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Book Review: ‘In Defence of America’

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by Antonia Marie Sheppard

Bronwen Maddox. In Defence of America. Gerald Duckworth & Co Ltd, London, 2009. ISBN  978-0715637920 Pp. 208. Paperback. 

In Defence of America: Amazon.co.uk: Bronwen Maddox: Books

In 2013, a parody Twitter account of the American actor Bill Murray (@BillMurray) caused global confusion, after tweeting:

I’m sick of people saying America is ‘the stupidest country in the world’. Personally, I think Europe is the stupidest country in the world.

Perhaps a comment on the American education system; this confusion twinned with frustration offers an amusing illustration of just one internationally recognised stereotype of the United States.

It is precisely this stereotypical, ‘unfair’ portrayal of the United States which Bronwen Maddox, former Foreign Editor of The Times, seeks to challenge in her book, In Defence of America. Her central charge is that the global perception of the United States as a neoimperialist hegemon, characterised by the breath-taking arrogance and misjudgements of its leaders is a misrepresentation deserving of a retrial. While acknowledging that the US is ‘comically’ bad at making a case for itself, Maddox attempts to re-caricature these ‘fat, trigger-happy, Christian fundamentalists’ into more appealing allies. Through an analysis of shared values, capitalist successes, the promotion of democratic principles, and the invasion of Iraq, Maddox argues that anti-Americanism is ill-founded and outdated in our globalised world. However, plagued by illogical methodology, sweeping generalisations, and a by-product of audience alienation, Maddox’s myopic perspective does not withstand scrutiny.

Hailing from an Anglo-American background, Maddox presents herself as an objective commentator. Unfortunately, this does not translate in practice. Portraying the United States as a victim, Maddox adopts the position of attorney, presumably in a case regarding defamation of character. The legitimacy of this stance is questionable. The United States does not need an apologist when it has chosen to exert its power on the global stage, nor does it have any evidence for victimisation, following its position as the predominant author of Western geopolitics. Furthermore, the employment of the English definition of the term ‘liberal’ is paradoxical. By imposing British language etic upon a study of America, does erroneous methodology not mark this interpretation void? The case would likely be thrown out in court.

Despite this, Maddox’s argument that anti-Americanism was inevitable following the fall of the Soviet Union is commendable. After half a century of Cold War animosity, the bipolar nature of the international system collapsed, and the Eastern power bloc that the West had united against disappeared. The primal urge to ‘know your enemy’ meant that this void needed to be filled. Who better to unite against than arguably the most powerful hegemon in history? Fuelled by a combination of American triumphalism and a reignition of nationalism, Western Europeans were free to vocally criticise the United States, without having to depend upon them for defence against the Soviet Union. It was from this freedom that anti-Americanism flourished. However, the United States has not helped its case. The growth of anti-Americanism is not surprising after George W. Bush’s reduction of global politics to a contest of good versus evil; the ‘good’ guys have since perpetrated around 1,000 civilian deaths in Pakistan alone. Defence of the International Liberal Order by illiberal means (see D. Stokes, American hegemony and the future of the Liberal International Order) has undermined America’s virtuous persona on the international stage, and preceded its retreat to isolationism.

Moreover, the charge that America is essentially benevolent is an unpopular opinion. Simply reaffirming that idealism is a ‘guiding inspiration’ of all American policy is an idealistic and distorted representation of the land of the free’s foreign interventions, which lacks a basic foundation in history. The argument that the United States should be applauded for ‘three decades of democracy spreading’ fundamentally ignores the nationalist aims for global hegemony that dictated the Cold War. More recently, the Bush doctrine’s call to impose democracy on the Middle East was not only a selfish pursuit of national security, but disregarded the national interests of the occupied countries. It is these national interests, under the guise of idealism, that continue to define the foreign policy of the United States today.

While America might have been the victim of anti-Americanism in 1991, their conduct in Iraq, and more recently under the Trump administration, continues to alienate international perception. Much like European opinion of America, the perspective of this book has not aged well.

