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Introduction: A Riot in Washington

November 15, 1977, began like most any other fall day in Washington. The morning temperature hovered in the upper forties, and the forecast called for an afternoon high of around sixty. It had been unusually cool in the District of late, and residents welcomed the return of warmer weather. On Capitol Hill, the 95th Congress was working through its customary autumn slate of committee hearings and legislative proposals, with staffers poring over reams of bills on foreign affairs, the economy, and the more mundane matters of congressional governance. At the White House, President Jimmy Carter’s morning was taken up with the usual round of cabinet meetings and advisers’ briefings, as well as an interview with New York Times foreign affairs columnist C. L. Sulzberger.

The central item on Carter’s agenda that day was an official visit by the head of state of Iran, Shah Reza Pahlavi. The United States had maintained a special relationship with the Shah for a quarter of a century, and the new American president was eagerly anticipating his first meeting with this longtime ally. In accordance with the Shah’s importance to the United States, the White House planned to pull out all the stops with a state dinner, policy meetings, and multiple photo ops with the Shah and his elegant wife, Empress Farah. The United States had many reasons to value the Shah’s friendship. Not only did he provide a steady source of oil, but he had solidified relations with Israel and the large Arab states of Egypt and Saudi Arabia, and he stood as a reliable bulwark against Soviet ambitions along the two nations’ fifteen-hundred-mile border. In return for the Shah’s secular anticommunism, oil, and Western orientation, the United States had provided him with modern weapons, diplomatic support, and favorable trade deals.

There was just one problem: the Western-leaning, Western-educated Shah was no Western liberal. He had ascended the throne in 1941, and he had seen his power greatly augmented in 1953 following a U.S.-backed coup. In the ensuing years he had ruled more like an eighteenth-century absolutist than a twentieth-century democrat. Iran’s political institutions were ill-equipped to accommodate dissent or a political transition, and its security agency, SAVAK, was widely accused of imprisoning, torturing, and even killing dissidents. The Shah deemed these authoritarian measures necessary for a feudal society making the transition to modernity, but in the 1970s more and more Western critics were speaking out against such methods. True, the Shah was hardly the worst human rights abuser in the world. His ambitious modernization program had benefited many Iranians, and he had recently implemented a set of limited legal and social reforms.¹ But his one-party government was neither liberal nor democratic.

The Shah’s human rights record had been of little interest to American policymakers, but Jimmy Carter was a new kind of executive. He had campaigned on a promise to bring moral values to governance, and since his inauguration he had pursued an ambitious human rights policy. This activism put him into a difficult position. If he publicly confronted the Shah, he would damage the vital U.S.-Iran relationship. But if he ignored the Shah’s transgressions, he would risk losing credibility for all of his policies, including human rights. With U.S.-Iran ties and his own policies in flux, Carter hoped to steer a middle course by publicly supporting the Shah, continuing the special relationship, and addressing Iranian human rights in private.

In keeping with the tradition of state visits to the White House, the schedule called for a welcoming reception on the South Lawn. Such ceremonies were common, but this time thousands of pro- and anti-Shah demonstrators were expected, and the presence of two opposing groups created the potential for violence. By ten o’clock that morning, around eight thousand had arrived. The anti-Shah crowd was an unusual mix of students, Marxists, Muslims, and liberals who were united only in their loathing of the Shah. Well-known figures from the 1960s antiwar movement proclaimed Iran to be America’s worst police-state ally, while an Iranian student group declared that “the U.S. government, multinational corporate interests, and the Shah” were “engaged in an orchestrated effort to mask the reality of oppression in Iran.” The pro-Shah group, meanwhile, was composed of expatriate Iranian students, professionals, and diplomats. Rumors abounded as to who was funding the demonstrations, with each side predictably accusing the other of dubious backing and malevolent motives.²

Tensions were high on the Ellipse just south of the White House, where upward of three thousand people were split into pro- and anti-Shah camps with a line of mounted police between them. Many in the anti-Shah group wore masks to avoid (so they said) being photographed and identified by the Shah’s secret police. As each side eyed the other nervously and exchanged insults, the match that lit the dynamite was the arrival of the Shah. When he was ushered out to the South Lawn and his twenty-one-gun salute rang out over the Ellipse, all hell broke loose. The anti-Shah demonstrators attacked the Shah’s supporters with rocks, bottles, fists, and wooden planks that were piled up for construction of the upcoming Christmas “Pageant of Peace.” The younger members of the pro-Shah contingent fought back. Outnumbered and in danger, the police fired tear gas to disperse the crowd.

A few hundred yards away on the South Lawn, the ceremony’s well-dressed attendees quickly realized that something was amiss. Carter later recalled hearing in the distance “the faint but unmistakable sounds of a mob” before the gathering was enshrouded in tear gas.³ While his esteemed visitor daubed at his eyes with a handkerchief, Carter spoke of America’s historical ties to Iran, after which the Shah reciprocated by rather ominously stating, “We shall stay, hopefully, always together because basically we believe in the same principles.”⁴ The entourage then retired to the White House. Back on the Ellipse, the police succeeded in separating the two groups and shepherding them out of the area. All told, there were 124 injuries. The police took extra precautions throughout the remainder of the Shah’s visit, including placing riot police inside the White House fences and sharpshooters on the roof.

