By Brian Stewart
Saturday, October 05, 2019
In The Education of
an Idealist, a new memoir of her government service, former U.N. ambassador
Samantha Power relates a breathtaking moment from the White House Situation
Room in 2013. In the course of a meeting on the mounting humanitarian and
strategic crisis in Syria, President Obama, brushing aside Power’s arguments in
favor of more assertive action against the Assad regime, grumbled, “We’ve all read
your book, Samantha.”
The president was referring to A Problem from Hell: America and the Age of Genocide, in which Ms.
Power, then the executive director of Harvard’s Carr Center for Human Rights,
detailed America’s long, deplorable record of inaction in the face of ethnic
cleansing and genocidal war.
A Problem from Hell
opens with the lethal persecution of the Armenians in the Ottoman Empire during
the First World War, in whose behalf the U.S. ambassador in Constantinople,
Henry Morgenthau, issued urgent but unavailing dispatches to Washington
reporting the outbreak of “race murder.” Power fleshed out her survey of modern
genocide (a term, she reminds us, coined by the scholar Raphael Lemkin) by
turning to the Holocaust, Iraq in the aftermath of Saddam Hussein’s 1988 Anfal
campaign against the Kurds, Rwanda in 1994, and the Balkans for much of the
Nineties. Power’s personal journey into this ghastly subject began as a
freelance reporter in Sarajevo, where she witnessed what Slobodan Milosevic’s
project of “Greater Serbia” meant for ethnic minorities in the former
Yugoslavia.
With the partial exception of Bosnia and later Kosovo,
where the United States led belated rescue operations under NATO auspices,
these campaigns of systematic slaughter were greeted by fatal indifference by
the outside world and permitted to take their hideous course. In A Problem from Hell, Power condemned
generations of American policymakers for their declared realism—more precisely,
to borrow a concept from Christian philosophy, their amoral quietism—in the
midst of systematic persecutions and massacres of minorities.
The book, which won the Pulitzer Prize, was a stinging
rebuke of the world’s sole superpower, made all the more so by Power’s refusal
to indulge facile misdirection about some fictitious “international community.”
Invoking Lincoln’s Annual Message to Congress in 1862, she reminded Americans:
“We—even we here—hold the power, and bear the responsibility.” She also
impugned the contemporaneous denials, often from the podium of the White House,
that genocide was even occurring. No amount of euphemism could obscure the
truth that “the real reason the United States did not do what it could and
should have done to stop genocide was not a lack of knowledge or influence but a
lack of will,” she wrote.
Eventually Power found her way into Obama’s circle,
initially serving as an adviser to the campaign, then as a senior director in
the National Security Council, and finally as U.N. ambassador. Notwithstanding
their mutual antipathy to the “war of choice” that deposed Saddam Hussein from
power in Iraq (more intelligible in Obama’s case than in Power’s), the
chemistry between them was always somewhat inscrutable. Throughout his career,
Obama associated himself in word and later in deed with the very realist school
of power politics that had, to put it mildly, little use for the kind of
humanitarian action championed by Power.
Then again, Power’s brand of humanitarianism always bore
the marks of being confused and cheap. Despite her rigorous inquiry into
organized crimes against humanity, and her heartfelt plea for those in
positions of “influence” to counter them, Power embodied a striking ambivalence
about the stern imperatives of deterrence and the exigencies of power, if
emulated by America’s political leadership, would ensure their repetition. At
one point in The Education of an Idealist,
Obama muses that Power isn’t “nearly as hawkish” as she is made out to be,
though it isn’t clear how he came by that impression. Only an idle or daft
reader of Power’s work would have failed to detect that her commitment to the
manacles of diplomatic protocol and multilateral cooperation involved her
devotion to the humanitarian cause—which is nothing if not a case of emergency
and crisis response—in many contradictions.
This bizarre hybrid worldview, in which human rights
needed to be the fulcrum of U.S. foreign policy but without the hard power required
to defend them against predatory regimes, flinches from the inconvenient truth
that, in our unforgiving world, human rights will be upheld by force of arms or
they will not be upheld at all. Since this stubborn fact would require an
honest humanitarian to advocate either the use of power in making the world a
better place or to step down off her pedestal of moral sanctimony and adapt
herself to the world as it is, most human-rights activists have simply ignored
it.