Furthermore, the characterisation of the European powers as the ‘losers’ from American dominance does little to serve Maddox’s argument that America does not deserve misrepresentation, but rather perpetuates her hypocritical perception of European stereotypes. Any Englishmen and women reading this will likely relish in the French-bashing of the book, sticking two fingers up at the French, as though on the fields of Agincourt. Maddox’s argument that any political affinity with the United States in France is like signing your own warrant for the guillotine reads as ill-informed prejudice. With American ratings of France reaching a record-high of 87 per cent in 2016, and Obama’s paralleling of himself and Francois Hollande as the ‘Jefferson and Lafayette’ of our time (a duo portrayed as the personification of Franco-American amity, despite the two men having no contact during the Revolutionary years (see Tom Chaffin’s Revolutionary Brothers: Thomas Jefferson, the Marquis de Lafayette, and the Friendship That Helped Forge Two Nations)), it is difficult to defend this projection of anti-Americanism against reality. While the French may be angry about Trump’s lack of common decency, following his cancelation of a centenary visit to the French battlefields due to a spot of rain, it is hardly likely that this antipathy, as Maddox argues, originates from the Treaty of Versailles.

Maddox’s incapability to garner sympathy from her target audience continues. The implication that Britain’s lack of a constitution is due to the recognition that ‘the best words have already been taken’, is not only a matter of opinion, but functions counterproductively to further alienate those she attempts to ‘defend’ America against. Additionally, while attempting to challenge the Anglican perception of the United States’ role as the world’s policeman, Maddox does not just succeed in undermining its legitimacy, but accidentally illustrates (rather effectively) the destructive authority that the ‘world’s policeman’ has exercised this side of the millennium. One is provoked to wonder why US armed forces are rarely subject to scrutiny for their actions, with accountability being an ‘orphan’, to paraphrase JFK. Who gave them license to kill? Therefore, by recognising the position of Europeans as mere agents, under the authority of this stand-alone superpower, one is ironically left to stomach the bitter taste of American exceptionalism.

Littered with generalisations and double-standards, In Defence of America ironically struggles to defend its central argument throughout. If this book was three pages, or three volumes, it could have the potential to do the central argument some justice. Ultimately, this book would be suitable for the general readership, due to its accessibility of language and concise length. It is essential reading for anyone seeking to have an intelligent debate regarding America’s changing relationship with Europe within global politics. Nevertheless, readers of this book should take every sentence with a pinch of salt. It would be wrong to suggest that it is not worth reading – it is – but purely as an exercise in futility, or for the sole function of criticism. Moreover, a word of warning to any fellow Europeans who wish to read this book, a catch-22 presents itself: if this book is not agreeable with yourself, is this as a result of your own anti-American bias?

Antonia Marie Sheppard is an MA Intelligence and International Security student at King’s College London. Specialising in counter-terrorism and deradicalisation, Antonia is a member of the ‘MPOWER Project (NY), conducting research into radicalisation and prevention through intervention. Her research focuses on the UK-USA presence in Cyprus and more specifically at Ayios Nikolaos, the largest GCHQ base outside of the UK.

Book Review: ‘Breaking Hate’

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by Isabela Betoret Garcia

 

Christian Picciolini. Breaking Hate: Confronting the New Culture of Extremism. Hachette Books, London, 2020. ISBN 978-0316522939. Pp. 272. Hardcover, £22.85.

Stories about the alt-right rarely have happy endings. Many associate the movement with white supremacists, those men and women who have left a path of violence and death in their wake. Connotations of ‘white supremacy’ tend to include men marching in a university campus in well-tailored trousers and neat haircuts chanting propaganda, such as the ones that marched in Charlottesville; or perhaps the young men who perpetrated unspeakable acts of violence in houses of worship, like Dylann Roof did in Charleston when he massacred nine people or the Christchurch Mosque Shooting where 51 were murdered. The image conjured up is that of hate, a hate that is so unforgiving to those in its path that it does not invite any kind of compassion. Yet, that is exactly what author and activist Christian Picciolini asks of us in his latest book: Breaking Hate.