Unfortunately for Carter and the Shah, the world news media paid little attention to their words on the South Lawn, instead focusing on the riot—the bloodiest in Washington since the Vietnam War—and its effect on the august ceremony. Newspapers around the world published front-page photos of the dignitaries wiping away tears as Carter spoke at the podium. The footage shocked Iranians, who had never seen their leader in such apparent peril. Many took the riot as evidence that American support for the Shah was on the wane; why else, they asked, would the Americans have allowed these protests to take place? “We learned last night,” said one Iranian in Washington, “that news of our protest efforts had reached home, and the people were rejoicing. When they saw the Shah wipe his eyes from the tear gas, they thought we had gassed [him]!”⁵

At that evening’s state dinner, Carter tried to make light of the demonstrations. “One thing that I can say about the Shah,” he quipped, “he certainly knows how to draw a crowd.”⁶ But critics saw very little to laugh about. How could Carter reconcile his desire for close relations with his supposed interest in human rights? Was it not appropriate, they asked, to press the Shah strongly on liberal reforms in Iran? Despite these criticisms, Carter was hardly outspoken in public or in private. Behind closed doors, he asked the Shah if he could ease his domestic security policies, and the latter replied with an unequivocal no. He had to enforce Iran’s laws, he told the president, in order to prevent the spread of communist influence. Most opponents of his regime, he claimed, were “Marxists, anarchists wearing masks.”⁷ Although Carter would have liked to see more substantive reforms, his administration prioritized a strong, stable Iran, and the Shah seemed the best bet to ensure just that. Because Carter had no viable alternative to the Shah’s rule, human rights would remain, for the time being, a distant priority.⁸ He offered his visitor a warm toast at the state dinner, praising the Shah’s “enlightened leadership” and extolling Iran as a “stabilizing influence” in the Middle East. “We look upon Iran’s strength as an extension of our own strength,” Carter declared, “and Iran looks upon our strength as an extension of theirs.”⁹

The violence surrounding the Shah’s Washington visit brought home to President Carter and his allies the problems they faced in trying to make human rights an integral part of American diplomacy. The demonstrations also symbolized the troubles that the Shah, and America, would soon face in Iran. Although the Washington protests were about much more than Iran’s lack of democracy and civil liberties, they signaled the level of Iranian dissatisfaction with the Shah, and they showed Jimmy Carter that a “moral” foreign policy was easier to proclaim than it was to implement. Neither leader could have known just how little time the Shah had left. Demonstrators soon took to the streets of Teheran calling for everything from a parliamentary democracy to an Islamic theocracy. After a year of unrest, the Shah fled his country in January 1979 and Iran became an Islamic republic, ending 2,500 years of the Persian monarchy. On November 4, 1979—almost exactly two years after the Washington protests—Iranian students stormed the U.S. embassy in Teheran and set off the 444-day hostage crisis. Carter later wrote of the 1977 Washington riot, “That day … was an augury” that soon “there would be real grief in our country because of Iran.”¹⁰

Carter’s ambiguous position on human rights in Iran exemplified American ambiguity toward human rights practices worldwide after 1945.

Time and again, Americans were faced with a quandary: Should they stand up for liberal, democratic principles and human rights everywhere? Or should they follow a more pragmatic course in pursuit of a narrow set of national interests? Did superpower status oblige the United States to promote human rights around the world? Should America simply lead by example rather than “meddling” in other nations’ affairs? Did moral concerns even belong in foreign policy? How Americans answered these questions is the subject of this book.

Human Rights from Tet to Tiananmen Square

This study explains the emergence and institutionalization of human rights in American foreign policy between 1967 and 1991. The modern international movement rose from the ashes of the Second World War, but for two decades the U.S. government was only a minor participant. It was in the quarter century between the late 1960s and the Cold War’s end that presidents, legislators, foreign service officers, and bureaucrats embarked upon a sustained, though hardly consistent, campaign to address abuses in the Soviet Union, Iran, Chile, South Korea, and dozens of other countries. The most important distinction between these activities and Washington’s traditional diplomatic representations was that human rights diplomacy was carried out on behalf of foreign nationals, not American citizens. Defending American lives and property was a customary role for U.S. officials; addressing the well-being of other nations’ citizens was not. In this new era, Congress held hearings on international human rights, cut aid to abusive regimes, passed “sense of the Congress” resolutions, assailed presidential indifference, and required the executive to produce detailed human rights reports. Presidents and diplomats used a combination of private diplomacy (usually with “friendly,” pro-American clients), sanctions, and public criticism (usually with communist or nonaligned nations) to move governments toward more humane practices. Nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) expanded in number and influence, raising awareness among politicos and the public alike. These efforts had a notable impact on American diplomacy in the latter years of the Cold War and beyond.

