The Hindu : A diminished America

Online edition of India's National Newspaper
Monday, Mar 24, 2003

Opinion

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A diminished America

By Pratap Bhanu Mehta

American prestige is diminished because the very basis on which it acquired authority, its own commitment to freedom and a vibrant democracy at least of its citizens, seems oddly compromised in the conduct of this war.

WHATEVER THE outcome of the war in Iraq, there is a palpable sense in which America seems set to emerge as a more diminished nation from this experience. The fallout of the war on America's external standing is clearly evident. For the first time perhaps America has discovered that the mere possession of power will not secure the support of allies. This war will almost certainly result in a greater anti-Americanism around the world and may even occasion a more concerted effort to build coalitions to challenge American hegemony. It is true that in terms of sheer military power and economic might, America will continue to dominate the world for the foreseeable future. But the one thing 9/11 taught is that you don't need that much power to produce far-reaching changes in a society even as powerful as America. Many Americans have since then been trying to compensate for their vulnerability by trying to reassert the myth of American invincibility. But invincibility in even the mightiest empire is a myth.

But the circumstances under which this war has been initiated has thrown America's own internal disarray into much sharper relief. It is not for the first time that America will be embarking on a military crusade, the consequences of which are, at best, uncertain and at worst dangerous. It is not for the first time that American power risks overreaching its proper capacities. It will not be for the first time that many will come to hate America if the cost of the war is too high, or resent it, if it is too successful. And it will not be for the first time that the rest of the world will think that America is putting so much in jeopardy for what might ultimately be venial interests in oil. What is new is that this is an undertaking, the relationship of which to America's identity as a nation is entirely unclear. America was reluctantly drawn into the two World Wars, but when it entered them, the ideological mission was clear. For all its horrific excesses, the conduct of war during the heyday of the Cold War at least had a plausible ideological halo about it. At least it could legitimise itself in the guise of defeating an expansionist imperial power such as the Soviet Union. To many outside America, claims of defending freedom may not have been more than an ideological veneer, but at least it had some plausible connection to the story America told itself about its place in history and its mission in the world. Even the sordid compromises with all kinds of dictators could be placed in terms of this larger narrative.

Its post-Cold War interventions — the Gulf War, Kosovo or Afghanistan — also had a plausible basis and connection to its identity. In each case, there was a plausible cause, the pushing back of Saddam Hussein's attack on another country, the prevention of ethnic cleansing, or the dismantling of a horrendous regime that had harboured those who attacked America directly. And in at least two of the three cases, America had the courtesy of not being a judge in its own cause; it honoured its own democratic ideals by at least winning world public opinion to its side. Some may doubt whether support for America was genuine or was coerced by the fear of American power; some may plausibly insist that these interventions were unjustified. But at least the cause was plausible and not entirely incompatible with American ideals. And public opinion came around.

Iraq is different, not only because world public opinion is against it, but because its connection to any purposes America might have as a nation are not clear. As John Mearshimer and Steve Walt, two respected strategic thinkers who are, by no means, doves, recently argued, Mr. Hussein was not a threat to America, and the extent to which he posed a threat could have been easily dealt with. Bringing about freedom and democracy in the Middle East might be a plausible American cause. But there is no sense in which it is clear that America is actually committed to that goal. Even if, for a moment, we grant that it is possible to successfully carry out this goal, it is not clear that this is George Bush's intention. It is not a cause he can carry with any degree of conviction; nor does he have the stature to convince the rest of the world that something grand and momentous is at stake. Nor does it appear that sacrifice for the cause of rebuilding Iraq or the Middle East is the cause that is rallying the American people.

Mr. Bush may have his own motives for this war: it could be oil or it could be genuine self-righteousness. But it is not clear that the American people share either of these motives. In all likelihood, this war has been allowed to get under way because there is still a post-9/11 stupor over American politics, a combination of fear and patriotism that has stifled genuine political debate. Watching the American and British debates from this distance, one has to say at least this: the British have a sophisticated and genuine debate on the subject. The U.S. Senate, on the other hand, seems to be not the deliberative chamber of a great democracy tackling the great issues at stake but a house stifled by fear and inhibition. With a few exceptions, the American media seems to be following suit. This war lacks a clear articulation of both American interests and its ideals.

In one of those oddly revealing moments, a radio announcer on one of Delhi's FM programmes that caters to the teenage middle class that probably aspires to be more American than anyone else, was aghast that American radio stations, because of allegedly derogatory remarks they had made about Mr. Bush, were boycotting the group, Dixie Chicks. This announcer, for many of whose audience this might be the most significant event in this war, after reporting this news added, "thank god we are not in America".

Even for someone who might be an unabashed admirer of America, this thought seemed, at this juncture, oddly revealing and resonant. It is revealing of the ways in which the trajectory of politics within post-9/11 America has diminished its lustre as an icon of a free society. A great democracy can commit great crimes because of an error of judgment, it may even make inexcusable mistakes and it may even flaunt its own power. But the idea that an open political society should sleepwalk its way into so momentous an undertaking may, in the long run, be the most distressing thing about the Iraq episode. And American prestige is diminished because the very basis on which it acquired authority, its own commitment to freedom and a vibrant democracy at least of its citizens, seems oddly compromised in the conduct of this war. We know from history that undertaking war can be a symptom of fear as much as it can be a symptom of strength. And we also know that wars undertaken when they have no clear relation either to a nation's interests or its ideals can corrode the internal life of nations or at least reveal their weaknesses. The real price of Iraq may not only be the human costs or the shifts in geo-politics it brings about. It may be the ominous things it reveals about American democracy itself; how its prestige stands diminished.

(The writer is Professor of Philosophy and of Law and Governance, JNU.)

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