Picciolini was born to Italian immigrants, in Illinois; by the age of 14 he had joined one of the most violent racist groups in the United States, the Chicago Area Skinheads. By 16 he had become the leader of the group, as well as formed a white supremacist punk band, W.A.Y (White American Youth). Even though he left the movement at 22, he had spent eight years helping it grow. Such a drastic U-turn came, he claims, from interactions he had with the people he had been conditioned to hate – black, Jewish, and homosexual people – and finding some common ground which left him unable to justify his hate. After leaving his former violent life, having spent some years in a dark space of apathy and depression by his own admission, he began to do what became his life’s calling: telling his story. His first book, White American Youth: My Descent into America’s Most Violent Hate Movement— and How I Got Out, focused on his life. Picciolini seemed to understand that for people to truly believe that his theory of de-radicalisation could work, they had to understand how he had come to believe in them himself.

Breaking-Hate: Confronting the New Culture of Extremism serves both as a culmination and as a new chapter. A culmination in that it is not only a collection of stories of men and women Christian has helped de-radicalise; it also allows Christian to share the steps of extremist disengagement he has come to believe. With each new chapter, however, it becomes clear to the reader that there is much work to be done, and that extremism really is an embedded cultural problem.

Christian’s proposal is clear: No one is born into hate, and violent ideologies are not what lead people down the road of extremism. When someone encounters what he calls ‘potholes’ in life, they will be in danger of never fulfilling their sense of identity, community, and purpose (ICP). De-Radicalisation is a contested concept with no single accepted process, and many doubt the effectiveness of it. In the field of de-radicalisation many scholars such as Daniel Koeher have pointed to ideology as a key aspect in the road to radicalisation. Picciolini’s theory differs significantly. It is when they trip on their search of ICP that extremism may find them, but ideology itself is the last step. Only by listening to their stories and identifying these potholes, presumably extraordinary patience and compassion, one can extend a hand to bring them back to a normal life. The process he uses includes 7 steps: Link, Listen, Learn, Leverage, Lift, Love, Live. These steps are meant to form a link with the subject, understand how their path in life brought them to radicalisation, help them make amends, and eventually life free. Though his argument is fascinating and compelling, Picciolini does not spend much time discussing alternative theories of de-radicalisation that have an ideological basis, which would lend more credibility to his argument.

“The answer is love”: the message could not be more clear (Image credit: Christian Picciolini)

The structure of the book relies on the reader connecting with the stories told within. From veterans and men recruited in prison, to a former ISIS fighter, to a seventeen year-old girl caught in a scam that seemed to lead all the way to the 2016 Presidential election— the stories Christian relates are raw and tender. They are simultaneously full of sorrow, anger, and hope. Yet there are underlining reminders that even if disengagement is successful, the subjects of the book may be atoning for their actions for the rest of their lives.

The message of the book is, for the most part, effectively conveyed and persuasive. Because most of the subjects Christian examines in the book were part of the Alt-Right we might ask if ideology truly does not matter as much as other experts say in the de-radicalisation process, and the book would benefit from exploring other theories for Picciolini to more effectively defend his own. The book’s persuasiveness does rely on the author himself, and on the anecdotal evidence he provides of the cases present in the text, which could be more effective if paired with quantifiable evidence of the success of his methods. Upon closing the book, however, a reader will likely reconsider any previously held notions on the psychology of radicalisation which rely on ideology and be willing to consider compassion, and in this point the book is undeniably successful.

Picciolini admits to sometimes almost losing patience, hope, and control when trying to help extremists disengage. But here is where he comes to the most important lesson of all: see the child, not the monster. This is not meant to excuse the actions of extremists because of the abuse they may have suffered, the severe lack of ICP that delivered them into the arms of hate. But rather to remember that basic premise, that no one is born into hate; and if they find their way into it, they can find their way out.

Isabela first completed a Foundation Programme in International Relations and is now a third-year War Studies and History BA. She also works as an International Relations and Politics Tutor for King’s Foundations. She is Mexican-Spanish and lived most of her life in Mexico until she moved to London, and this background has given her a keen interest in migration. She is also interested in how the every-day has become politicised through media, and what this means for the future of journalism and politics. You can follow her on Twitter @isa_betoret.