This book addresses several problems in modern American diplomacy and politics. It sheds light on the domestic sources of foreign policy and the conflict between the executive and legislative branches. It explains why human rights policies emerged as such attractive political solutions and considers why these policies were so difficult to implement. It explains why some causes were more prominent in Washington than others. It explores the role of non-state actors in the policymaking process and in the publicizing of human rights abuses. Most important of all, this book challenges readers to ponder America’s role in the modern world. The story told here exemplifies the classic struggle between the realist tradition in foreign affairs, which emphasizes the pursuit of power, stability, and the national interest, and the idealist tradition, which promotes multilateralism, humanitarianism, and international law. President Richard Nixon crystallized the former sentiment with the mantra, “We deal with governments as they are, not as we would like them to be.”¹¹ President Jimmy Carter articulated the latter tradition when he stated, “Human rights is the soul of our foreign policy because human rights is the very soul of our sense of nationhood.”¹²

Although the narrative herein begins before the Tet Offensive of 1968 and extends a few years beyond the Tiananmen Square massacre of 1989, Tet and Tiananmen are conveniently alliterative signposts for the sweeping changes of the Vietnam War era and the Cold War’s end. Within this time frame, American interest in global human rights was especially evident in three major turning points—the late 1960s, 1973, and the late 1980s. In the early Cold War era, support for authoritarian anticommunist regimes occasioned little comment. Even as late as 1965, few Americans questioned the assumptions behind President Lyndon Johnson’s decision to send troops into South Vietnam and, for a brief time, the Dominican Republic. But as the war in Vietnam became increasingly costly in blood and treasure, domestic support diminished and policymakers were confronted with uncomfortable questions about the war’s wholesale violence and its effect on civilians. The bombing campaigns and atrocities like the My Lai massacre spurred a public conversation on the justice of the fight, and the image of the United States as a beacon of freedom was challenged, and occasionally supplanted, by the image of America as an agent of suffering. As more and more observers suggested that the United States was fighting an unjust, unwinnable war, a parallel concern emerged that Washington was exacerbating repression through its support of illiberal, undemocratic regimes worldwide. When congressional liberals began to defect from the Cold War consensus by demanding a drawdown of the Vietnam commitment, they also shed light on America’s many other troublesome relationships. They focused first on the autocratic regimes in Greece and Brazil. Other “friendly” states (Iran, South Korea, and Indonesia, among others) also attracted activists’ attention in the late sixties and early seventies, as did humanitarian crises in Biafra and Bangladesh. Likewise, legislators challenged the budding U.S.-Soviet détente by publicizing the Soviet Union’s mistreatment of dissidents and Jews. As a result, the Soviet Jewry movement emerged as the most significant, broad-based human rights movement of the 1970s.

Beginning in 1973, policymakers’ and activists’ attention shifted to South America. General Augusto Pinochet’s military coup d’état against President Salvador Allende of Chile was a watershed moment, in part because of the Pinochet regime’s brutality and in part because of the widespread (though flawed) perception that the United States had orchestrated Allende’s overthrow. Alongside the Soviet Jewry issue, the Pinochet coup and its aftermath arguably did more than any other overseas event to propel the human rights push in Washington. This same year, Congressman Donald Fraser (D-MN) held the first generalized human rights hearings in congressional history, and a group of legislators sponsored the first of dozens of bills that would eventually curtail aid to anticommunist dictatorships. For the remainder of the decade—especially during the presidency of Jimmy Carter—activists and policymakers would spotlight abuses in South America’s Southern Cone (Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, Paraguay) and Eastern Europe, with a few other regions occasionally coming into focus.

The second half of the 1980s saw the most wide-ranging efforts of all. The first administration of President Ronald Reagan (1981–1985) generally tolerated allied governments’ excesses in the name of Cold War pragmatism, but Reagan’s second term signaled a substantial departure. In conjunction with the global democracy trend and the waning East/West ideological conflict, the executive and legislative branches and both political parties backed human rights and democratization efforts across a wider swath of the globe than at any time before or since. In this relatively short period, policymakers and activists took up causes in East Asia, the Soviet Union, Eastern Europe, South and Central America, and South Africa. Political divisions remained, but it is hard to deny that American policymakers did a great deal in the late eighties to promote liberal reforms and democratic transitions. The dissolution of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War then constituted a final breaking point. After 1991, absent a competing superpower or even an alternative ideological vision, the political salience of human rights waned noticeably in Washington, while the violations of nonstate actors increased in prominence.