As the journalist David Rieff showed in At the Point of a Gun, his penetrating
2005 manifesto against the “imperialism of human rights,” Power exemplifies
this wishful non-thinking and evasion of responsibility. Rieff condemns Power
for promoting a bold campaign on behalf of universal human rights without
laying out—for others or possibly even for herself—what that ambitious, if not
utopian, project might entail. What on earth did she and others in the
human-rights movement, Rieff modestly asked, think that they were doing in
calling attention to flagrant violations of human rights in far-off lands? By
what mechanism would the villains of their narrative—who sprang from hell to
perpetrate rape and torture and murder on a mass scale—be held to account? The
unspoken assumption was some combination of the United Nations and Human Rights
Watch.
In Rieff’s eyes, the neoconservative faction (or, if you
like, liberal imperialists) offered a more coherent and compelling vision. This
camp comprised mostly liberal hawks and so-called national-greatness
conservatives whose worldview amounted to a fusion of idealistic emphasis on
human rights and realistic emphasis on national power. Unabashed patriots and
internationalists, they did not dilute their commitment to human rights with
the milk-and-water righteousness of international law or excessive devotion to
multilateral legitimacy. Instead, they proposed a muscular program of moral and
military purpose that, even to critics like Rieff, was at least equal to the
magnitude of the challenge posed by murderous regimes and gangster
organizations. (In this, as Rieff points out, the neoconservatives were far
more worthy heirs of the avowed imperialist Theodore Roosevelt than was Power,
who, interestingly, makes him the hero of A
Problem from Hell for his opposition to brokering a peace deal with Turkey
before it brought to justice the architects of the Armenian “race
extermination.”)
Power’s later failure to address humanitarian crises at
the level of government policy was therefore the inescapable upshot of a grave
design flaw in her work: an ambivalence, if not antipathy, toward American
hegemony, without which humanitarian rescue could scarcely be contemplated, let
alone implemented. By not accepting, much less embracing, the logical
consequences of her own lofty analysis, she was bound to fall short of infusing
foreign policy with an ethical dimension. What emerged instead was a descent
from morality to moralism. While she was an activist and an academic, the
conceptual defects in her blinkered worldview were strictly confined to the
imagination; after she joined the executive branch they were laid bare in the
real world—an “education” for which Power, the administration she served, and
the global order stewarded by her country, paid a high price indeed. The result
invites the judgment against Power once rendered by an embittered Thomas Paine
against George Washington: “The world will be puzzled to decide whether you are
an apostate or an impostor; whether you have abandoned good principles or
whether you ever had any.”
It has been intoned ad nauseum that the theory and
conduct of foreign policy is divided between realists and idealists (though in
general it is the idealists that dominate the realm of theory while the conduct
is performed by realists). If indulges this crude framework in assessing the
statecraft of the Obama administration, it is clear that each camp has abundant
cause for alienation. The realists, priding themselves on a prudent sense of
the limits of American power in service of a global balance of power, indict
the Obama administration’s military intervention in the Libyan rebellion. This
sin of commission, they claim, was a misbegotten use of American might
untethered to the national interest that helped transform Libya into a jihadist
haven. Meanwhile, the idealists, priding themselves on the application of
American power to humanitarian ends, indict the Obama administration’s
abstention over Syria. This sin of omission, they claim, was a catastrophic
blunder that produced a strategic shift in the region toward America’s enemies
at the expense of the welfare of the Syrian people. Meanwhile, in odd but
revealing ways, Power defends the administration on both counts.
Seldom is a political theorist given the chance to
implement her vision, but as The
Education of an Idealist explains, this opportunity came for Power in early
2011 when an uprising broke out against Moammar Qaddafi, who had ruled Libya
for 42 years. After rebels seized Benghazi, the country’s second-largest city,
Qaddafi pledged to quell the rebellion with indiscriminate force. Rapidly
dispatching several thousand troops to the east, he threatened to “cleanse”
Libya “house by house” of every member of the opposition.
Initially, Obama was reluctant to apply American power to
aid and shelter the Libyan rebellion. As Qaddafi’s forces advanced toward the
outskirts of Benghazi and prepared a military assault to be followed by a
protracted siege of the city, a U.N. Security Council resolution (at the behest
of Britain and France) authorized taking “all necessary measures” to protect
Libyan civilians, which ultimately became hard to distinguish from regime
change in Tripoli. An initiative to protect Libyan noncombatants by means of a
no-fly zone began to circulate in the Situation Room, but Qaddafi’s conspicuous
lack of airpower meant that this method would have little effect on the
impending bloodbath. Only striking Qaddafi’s ground forces and heavy weapons
would halt or reverse Qaddafi’s march and fulfill the U.N.-endorsed
“responsibility to protect.”