Book Review: ‘The Hidden History of Burma’

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by Anna Tan

 

Thant Myint-U. The Hidden History of Burma: Race, Capitalism and the Crisis of Democracy in the 21st Century. Atlantic Books, London, 2019. ISBN 978-1-78649-790-1. Pp. xi, 288. Paperback. £10.78

 

The case for peace in Myanmar (Burma) has been a tiring and relentless one. The biggest myth of all is that Burma was set to have a bright future during the dawn of its independence from the British Empire. Thant Myint-U in his latest work “The Hidden History of Burma” (2020) reminds us that the reality is far more complex. The colonial legacy of the state’s institutions and its impact on the plethora of ethnic groups across Burma’s periphery would continue to haunt its present-day problems. Most notably among these are the Rohingya crisis and Burma’s half-century struggle for democracy. The colonial era’s martial race policy stands at the forefront of these problems. Despite the great academic legacy left behind by the colonial era, Thant argues, the state was considerably weak at the time when General Aung San founded the nation. This meant that whatever great that was embedded within Burma was either purged or became stale during years of poverty. Moreover, Ne Win’s failed anti-imperialist revolution – or the pursuit of the ‘Burmese Way to Socialism’ – would further exacerbate this situation.

Towards the end of the 20th century, the socialist layer of the nation-state’s operational ideology gradually peeled away; leading to some form of a free-market system and one that according to Thant can best be described as ‘crony capitalism’. Yet, strikingly, Burma’s political reforms of the early 2010s had originally envisioned an alternative future. Here, the implementation of neoliberal policies and a non-state intervening would complete the country’s transition to a free-market system, to follow the steps of congested and inequality-ridden cities we so very often see across South East Asia today. In this regard, those easily combustible issues surrounding race and inequality are left out. The state itself does not even seem to be cognizant of it. Neither is any consideration given to the idea that one’s ethnicity can be fluid. As a result, state formation and attempted conflict resolution is stuck in a vicious cycle of bureaucracy, electoral politics, and red-tape; further fuelled by a strange concoction of neoconservatism and a fixed primordial perception regarding race and ethnicity amongst parties and actors across the political spectrum.

The blame for the sustained civil strife across various parts of the country is shared among all parties, both at home and abroad. It is Thant’s insider narrative in the book that made me realise how it is bizarre that China’s ambitions for Burma re-emerged. Initially thwarted by the reformist government of Thein Sein, those intentions came back centre stage after the conflict in Rakhine escalated to the point of genocide. Unfortunate decisions made by Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy (NLD) during peacebuilding efforts that followed their victory in the 2015 elections inflamed this situation, particularly after the Myanmar Peace Centre – consisting mostly of Thein Sein staffers – was dismissed. However, this jarring moment in history is to this day a wasted opportunity that not many in the country paid much attention to. Indeed, the urban population were very much distracted by the economic promises of the new NLD government. With more shopping centres and shinier airports in the making, less visa restrictions, and an increase in free travel, it seems that it is the bourgeoisie that gets to enjoy better, more instant luxuries. I can speak from experience that testimonials by the (upper-)middle-class of Burmese society certainly reflect this sentiment. A justifying bulwark against any criticism towards the NLD government, these promises led to ample opportunity for the resolution of civil strife in the country getting squandered; thereby further darkening a future that looks more bleak than ever.

Internationally, the foreign policy of Western governments in addressing Burma’s human rights abuses provides no room for complexity and mixed bureaucratic responses by organisations such as the United Nations over the past decade have led to drastic consequences in the peace processes throughout Burma. Their involvements with the country’s democratisation efforts and entrance into the global economy were exclusively pivoted around Aung San Suu Kyi. This narrative of the ‘lady against the generals’ paid very little attention paid to the influence of ludicrous cross-border conflicts, war economies, and the incentives of various factions – be it within the state or of the rebel groups. The former president’s sudden and wide embrace of the West was short-sighted to the extent that it made light of the impact that the participation of Ethnic Armed Organisations (EAOs) along the Sino-Burmese border could have. Suu Kyi’s government furthermore underestimated the repercussions of Western isolation on the peace deals made during the ‘21st Century PangLong Conferences’. Above all else, the young population especially, and sadly, do not seem to be able to tell the difference between the story of Burma: is it one of Suu Kyi or one of inclusivity.