Into the Human Rights Era: The 1970s as a Turning Point

The story of the international human rights movement is long, complex, and largely beyond the purview of this book.¹³ Much more germane to this study is the question of why and how human rights concerns became a part of American foreign policy. Within the post-1945 time frame, there is general scholarly agreement that the 1970s was a defining decade, from the standpoints of both American politics and international activism. Simply put, before this time international human rights mattered very little in most world capitals, but perceptions and policies changed so much in the seventies that scholars now refer to this as the decade of the human rights “breakthrough,” and even “revolution.”¹⁴ In a provocative turn of phrase, Samuel Moyn has suggested that the global human rights movement was “the last utopia”—a largely post-1970 phenomenon that was viable as a program and lexicon only in the context of the failure of earlier social orders and utopian ideologies.¹⁵

Several factors combined to create a more congenial environment for human rights concerns in the late 1960s and 1970s. This period’s aberrant rise in civil conflicts, military coups, and outright atrocities drew international attention, and may have convinced some Americans that the United States should play a stronger role in protecting civilians. Civil wars and genocides plagued Bangladesh, Burundi, and Cambodia, while undeclared civil struggles (“dirty wars”) afflicted Argentina, Chile, and Uruguay.¹⁶ There were military dictatorships in Brazil, Greece, and Indonesia, and violent racial and political conflicts in South Africa, Uganda, and Rhodesia. Civil wars increased in intensity, with the late sixties and early seventies seeing a nearly threefold increase in worldwide battle-related deaths over the previous decade. (The numbers remained high until 1991, after which they dropped precipitously.)¹⁷ A tidal swell of NGO activity and news coverage helped bring these issues to the attention of Western governments and publics.

Concurrent with the rise in civil violence was the retreat of liberal democracy. Between 1950 and 1975, the proportion of nations with functioning parliamentary systems declined. At the dawn of the seventies, communist governments in Eastern Europe and Asia seemed as resolute as ever, while right-wing autocracies were ubiquitous in much of the rest of the world. Across the global South, notes Roland Burke, there was a marked expansion of authoritarianism, including twenty-six coups in Africa in the 1960s, mostly in the decade’s final few years. As Kathryn Sikkink has pointed out, in Latin America alone upward of a dozen nations underwent a wave of repression from the 1960s to the 1980s that was unprecedented in the twentieth century. “In virtually all cases,” she writes, “the repression was carried out under military regimes that had come to power through the wave of coups that swept the region in the 1960s and 1970s…. We have to go back to the colonial and independence periods to find comparable violence.”¹⁸

The Cold War thaw and President Richard Nixon’s détente policy also helped fuel human rights interest in Washington. Nixon and his closest foreign policy adviser, Henry Kissinger, pursued détente with the Soviet Union as a means of preventing nuclear war, limiting the arms race, and containing Soviet ambitions. The Soviets, meanwhile, sought recognition, Western technology, arms control agreements, and respect for existing borders. A mutually beneficial relationship developed. Soviet Ambassador Anatoly Dobrynin later recalled that Soviet-American relations “reached a level of amity in 1973 never before achieved in the postwar era.”¹⁹ Neither set of leaders cared to make human rights a part of this process, but the close relationship facilitated American influence in the internal affairs of the Eastern Bloc. The most prominent legislative attempt to wield this influence was the Jackson-Vanik amendment to the 1974 Trade Act, which tied U.S.-Soviet trade to Soviet Jews’ right to emigrate. The Cold War thaw also increased the potential for action against nominal American allies. In earlier years, dictators’ probusiness and anticommunist credentials were enough to earn a passing grade from American policymakers, a sentiment summarized in a senior official’s alleged comment about a morally dubious ally: “He may be a son of a bitch, but he’s OUR son of a bitch.” The quote’s origins are apocryphal, but no matter; it captures an element of truth in America’s ties to unsavory autocrats like Nicaragua’s Anastasio Somoza, the Dominican Republic’s Rafael Trujillo, and Yugoslavia’s Josip Broz Tito.²⁰ But in the 1970s Americans grew much less tolerant of undemocratic practices in noncommunist states. Détente shaped American diplomacy and the human rights movement until the very end of the 1970s, only to reappear in a different form in the late 1980s under Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev.

Among the most important domestic factors was the conflict between the executive and legislative branches. As the bipartisan foreign policy consensus began to unravel in the wake of the Vietnam stalemate, Congress fought to reclaim a central role, and both parties found a convenient weapon in human rights causes. When Democrats controlled Congress and Republicans held the White House, liberals took the lead by attacking American support for right-wing dictators. Conservatives in both parties then adopted this rhetoric and embraced causes of their own. They, too, were sharply critical of presidential foreign policy, and they routinely publicized Soviet abuses in order to attack Nixon’s détente policy and Reagan’s rapprochement with Gorbachev. Conservatives also lambasted Jimmy Carter’s human rights policy as an “abandonment” of anticommunist allies.

