (March
2005). |