Though merely stating facts, Thant’s description of the contemporary political processes in Burma is at times specked with instances that were darkly astonishing, oftentimes unintentionally comical. One of these moments includes the time when John Yettaw handed Suu Kyi the Book of Mormon, making it all the more surreal. Nevertheless, there are parts where Thant could have elaborated further, such as the impact of U Nu’s policies on the racial and social integrity of a briefly democratic Burma prior to Ne Win’s coup in 1962. However, the country’s complex web of layers stands masterfully explained in the book.

Lost is the potential of this beautiful country, so rich in natural resources, in which a deeply troubled rural citizenry resides which knows war not as an exception but as the norm. 

Most importantly, Thant demonstrates that the story of Burma’s fight for democracy is not so much as black-and-white, not a clear David-and-Goliath spectacle that we are made to believe most of the time. A particularly challenging part recounts the solemn story of a certain lady named Moe. Driven into destitution by the cascade of events following the Bush-era sanctions that shut down garment factories, her life led from unemployment to sex trafficking, only to discover herself with a diagnosis of HIV/AIDS after a hazardous, painful journey back home. These same sanctions were supported by several pro-democracy and human rights activists at home and abroad. These activists were also part of the same force that blocked the Global Fund’s humanitarian aid that was supposed to relieve HIV/AIDS and malaria outbreaks in Burma of the early 2000s, thereby cutting off all remaining hope for people like Moe. Indeed, Moe’s life is not an uncommon one for the precariat of Burma, whose rights, needs, and welfare seem to be left out of the picture entirely. While the nation emphasises the virtue of personal sacrifice for the greater good pivoted around the leader; the vast majority have little more to give. Lost is the potential of this beautiful country, so rich in natural resources, in which a deeply troubled rural citizenry resides which knows war not as an exception but as the norm. Not a glimmer of hope seems to remain in a country where Burmese identity is defined by race and ethnicity.

That is not to say that are no memorable and beautiful moments. During the peak of the Rakhine crisis in 2016, the compassion of a Buddhist monk in Rakhine that offered refuge and food to displaced civilians of the Buddhist and Muslim creed and traumatised by the violence raging outside will give any reader a chilling feeling of awe as the pages turn. The man was confronted by protesters outside his monastery for housing Muslims together with Buddhists, arguing that the protestors would have to go through him if they wish to ransack the monastery and commit violence inside. An anomaly of a preacher who truly practices a rare act of compassion could perhaps make one faintly wonder just ‘what if?’.

What kind of a future Burma will head towards we still do not know. But as Thant puts, it is truly hard to be optimistic at present. Yet understanding Burma is imperative still, in a way, as the story should provide us to rethink how Western democracies interact with authoritarian and transitory regimes in the future. It should also provide a brutal lesson for us, when aiding and advocating for democracy in contested states, to jettison the idea that one-dimensional foreign policies that prescribe a dose of sanctions followed by the introduction neoliberalism will do the trick of healing an infinitely complex, deeply conflict-ridden nation towards peace and prosperity.

This piece was originally published on the author’s personal blog, which you can find here

Anna Tan is a postgraduate student for MSc Global Affairs at King’s College London. Her research is focused on how Western human rights diplomacy affects democracy and authoritarianism in the Asia Pacific. She has previously worked for UNDP Myanmar and the American Red Cross, and is a member of the Programme Committee of the Conflict, Security and Development (CSD) Conference 2020 hosted by the Department of War Studies and the Department of International Development (DID). Anna holds a BSc in Neuroscience. You can follow her on Twitter: @AnnaTanGTW

Book Review: ‘Dying to Serve’

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by Kamaldeep Singh Sandhu

Maria Rashid, Dying to Serve: Militarism, Affect, and the Politics of Sacrifice in the Pakistan Army. Stanford University Press, Stanford, California, 2020. ISBN 978-1-5036-1198-6 Pp. 267. Paperback. £19.41

Dying to Serve: Militarism, Affect, and the Politics of Sacrifice ...