Another major spur to human rights policies was a phenomenon that contemporaries dubbed the “ethnic revival.” As a result of long-term social transformations, Americans of a variety of lineages experienced a profound reawakening of ethno-religious pride and identification, and many entered the public arena to assert their identities and lobby on behalf of their overseas kin. This lobbying occasionally took the form of human rights advocacy in communist countries (Poland, the Soviet Union, Cuba) as well as a few noncommunist polities (South Africa, Northern Ireland, Turkey/Cyprus). Because traditional party lines had fractured and the “ethnics” constituted large voting blocs in key districts, both parties paid a great deal of attention to ethnic lobbies and voters.

Changing perceptions of the U.S. foreign aid program were yet another influence. One of the most effective methods by which the United States could penalize abusive regimes was cutting military and economic aid. Aid cuts grew not only from the increasing attention paid to rights violations, but also from growing dissatisfaction with weapons proliferation and the entire U.S. foreign aid program. Congress first approved Marshall Plan aid to Europe in 1948, and in the ensuing years the United States allocated billions in economic and security assistance to dozens of nations. But in the 1960s, legislators engaged in heated debates over the purpose of foreign aid, and they began to tighten the rules governing aid allocation and arms exports. By the time congressional liberals drafted the first human rights laws in the 1970s, aid cuts were deemed acceptable. Unsurprisingly, these cuts were heavily politicized. Liberals were more likely to oppose military aid to authoritarian governments, while conservatives sought cuts in economic aid to poor countries.

Of course, the increasing acceptance of human rights norms did not grow out of the political realm alone; it also grew from newer, contested perceptions of individualism, rights, permissiveness, and racial and sexual matters. The growing interest in human rights abroad paralleled the increasing acceptance of the “mosaic” character of the American nation, as well as the cautious acceptance of ethnic and racial factors in the making of foreign policy. Human rights became a part of the foreign policy process at the same time that the American political system was becoming more pluralistic. By the 1970s, Americans had tackled many of their most troublesome domestic civil rights issues, and they were now willing to cast their reform energies overseas. The Cold War thaw allowed them to do just that. As the scholar-politician Michael Ignatieff has argued, “The international human rights revolution abroad would have been inconceivable without the rights revolution at home.”²¹ Although domestic racial conflicts persisted, mainstream opinion increasingly rejected racism. It is no coincidence, then, that the two most broad-based human rights efforts of the era—the Soviet Jewry movement and the movement against apartheid in South Africa—were challenges to racially exclusionary policies. Irrespective of the complexities of these cases, Americans generally interpreted them as matters of racial injustice. The changing norms of the post–World War II era were also closely tied to the information revolution, which improved the investigatory process and facilitated the distribution of information to policymakers, the media, and the public. Television humanized faraway suffering, while computers, fax machines, and satellite technology expanded and quickened information gathering, data analysis, and communication.

American human rights policymaking also developed alongside, and often in conjunction with, the era’s other social movements. The 1970s saw the continuation of a robust activist culture amid a variety of new rights claims, from women’s liberation to Chicano Power. Even European American “ethnics” began to claim the language of “rights” and “identity” as a means of distinguishing themselves from white, Protestant Americans. Kenneth Cmiel referred to these movements when he wrote that the 1970s was not “a moment of flagging liberal energy,” but rather “a moment of more basic political restructuring.”²² This restructuring created new possibilities for rights claims in a variety of realms. Yet although some antiwar and civil rights activists did parlay their experiences into other causes, the movements of the sixties hold little explanatory power for the emergence of human rights diplomacy. There are, in fact, few clear connections between the earlier activism and later human rights efforts.²³

All of these influences—détente, the Vietnam War, domestic social movements, the ethnic revival—took place against the backdrop of American social and political life in the 1970s. Many remember this decade rather wistfully as the era of leisure suits, disco, and tragicomic popular culture antiheroes like Evel Knievel. (One study of the period was ironically titled It Seemed Like Nothing Happened.)²⁴ The political and diplomatic memories, though, are less sanguine. The Cambodia Incursion, the Fall of Saigon, Watergate, gas lines, the Iran hostage crisis, and stagflation collectively symbolized economic weakness, military impotence, and cultural failure. These disappointments did not create the human rights movement, but they did fuel debates over America’s role in the world. Some “neo-isolationists,” who took these failures as signs that American power was limited, embraced human rights as a cheaper, less invasive form of global involvement. Others continued to see the United States as a superpower with a national mission to spread liberal, democratic values. These observers lamented the “moral weaknesses” that underpinned the political and military losses, and they saw human rights as a way of renewing America’s commitment to its founding principles. Thus political figures who advocated moral concerns were tapping into both the public’s resentment of Washington and the concomitant popular demand for positive ideas.

And indeed, while the human rights policies of 1967–1991 developed from unique contemporary circumstances, they also fell within a much longer tradition of American moralism. This moral strain, which had been a part of American life since the colonial era, began to merge with the nation’s diplomacy early in the twentieth century. After 1945, efforts on behalf of anticommunism, national self-determination, democracy promotion, and international economic development were routinely justified in moral terms, even when many such goals clearly reflected superpower self-interest. In light of this heritage, American interest in persecuted foreign nationals from 1967 onward is easier to understand.