The president, as Power makes plain, was not keen to
fulfill this weighty responsibility lest it embroil the U.S. in a bloody and
protracted conflict, but ultimately determined that Benghazi and other
opposition-held towns could not be allowed to fall to the regime. The unusual
character of this intervention would later lead one sympathetic observer of the
administration to dub it “the apotheosis of the Obamian approach to the world.”
(With friends like these . . .)
At the outset, Obama proclaimed the military operation
primarily European (as if this would make it so), with the U.S. providing
logistical assistance such as refueling aircraft and reconnaissance—“leading
from behind,” as one Obama aide infamously described it. But shortly after
hostilities commenced, the French and British air forces began to run out of
bombs, and the pretense of a genuinely multilateral effort fell away. In short
order, American air sorties rendered a devastating assault on Qaddafi’s forces.
This intervention gave the initiative to the rebels, who after seven months of
fighting captured the dictator hiding in a drainage pipe near his hometown of
Sirte, and after sodomizing him with a blade, executed him.
The result of this intervention was a democratic
election, followed swiftly by appalling sectarian strife. The governing
coalition that emerged after Qaddafi’s fall failed to establish a monopoly on
violence, and without the restraint of strong central authority, the copious
militias that prosecuted the rebellion plunged Libya into internecine conflict.
In preventing a regime-orchestrated massacre, European heart and American
muscle had midwifed a failed state presiding over a fractured society with
jihadist stirrings.
Power labors to absolve the administration of what
happened in post-conflict Libya: “We could hardly expect to have a crystal ball
when it came to accurately predicting outcomes in places where the culture was
not our own.” In his New Yorker
review of the book, Dexter Filkins writes that “in a certain light, this sounds
like an argument for not intervening at all.” Filkins’s conclusion is
preposterous, since it takes no account of the insuperable contingency in human
affairs. When has the future ever been so predictable?
What’s more, it was less than a decade before that U.S.
forces had deposed an even more awful and dangerous Arab despotism in Baghdad,
inheriting a brutalized and shattered country for which it had nothing
resembling a systematic plan. The gross mishandling of postbellum Iraq by the
Bush administration (before it took remedial action in the form of the “surge”
that catalyzed the Anbar Awakening, dealing a major blow to al-Qaeda in
Mesopotamia) exacerbated the Hobbesian state of Iraqi society, but it also
exposed it. Such unsettling challenges bred a passivity bordering on paralysis
in a Democratic party eager to shed responsibility for regime change and
espouse a more constrained vision of America’s global role. Was it really so
hard for such people to imagine that Libya would emerge from decades of
grotesque divide-and-rule dictatorship as a landscape of desolation and ruin?
Did they really believe that liberal-minded Libyans would recover command over
their own destiny with a little help from Brussels simply because Qaddafi’s
repugnant Green Book was no longer mandatory reading?
What the Obama administration lacked most conspicuously
in Libya and elsewhere was not the gift of prophecy but strategic insight and
political nerve. Power confesses few misgivings about the foreseeable
post-conflict turmoil, much less the shambolic intervention targeting a
dictator that, according to Secretary of Defense Bob Gates, Obama never had any
intention of removing from office in the first place. The president’s
“uncertain trumpet” that was to become his primary instrument in foreign policy
was unsheathed in Libya to devastating effect. His intention to lead from the
rear did not simply expose forward operators to lethal danger, as when the
American mission at Benghazi fell under attack. It also unleashed a maelstrom
of violence from which Libya has yet to recover. Obama has referred to
America’s half-hearted Libyan involvement as the worst decision of his
presidency, but considering the Syrian disaster that ensued, that judgment is
far too lenient.
Power’s description of the Syrian rebellion, which evolved
into a destructive vortex of ethnic and confessional conflict that drew
numerous interventions from hostile foreign powers, is suspiciously sparse. “In
2011, the Syrian revolution had begun like the other uprisings across the Arab
world,” she relates. “The Syrian regime . . . responded to the opposition’s
progress with violent tactics more inhumane than anything I had seen since
researching the Rwandan genocide for ‘A Problem from Hell.’” Since the targets
of Assad’s war were almost entirely Sunni civilians, the campaign plausibly fit
the legal definition of genocide. As Power documented in her earlier book, the
Genocide Convention required signatory nations (of which the United States is
one) to intervene in a genocidal state’s “internal affairs” to prevent
atrocities or punish them.