Are military deaths in an armed conflict avoidable and prodigal or are they a necessary and sacred sacrifice required for the protection of the state and society? Maria Rashid’s new noteworthy book, Dying to Serve: Militarism, Affect, and the Politics of Sacrifice in the Pakistan Army, carries this sensitive and difficult debate forward through a study of the Pakistan military’s relationship with its soldiers and citizens. The Pakistan military’s use of religion and the idea of ‘shahadat’ (martyrdom) as a motivator for training, fighting, and dying for the nation are well established (p. 33). This book is a comparative study of narratives provided by the Pakistani state and military on the one hand and the subject soldier and his family on the other.

Pakistan is one of those states that thrive on a strong military spirit. This militarism establishes war as normal and necessary and, in turn, demands sacrifices from its subjects. Dying to Serve is an attempt to understand the mechanisms through which such sacrifices are made sacred by the military narratives of heroism, and meaningful, glorious, and honourable deaths. This mechanism, in turn, extracts legitimacy and unquestioned support from the citizenry. The book explores this phenomenon through the dead soldiers, considered as heroes, mourned for long periods by communities, and taken as social examples. The author also briefly examines the same through retired and disabled soldiers.

In Rashid’s own words, ‘the book examines the role of affect­—such as grief and its accompanying notions of death, dying and sacrifice as well as feelings of attachment, pride, and fear—in maintaining the military’s hegemony in Pakistan’ (p. 9). The study is based on fieldwork conducted in five villages in the Chakwal district of Punjab over a period of thirteen months where the author interviewed more than one hundred people.

The author begins the book by examining the Youm-e-Shuhada (Martyrs’ Memorial) and Youm-e-Difah (Defence Day) ceremonies, described as ‘spectacles of mourning’ (p. 23) that define the narrative and valorise military service. The story proceeds by comparing the narrative of Chakwal as the ‘land of the valiant’, a name the district has earned through its martial tradition since colonial times, versus its location in the Salt Range of Northern Punjab that lends it to an economic dependency on the armed forces for providing the main source of employment. The district is located between the valleys of Indus and Jhelum Rivers and its terrain is partly covered with scrub forest, featuring plains interrupted by dry rock. Approx. 96 per cent of agricultural demand for water is met by rainwater, which naturally leads to ‘gurbat’ (poverty) and ‘bhukh’ (hunger) amongst the inhabitants. It is from this economic deprivation that the author questions the authenticity of the ‘martial tradition’ narrative.

The author begins with the process of military training, where the bonds of kinship are broken to develop affective relationships with fellow soldiers, who signify their new family, and group leaders who stand in for father figures (p. 97). The affection thus sculpted by love and loyalty for the regiment and determination to uphold its honour prepares them to kill or die in combat. It highlights the depersonalisation that soldiers experience along with a sense of emotional distancing, a silencing from others who can no longer understand or relate to what soldiering is about (p. 106). The story also highlights how the military commands the right to ask you to die or kill in its name as a response of love, loyalty, and attachment of familial connections reimagined according to the concerns of the state (p. 207).

Rashid talks of the families of the dead soldiers gripped with grief, guilt, and regret who, yet, have to put on the mask of a social reality scripted with the themes of ‘pride in the act of sacrifice for the motherland and a belief in eternal life’ in order to make sense of the death of their loved ones. They must also accept the money and benefits offered because, after all, it was for material needs that the tribute to the nation was risked in the first place (p. 138). It explores the mechanisms through which a violent and preventable death is transformed into a necessary, honourable, and meaningful sacrifice (p. 149).

One chapter, in particular, brings out the hollowness of this narrative. Describing the disabled soldiers as ‘the bodies left behind’, Rashid argues that although in reality the maiming is socially induced as a result of modern war and armed conflict, it is managed by the military within some perfunctory and feeble attempts at promoting narratives of empowerment, pride in resilience, and sacrifice for the nation (p. 169). The author argues that the military’s ability to depict service and sacrifice as noble and draw foot soldiers from society will be sustained as long as ‘war’ is imagined to be glorious, and the dead to be heroes; whereas in reality, it is merely a viable source of ‘pakki naukri’ (permanent employment) (p. 217).