Major Claims

My position in this book is academic rather than activist. I do not presume that moral principles belong, ipso facto, at the center of diplomacy. I acknowledge that humanitarian concerns have arrived relatively recently in the history of international affairs, and I recognize that in centuries past, diplomacy was carried out in pursuit of royal, imperial, tribal, or national interests with little or no regard for such concerns. I also acknowledge that although international covenants define basic rights standards that all governments should respect, they prescribe few effective enforcement mechanisms. After 1945, states chose to be concerned with other nations’ internal practices; they were rarely obliged to do so.

Thus I am implicitly challenging scholars who assert that American human rights policymaking has been defined by inaction, hypocrisy, and double standards. Julie Mertus argues that the divide between Washington’s high-minded rhetoric and its relative inactivity amounts to a political “bait and switch” in conjunction with a high degree of inconsistency and insincerity.²⁵ Clair Apodaca sees “paradox” and an “erratic evolution” in American policies. She asserts that American political leaders have “routinely dismissed, deferred, or rejected human rights issues,” while the public has been willing to ignore faraway violations for “the delusion of security.”²⁶ David Forsythe, too, has found an “ambivalent and inconsistent” record in America’s dealings with authoritarian states.²⁷ Others have highlighted America’s record of nonaccession to multilateral covenants, or have criticized U.S. support to a succession of autocrats, from Ferdinand Marcos and Nicolae Ceauşescu to Suharto and Mobutu Sese Seko.²⁸

These authors argue, to varying degrees, that the United States did not go far enough in its efforts to protect human rights worldwide. This is a defensible position for an activist, but it is rather presumptuous for a scholar of diplomacy. When asserting that human rights should play a more prominent role in American foreign relations, these authors are often correct on the facts. Clearly the United States has had relationships with many undemocratic governments. But writers who assail American “hypocrisy” do so at the risk of ignoring context and experience. The history of international affairs is one of alliances, allegiances, partnerships, and friendships that are constantly in flux; friends quickly become enemies, and vice versa. This has been true for centuries: consider Lord Palmerston’s assertion that Britain had no permanent allies, only permanent interests, and Thomas Jefferson’s admonition against entangling alliances for the United States.

One is bound to see “hypocrisy” or “double standards” in American human rights policies if one believes that consistency is a realistic goal. In fact, consistency is an impossible standard. It is proper, of course, to probe the extent of U.S. support to authoritarian regimes and to assess whether such support facilitates abuse. But we should acknowledge the broad array of American national interests, as well as each nation’s unique customs, traditions, and economic and security needs. Moreover, considering the relative paucity of democracies for much of the past century, a zealous determination to deal only with nations that shared America’s political traditions and social values would have isolated the United States from most of the world. Critics of American inaction also tend to downplay the social complexities that engender authoritarian forms of government. Although many regimes have blatantly violated their citizens’ rights, it has also often been the case that these governments were responding to serious threats from dangerous neighbors, homegrown terrorists, or armed insurgencies.

I offer four major claims. First, although the Cold War was only one chapter in the long human rights narrative (and can, in fact, be considered marginal to this evolution), it was central to the story of human rights in American foreign policy. American human rights politics were deeply embedded in Cold War ideological divisions and domestic political conflicts. These divides were reflected in the selectivity of policies and rhetoric, especially conservatives’ tendency to condemn left-wing governments in Eastern Europe and liberals’ tendency to target right-wing governments in Latin America. Beyond those two regions, authoritarian governments were either dealt with lightly (South Korea, for example) or not at all (China, Saudi Arabia, Cambodia). American participation in the antiapartheid movement in the 1980s was a rare exception to these regional preferences. Although some activists claim that the mainstream of the international movement was unconcerned with political ideologies, in reality activism and policymaking were imbued with ideological biases and preferences.²⁹ Cuba, South Africa, Pinochet-era Chile, and postrevolutionary Nicaragua were especially notable battlegrounds. Policymakers and activists on the right tended to overstate or misrepresent Cuban and Nicaraguan abuses while downplaying those in Chile and South Africa, and those on the left tended to do the opposite. Despite this selectivity, all sides claimed to be furthering not just American interests, but also human interests.

The Cold War thus stimulated and inhibited the global movement.³⁰ Americans consistently denounced communist governments’ abuses after 1945, but many also tolerated allies’ abuses in the name of the global ideological struggle. (Such “allies” could even include communist regimes, such as those in Yugoslavia and Romania, that demonstrated their independence from Moscow.) After the sixties, when American activists and legislators questioned Washington’s support to undemocratic regimes, these governments increasingly defended their (often blatantly repressive) policies as “anticommunist” or “antiterrorist.” Meanwhile, Eastern Bloc activists also shamed their governments for not living up to constitutional guarantees. Some of these activists sought reformed socialism, while others wanted to emulate Western democracies.