“As Assad intensified his bombardment of civilian
neighborhoods,” Power says she stood “in awe of the bravery of the Syrian
people” risking all to defy this odious regime. (Her sense of awe was evidently
not shared by the president, who rejected a 2012 plan, backed by Defense
Secretary Panetta, Secretary of State Clinton, CIA chief Petraeus and General
Dempsey, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, to directly arm and train the
Syrian rebels.) The scenes of urban slaughter from Homs and Hama and Aleppo put
her in mind of her days as a foreign journalist in the Balkan wars, recalling
“the vulnerability I felt trying to shelter in the bathtub in Sarajevo while
the Bosnian Serb Army shelled the neighborhood while I slept.” In July 2012,
President Obama received reports that the Syrian military was preparing to
escalate further—this time employing chemical weapons. The president quickly
issued “a carefully prepared warning that the Syrian government would ‘be held
accountable by the international community and the United States should they
make the tragic mistake of using those weapons.’ . . . At a White House press
conference the following month, the president significantly sharpened his
warning” by drawing the infamous red line.
What happened next almost defies comprehension, even
years after the fact. “Assad wasted little time before crossing this red line .
. . . The U.S. government began receiving information in late 2012 that the
Syrian government had begun using chemical weapons.” Within months, these
reports of multiple chemical attacks were confirmed by U.S. and foreign
intelligence agencies. Then, on August 21, 2013, exactly one year to the day
from Obama’s red-line threat, the Assad regime launched a massive serine-gas attack
on the Damascus suburbs, killing 1,400 Syrian civilians.
President Obama “was enraged by Assad’s attack,” Power
relates, and deployed warships to the Mediterranean to exact a hefty penalty
for the regime’s monstrous crime. Since a Russian veto in the U.N. Security
Council would remove legal sanction from a punitive attack, the administration
found itself in “the perverse circumstance in which the UN Charter effectively
rendered President Putin the arbiter of legality” over any attempt to hold this
outlaw regime to account. The Obama team, in thrall to notions of international
humanitarian law governing the use of force, felt compelled to justify any
military reprisal by relying on the Kosovo precedent in which NATO conducted an
air campaign against the Serbian army without the approval of the Security
Council. (Of course, as Putin liked to point out, the Kosovo precedent had no
legal precedent of its own.)
But in an incredible volte
face Obama abruptly referred the matter to Congress. Showing no sign
whatever of the “decision, activity, secrecy, and dispatch” that Hamilton, in Federalist 70, recommended in the
executive branch, the president expressed the usual reservations about the
grave consequences of an armed intervention, and doubted that what started as a
“limited” military operation in Syria would stay that way. “Obama knew that if
he opted for targeted air strikes to punish chemical weapons use, pressure
would grow for him to respond to other strikes as well, both because they were
horrific and because after U.S. strikes, American ‘credibility’ would be on the
line.” Power appears to be working on the assumption that by this point
American credibility wasn’t already on the line, despite the accumulating
catastrophe in Syria, to say nothing of Assad’s contemptuous disregard for the
president’s public threat in perpetuating the largest massacre of this savage
war.
Power concludes that “Obama recognized how quickly his
political opponents would abandon the cause if they deemed it expedient.” So he
would abandon it first. For appearance’s sake, Obama continued to feign support
for the mission while it awaited congressional assent (a constitutional nicety,
it will be remembered, that he foreswore in Libya). The White House dispatched
senior executive-branch officials to present a hopelessly feeble and muddled case
to the public.
Secretary of State Kerry provided the most memorable of
these pitiful spectacles, arguing in a Churchillian key about the duty to
confront aggression and punish “unspeakable crimes” while simultaneously
promising “unbelievably small” American strikes. It is nearly impossible to
cast Power’s contribution to this debate, which she reproduces in the form of
inane remarks she delivered at the time to the Center for American Progress, in
a favorable light. Taking a cue from her boss’s style, Power uses a “on the one
hand, on the other” technique to take account of every possible response to
Assad’s barbarities as well as every conceivable objection to those responses.