The author has articulated militarism and its effect accurately in the context of the Pakistan Army. It is a must-read for all, especially those who once believed in the narrative of militarism and the sanctity of military deaths but were confused when the layers of this social construct began to peel off. While Rashid provides a new humbling and soothing perspective on this issue, the one place the book falls short is in providing definitive answers or an equally acceptable alternative belief system.

Despite being a case study on the Pakistan Army, which has played a dominant role in state formation over the years, the arguments made here are applicable to the phenomenon of militarism across the globe. Hardly any society collectively calls its military deaths avoidable or unnecessary.

When viewed through Charles Tilly’s famous cyclic aphorism ‘war made state, and the state made war’ the comparison of narratives highlighted in the book holds firm within the context of ‘state makes war’. However, as this axiom shows that war is inevitable and ultimately perpetuated through the imperfection of human thoughts, whether the same arguments still hold when the ‘war makes state’ and the state merely takes advantages or is victim of its inevitability, remains debatable.

Kamaldeep Singh Sandhu is a PhD Candidate in the Defence Studies Department at King’s College London. His research interests include South Asian security, military culture, and defence diplomacy. An alumnus of National Defence Academy, Pune, Army War College, Mhow and The Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, he has served as an Officer with the Indian army’s Parachute Regiment for ten years and currently serves as an Officer in the Reserve Army, UK. You can find him on Twitter at kamal_sandhu78.

Ikenberry’s ‘Liberal Leviathan’ and American Grand Strategy in the Age of Trump

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by Paakhi  Bhatnagar

The American President Donald Trump during his inauguration speech in 2017 (Image Credit: Pool)

 

America’s world leadership is in crisis. Amidst a trade war with China, an unprecedented withdrawal of forces from the Middle East, and an increasingly hostile attitude toward international alliances and institutions, Donald Trump has exacerbated the crisis of America’s authority in the international system. We live under a zeitgeist where the American grand strategy is progressively becoming inward-focusing and lacking a coherent external vision. Perhaps now is a better time than any to go back to the theoretical literature on internationalism and what it can tell us about America’s grand strategy despite, in an endeavour to counter the international detriment of its global retreat.

In Liberal Leviathan, published in 2011, G. John Ikenberry unpicks the crisis of authority and governance prevalent in the liberal international system by arguing for America to adopt a grand strategic vision of liberal internationalism. The title of the book in itself is quite intriguing as it invokes significance to the Hobbesian conception of ‘Leviathan.’ The United States’ hegemony was based on Hobbesian grounds in the sense that other states had consensually handed the ‘reign of power’ to America. For Ikenberry, it is this very consensus that is now in crisis.

The book’s core argument is substantiated by theoretical underpinnings as Ikenberry commits the first half of the literature to liberal institutionalism and what this particular mode of organization has to offer for US grand strategy going forward. Although superfluous at times, this theoretical foundation of liberalism provides a logical premise for him to then make policy suggestions for America. In fact, the key strength of the book comes from Ikenberry’s ability to uphold his thesis throughout the dense literature, ensuring the reader is never in doubt about the author’s advocation for a liberal internationalist policy.

Ironically, Ikenberry’s heightened focus on the liberal theory of the international system also constitutes his key weakness. By holding liberal internationalism on a pedestal, Ikenberry formulates a parochial vision of the system, effectively removing other theories, such as the balance of power, from the narrative. The concept of rising powers is one example that poses a challenge to Ikenbery’s central argument of liberal internationalism. As highlighted by John Mearsheimer, a famous critic of Ikenberry, it is inevitable that rising powers will turn against the liberal international order. Ikenberry has been careful in conceding to the fact that it is the very nature of the liberal order that accommodates and encourages rising powers. But, in contrast to Mearsheimer, he believes that the liberal order would facilitate cooperation and stability through multilateral treaties and institutions instead of creating instability in the system. To do this, America would need to adopt a liberal internationalist grand strategy and actively engage itself in the rebuilding of international institutions. This, however, does not seem to be the direction towards which Trump’s foreign policy is heading.