Second, this story is defined by a high degree of politicization, and even opportunism. Every part of the policymaking process was politicized, from congressional hearings and foreign aid debates to democracy promotion initiatives and visits of foreign dissidents. Irrespective of politicians’ true feelings (and many were surely motivated, at least in part, by genuine humanitarian concern), “human rights” was a useful oppositional strategy. Virtually every presidential candidate criticized his opponents’ human rights positions. Congressional advocates’ political motives included their desire to attack executive policies, please local constituencies, or enhance their own publicity. In turn, presidential administrations fought pitched battles with Congress and activists over American priorities and their own interpretations of a “moral” foreign policy. As the movement grew, policymakers faced difficult choices concerning what they might gain or lose by their own participation. A few, like Congressman Donald Fraser, participated wholeheartedly and pushed the movement forward, though they did not necessarily gain politically. Others, like Senator Henry Jackson (D-WA) and Senator Edward Kennedy (D-MA), participated selectively and often enhanced their influence in the process. Those who tried to ignore the movement—Henry Kissinger, for example—had to defend their reliance upon older standards of diplomacy while also paying lip service to new norms. One thing remains clear: few policymakers had an electoral mandate to take up human rights, though some did claim one. Fraser, Jackson, Kennedy, and President Carter chose to champion international human rights, much as they might have chosen to champion education or interstate highways.

Third, in light of the mixed motives behind American policies and rhetoric, as well as these policies’ varied outcomes, human rights activity in Washington cannot be explained by any single analytical model—not realism, idealism, paternalism, paradox, bait and switch, or otherwise. There were simply too many unique cases worldwide and too many interests driving American involvement. Some human rights actions were aimed at alleviating suffering, while others were outward projections of U.S. power, interests, or domestic anxieties. Some policies saved the American taxpayer money, while others hindered trade and hurt American business. Some policies challenged communist adversaries, while others pressured allied governments. Some human rights problems were deemed appropriate for American intervention, while many of the most egregious cases were ignored.

Yet although no single model or label can encompass the totality of American human rights policymaking, we can parse out a few general patterns. American policies and proclamations were largely in the national interest—more precisely, in the interest of some Americans—not simply in the interest of altruism or humanitarianism. The United States protested the actions of governments with which policymakers disagreed, and, with a few notable exceptions, policymakers avoided criticizing those governments they considered “friendly.” If legislators or presidential administrations wanted to weaken a government, they used human rights and democracy policies; if they wanted to strengthen a government, they did not. This was especially true with respect to the Soviet Union. When the United States pressed the Kremlin to free political prisoners and liberalize emigration, it was a direct challenge to Soviet laws. Thus Moscow’s leaders were generally correct in their belief that American activism was aimed, at least in part, at challenging the Soviet state. As for Washington’s dealings with nominal allies, policymakers’ chiding was generally intended to strengthen these governments, unless the leaders in question had lost popular support, in which case some in Washington would support a regime change. Policymakers then often blurred the line between encouraging reforms and interfering in events. When the United States supported democratic transitions in Haiti, the Philippines, and Chile in the 1980s, it was effectively choosing sides by working against the incumbents and quickly backing their successors.

When we consider American foreign relations in toto, international human rights concerns were secondary to more traditional interests like security, trade, international stability, strong bilateral relationships, regional hegemony, and anticommunism. Put another way, although Washington’s human rights efforts were noteworthy, they were not quite revolutionary. American national security always trumped human rights, and policymakers were reluctant to hinder commerce. Important trading partners were rarely sanctioned for long. Likewise, those nations that fell outside of America’s primary economic sphere were seldom a part of human rights debates in Washington. There were some exceptions to these rules: human rights sanctions against Chile and Argentina hurt some American businesses, and antiapartheid policies in the 1980s conflicted with other economic and security interests in the Southern Africa region. But these were aberrations, and the sanctions in question only transpired after months or years of difficult political wrangling.

Another natural consequence of these priorities was that policymakers opted for bilateral policies over multilateral ones. Many Americans had long harbored deep suspicions of multilateral agreements and organizations like the League of Nations (pre-1939) and the United Nations (post-1945). Consequently, although the United States established groundbreaking bilateral human rights policies in the 1970s, Americans were far less willing to embrace multilateral policies. The U.N. human rights treaties languished in the Senate for years, while many U.N. bureaus became sounding boards for nonaligned and communist governments’ criticisms of the Western democracies. As the United Nations lost credibility in the human rights field, national legislatures like the U.S. Congress took on a more significant role. Global human rights concerns were addressed more effectively through the traditional mechanisms of bilateral relations than through multilateral forums.