The result is a mind-numbing recitation of pros and cons, wholly devoid of the sinews
of argument, leaving the reader grasping for the point.
In September 2013, Kerry posited that the crisis revolved
not around Assad’s manifold outrages against international norms and human
decency, but around his “declared” remaining chemical arsenal, which, if
surrendered entirety, would solve the crisis. The Kremlin seized this chance to
save its client in Damascus and offered to broker a deal, which the White
House, sighing with relief, eagerly accepted. In Power’s eyes, “we had made the
best of a bad situation.” (If it was really the best conceivable outcome, what
was she pleading for in the Situation Room that caused Obama to lose his
patience?) She relishes the “seemingly impossible” achievement of “removing and
destroying a whopping 1,300 tons of chemical agents that Assad would otherwise
have had at his disposal.” This “meaningful” feat did not strip Assad’s forces
of all its chemical arms, as became apparent when the regime unleashed sarin
gas and chlorine bombs on civilian neighborhoods again and again.
Summarizing this helter-skelter diplomacy—to put it no
higher—Power asserts that “Congress had effectively tied Obama’s hands for this
round,” omitting the crucial fact that Obama had paid out the rope and dared
them to make use of it. Attempting to assuage her guilt, Power argues that if
Assad were to deploy his chemical arsenal on a future occasion, “the United
States military would have targets at the ready, and the congressional
political dynamics might have shifted.” (If she was hoping to conjure a
scenario to keep Assad awake at night, she has little hope of satisfaction.)
Power does not bother to explain how these “dynamics” of
public opinion and legislative initiative would have shifted without a robust
display of leadership from the White House of which it had already shown itself
to be incapable. Indeed, she later concedes that with Washington’s drift and
indecision, Assad could only conclude that “he could starve his people into
submission, carpet bomb hospitals and schools, and eventually even resume
chemical weapons attacks, all without the United States doing much to stop
him.”
In all this, Power leaves no doubt that she favored a
more vigorous response to Assad’s barbarism but never so much that she assails
the feeble, erratic, and cynical response settled on by the administration.
This is made plain when she boasts of having supported punitive strikes against
the Syrian regime for its previous smaller-scale chemical attacks as well as
its general indiscriminate use of violence against defenseless civilians. Such
a policy, she rightly suggests, would’ve sent an important message to depraved
dictators everywhere that the taboo on chemical weaponry could not be violated
with impunity. Nor were the retaliatory options available to the Syrian regime
and its allies much of a deterrent since, as Obama noted, Assad had no interest
“in escalation that would lead to his demise.” Despite the refusal to bring
American power to bear against this aggressive tyranny, Power curiously indicts
Putin rather than her boss for “forcing Assad to renounce chemical weapons and
getting him to work with the international community to destroy them”—thereby
“legitimizing” Assad as a partner in “peace.”
The Education of an
Idealist is ultimately neither especially idealistic nor very much of an
education, except in the gulf between morality and moralism, between political
virtue and political virtĂș. What it illustrates is not a fighting liberalism,
but a handwringing liberalism, content to issue threats against bellicose
tyrants without bothering to enforce them. It is a liberalism, to use a phrase
of Lionel Trilling’s, without moral realism—or possibly, to borrow from Leon
Wieseltier, a rationalism without night vision. It is, at last, a liberalism
that has no answer to the furies from hell.
Hungry to the last for sympathy, Power recounts a
telephone conversation with Senator McCain in which he chastised her for
remaining in the service of a president whose quiescence in Syria was a
shameful betrayal of American principles and American interests alike. Her
presence was not only humiliating for an ostensible humanitarian, but it lent
crucial cover to a bystanding administration eager to mask its Kissinger-esque
obsession for stability with pretensions to good international citizenship.
Before slamming the phone down, McCain shouted, “You should resign!” Not a scintilla of evidence in the pages of The Education of an Idealist equips the
reader to argue otherwise.
If Power had mustered the courage of her convictions and
resigned in protest (as her long-ago subject Ambassador Morgenthau did over
America’s impotence in the midst of the destruction of the Armenians), she
might have found a worthy occupation in her premature retirement. After all, A Problem from Hell is overdue for a
haunting new chapter that considers the Syrian debacle. It would have been some
consolation if, after trying in vain to prove her principles in the crucible of
power, she had dusted off her pen to write such a postscript. And, with any
luck, it might even have found a reader in President Obama.
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