Written during the aftermath the 2008 Global Financial Crisis, the sense of anxiety around the American position in the international system is very apparent in the book. This anxiety can now very well be translated into the current dilemma faced by the American government: whether to reclaim its position as a natural hegemon and project its policies internationally, or whether to focus inwardly to sustain its domestic voters. This dilemma is especially relevant in Donald Trump’s America.

The current American President Donald J. Trump’s policies have prescribed to what Walter Russel Mead has termed the ‘Jacksonian tradition’ after American President Andrew Jackson. Trump’s disengagement from multilateral institutions and his incessant focus on America’s domestic voters is comparable to Jackson’s populism and bilateralism in World War II. Trump has steered the country’s grand strategy to a very different trajectory from what Ikenberry had prescribed. For Ikenberry, the US has strong incentives to sustain its hegemony in a liberal international order by renegotiating its position and establishing multilateral agreements. In fact, he goes on to say that multilateral agreements and rules provide a foundational basis for states to interact within the liberal system. While the US has remained a key player in global politics since this book was written, its international presence in the system has been relatively declining. In this sense, the US does seem to be renegotiating its place in the international system, but not on the terms Ikenberry had proposed. The reason for this, is the rise in nationalism both externally in other states, and, more importantly, internally in America.

Nationalism is an important phenomenon that cannot be undermined by internationalism. Although after the Cold War the ideology of liberal democracy upheld by the US became the driving force for political organization, nationalism in the country continued to brew. This gave voice to the concerns of many about the cost America had to pay for maintaining its hegemonic position. This phenomenon of nationalism highlights the key weakness of Ikenberry’s argument as he fails to engage with the prevalence of different ideologies within and outside of America that would reject a renewed American hegemony. This is especially conspicuous in Trump’s ‘America First’ policy. Trump has not only questioned the utility of long-standing alliances like NATO but has also implemented a foreign policy that has been responsible for America’s retreat from the international system.

Moreover, Ikenberry stands quite strongly on the issue of China, viewing it as ‘one of the great dramas of the twenty-first century’. He maintains the belief that China should be acclimatised to the liberal world order and not left out of it. This would not only maintain stability but also make China’s international presence contingent on its compliance with the liberal international order. Thus, an important aspect of US grand strategy according to Ikenberry would be to engage with China through multilateral trade institutions. Previous presidencies, like those of Obama and Clinton, had made it clear that they were trying to enroll China in the international order. Trump, on the other hand, is engaging with- or rather, disengaging from –  China in a very different way. Waging a trade war and imposing bilateral sanctions goes starkly against Ikenberry’s advice.

While the debate on whether Trump actually has a grand strategic vision for America remains heated, there is no denying that if there is a grand strategy it is definitely not one of liberal internationalism. What, then, should formulators of American grand strategy take away from Liberal Leviathan? Ikenberry proposes quite succinctly that America should adopt a ‘milieu’ based grand strategy where it strives to structure the international environment in ways that are conducive to its own long-term security. This is, perhaps, the strongest policy advice laid out in the book.

The ‘brave new world’ that America finds itself in now is one where newer threats like global warming, jihadist terrorism, the rise of the far-right, etc. proliferate. Therefore, it is increasingly important for America to adapt its grand strategy to encompass all these global forces. Moreover, great power competition, as spurred by the rising power of China in the international system, has become an imperative issue for US foreign policy. Although there are several paths that America could take in its role in the international system, Ikenberry does quite clearly lay out the foundations for America’s liberal internationalist role. Whether American grand strategy is heading in the direction advised by Ikenberry or not, readers and budding grand strategists can certainly benefit from his argument on one particular trajectory that America could assume amidst the crisis of the liberal world order.

Paakhi Bhatnagar is an undergraduate International Relations student in her penultimate year at King’s College London. She is especially interested in the securitization of migration issues along with socio-economic policies and their impact on the working class. In addition to being a Copy Editor at Strife blog, she is also the Editorial Assistant at International Relations Today and the City News Editor at London Student. You can find her on Twitter at @paakhibhatnagar.