My final major claim is that inconsistency was central to human rights policymaking and enforcement. The U.S. government’s inability to create a strong, consistent set of policies that applied equally to all nations was a natural outcome of the fractiousness of politics and the sheer variety of interests competing for attention in Washington. This inability further stemmed from a series of problems that beset the human rights movement from the very start. The entire post-1945 regime of universal rights and international law was defined by a conflict—some considered it a contradiction—between the rights of states and the rights of individuals. Because national sovereignty is one of the oldest and most fundamental principles of international law, the new emphasis on individual integrity clearly implied a radical reinterpretation of sovereignty. Furthermore, while the Universal Declaration of Human Rights proclaimed the inviolability of the individual, the U.N. Charter’s second article reinforced the primacy of national sovereignty and sovereign equality. Authoritarian regimes thus relied on the maxim that a nation’s “internal affairs” were its own business, while activists touted the individual as the basic building block of international relations.

Another source of seemingly “inconsistent” behavior grew out of disagreement over the precise definition of a human right. Beyond the most basic matters of individual inviolability—freedom from torture, freedom from extrajudicial execution, and the like—there was no consensus. Activists also found that several cultural, ideological, and religious traditions challenged Western definitions. The impoverished citizens of developing nations were arguably more interested in economic growth than in freedom of expression or religious pluralism. And while the Western democracies exalted individual liberty and corporal integrity, Marxists assailed this as “bourgeois ideology” and instead touted social equality, also known as “economic, social, and cultural rights.” Likewise, cultural relativists and pluralists argued that every culture had a unique conception of rights and obligations, while the postcolonial perspective asserted that human rights were a “neo-imperialistic” imposition upon non-Western societies. In the words of the scholars Adamantia Pollis and Peter Schwab, the liberal human rights doctrine was “a Western construct with limited applicability” to the belief systems, values, and needs of much of the world’s people.³¹ Islam offered yet another challenge to the notion of universality through its strict moral code and the tenets of Sharia law. These divides—East/West, collective/individual, capitalist/Marxist, religious/secular—were never simple binaries.³² Many in the West, for example, defended the legitimacy of economic and social rights. Nevertheless, these conflicts consistently hampered activists’ efforts.

For Washington policymakers, these disputes were overshadowed by the far more important debate over the national interest. While activists argued that human rights promotion was in America’s interest, conservative cold warriors and advocates of traditional diplomacy asserted that the United States should support any stable, anticommunist government. In their eyes, cutting military aid and arms sales destabilized allies, hurt American businesses, and decreased Washington’s leverage but did not prevent regimes from obtaining aid and weapons elsewhere. Was it not preferable, conservatives asked, to maintain cordial relations with undemocratic governments and, if necessary, use private diplomacy to persuade them to reform gradually? The diplomatic corps, too, found much to dislike about human rights rules. Foreign service officers (FSOs) were trained to cooperate with foreign governments, but new laws and practices forced them to broach uncomfortable subjects with their hosts.

In response to these criticisms of morality in foreign policy, activists offered an alternative vision of the national interest—one that included the well-being of other states’ citizens. Some argued that liberal democracies made better, more stable allies. Others claimed that ties to oppressive governments hurt America’s reputation and even spurred foreign policy setbacks, as when revolutionaries overthrew U.S.-backed regimes in Iran and Nicaragua. Most activists, though, justified their vision by pointing to humanism and the American liberal tradition. The United States, they argued, should pursue human rights because this was the right thing to do and because these were consistent with the nation’s founding principles. Realists countercharged that none of these justifications gave much guidance on when and where to apply such ideals, and even activists had to admit that there was a profound difference between desiring a freer, more democratic world, and taking up a national mission to spread liberty and democracy. Some activists argued that America was duty-bound to act because it was a powerful nation that could use its vast economic resources, diplomatic leverage, and even the threat of military force to change other governments’ behavior. But as activists and policymakers would discover time and again between 1967 and 1991, there were limits to American power, and policymakers were rarely able to convince other governments—or other U.S. government agencies, for that matter—to do exactly what they wanted.

One final observation: human rights NGOs were only of marginal importance to Washington policymaking in comparison with their importance to the global movement. This is not to say that human rights NGOs were ineffective; it is, rather, to say that other non-state actors played a more substantial role in America. The number and variety of NGOs concerned with international human rights were remarkable. Hundreds of ethnic associations, churches, synagogues, private foundations, and labor unions occasionally worked on behalf of human rights causes, from the Polish-American Congress and the National Conference on Soviet Jewry to the National Council of Churches and the AFL-CIO. As for the major human rights organizations—Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, and Freedom House, among others—they did help deter abuses by conducting research, providing information to policymakers, and shaming governments into freeing prisoners and commuting sentences. But dealing with Washington was only one aspect of their methodology, and their efforts paled in significance to those of other non-state actors.

This book explores those human rights causes that had the most resonance in Washington, as well as those that illustrated broader trends in the policymaking and activist communities. For reasons of space, I have omitted detailed discussions of cases for which American efforts engendered few substantive policies. I have also left out details about multilateral human rights bodies like the U.N. Human Rights Commission and the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (Helsinki) follow-up meetings. Not only have other scholars already explored these subjects in great depth, but bilateral relationships have been much more integral to the story of American human rights policymaking.