Читать книгу Statecraft - Margaret Thatcher - Страница 8

For as long as there have been states, there has been discussion of statecraft or statesmanship.* The emphasis has changed over the centuries, as ideas of the state itself have changed – from the Greek city-state (or polis) with its narrow (and naturally all-male) citizenship; to the vastness of the Roman Empire with its enthronement of law; to the idealised, if not always idealistic, rulers of medieval Christendom; to the rumbustious politics of Renaissance Italy, home to Machiavelli’s Prince; to the absolute monarchies of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the ages of Richelieu and Frederick the Great; to the French Revolutionary Wars and Napoleon, the clashing European empires, and the competing nationalisms of the nineteenth century; and to the democratic concepts and the welfare state of the twentieth century. To plot the course of statecraft over so long a period would require skills that I, for one, do not possess.† Yet just the sense of so much history lying behind the tasks and goals of statesmen today is sobering and provides perspective.

The early twenty-first century also has its distinctive features that govern the nature of statecraft now. These can conveniently, if not altogether satisfactorily, be summed up by the expression ‘globalism’. In the course of the rest of this book I shall examine, test and explore the realities behind that term in its application to strategy, international interventions, justice and economics. And I shall do this for different countries and continents.

I must start, though, with the state itself. If you were to heed some commentators you would believe that globalisation spells the end of the state as we have known it over the centuries. But they are wrong: it does not. What it actually does is to prevent – in some degree – the state from doing things which it should never have been doing in the first place. And that is something rather different.

A world of mobile capital, of international integration of markets, of instant communication, of information available to all at the click of a mouse, and of (fairly) open borders, is certainly a long way from that world favoured by statists, of whatever political colour, in the past. It is nowadays, as a result, more difficult for governments to misrule their peoples and mismanage their resources without quickly running into problems. Unfortunately, though, it is still not impossible. Many African governments get away with kleptocracy. Several Asian governments get away with disrespect for fundamental human rights. Most European governments get away with high taxation and over-regulation. Bad policies inflict damage on those who practise them, as well as those on whose behalf they are practised, but bad government is still eminently possible.

That somewhat gloomy reflection should be balanced, though, by three much more positive ones. States retain their fundamental importance, first, because they alone set legal frameworks, and having the right legal framework is enormously important – probably more important than ever – for both society and the economy. Second, states are important because they help provide a sense of identity – particularly when their borders coincide with those of a nation – and the more ‘globalised’ the world becomes the more people want to hang on to such identity. Third, states alone retain a monopoly of legitimate coercive power – the power required to suppress crime at home and to maintain security against threats abroad.* This final coercive function of the state, although it may in practice involve a degree of contracting out to private enterprise, can and must never be yielded up. The state is something different from society; it is ultimately the servant not the master of individual human beings; its potential for inflicting horrors remains as great as ever. All these things are true. But we need states and we always will.†

It is on the state’s role in the maintenance of international security that I concentrate in this book. This, in itself – at least until the events of Tuesday, 11 September 2001 – was slightly unfashionable. Today’s politicians, at least in the democracies, had become almost exclusively interested in domestic politics. Of course, in one sense that was understandable. In a democracy we first have to win the votes of the electorate before we strut the world stage – unless we are European Commissioners. As Disraeli once put it, a majority is the ‘best repartee’, and he might have added the ‘best basis for diplomacy’. But the fact remains that the great issues of war and peace which traditionally commanded the attention of statesmen down the ages should again command them today – and to a greater extent than they have in recent years. Riots, epidemics, financial crashes – all can be very frightening and disruptive. But war is still the most terrifying and destructive experience known to man.

Foreign and security policy, though, concerns much more than the two opposing poles of war and peace. It concerns the whole range of risks and opportunities which the far-sighted statesman must appreciate and evaluate in the conduct of his craft. Above all, foreign and security policy is about the use of power in order to achieve a state’s goals in its relations with other states. As a conservative, I have no squeamishness about stating this. I leave it to others to try to achieve the results they seek in international affairs without reference to power. They always fail. And their failures often lead to outcomes more damaging than pursuit of national interest through the normal means of the balance of power and resolute defence would ever have done. It is, indeed, a recurring theme in Western liberal democracies, this mixture of naïve idealism with a distaste for power – and we should be on our guard against it.*

One example. In 1910 Norman Angell, the Nobel Prize-winning economist, wrote a celebrated book called The Great Illusion. In this he argued that because of global economic interdependence – particularly between the great powers – and because the real sources of wealth that lie in trade cannot ultimately be captured, warfare conducted for material advantage is always pointless. There is a small kernel of truth in this. Peace, not war, promotes commerce, and commerce is the driving force for prosperity – other things being equal. But in the real world other things are quite often not at all equal. Aggression may make perfect sense to a tyrant or a well-armed fanatic in certain circumstances. It may even appeal to a whole nation. Trade protectionism, which stops countries from having access to the commodities they need for their industries, may also lead political leaders to launch ‘rational’ wars. In any of these conditions there is precious little point in either victims or onlookers protesting that everyone would be better off without war. The only alternatives on offer are to fight, or to raise the white flag. Concerns for a safer world and attempts to secure it are admirable. But when, as in the case of Norman Angell, they lead a writer to believe, four years before the most terrible conflict the world has known, that ‘it is absolutely certain – and even the militarists … admit this – that the natural tendencies of the average man are setting more and more away from war’ – then something is badly wrong.†

It is sometimes suggested, or at least implied, that the only alternative to such dangerous high-mindedness as this in foreign policy is the total abandonment of moral standards. The thought behind Sir Henry Wotton’s well-known definition of a diplomat as ‘a good man sent abroad to lie for his country’ has been applied more widely.* Yet I am not one of those who believe that statecraft should concern power without principle. For a start, pure Realpolitik – that is, foreign policy based on calculations of power and the national interest† – is a concept which blurs at the edges the more closely it is examined. Bismarck, its most famous practitioner, once remarked over dinner that conducting policy with principles would be like walking along a narrow forest path while carrying a long pole between one’s teeth. But even the Iron Chancellor had principles of a kind: after all, he accepted without demur that his loyalty was to his royal (and later imperial) master rather than to the German people – a large section of whom he left excluded from the Reich.‡ He upheld the system and the values of the Prussian state, not those of a liberal democratic Germany. Whatever you think of this policy, it was not mere pragmatism.

Moreover, in the age of democracy the pursuit of statecraft without regard for moral principles is all but impossible, and it makes little sense for even the most hard-nosed statesmen to ignore this fact. Since Gladstone’s Midlothian Campaigns in 1879 and 1880 – launched on the back of denunciations of Britain’s foreign policy as ‘immoral’ – politicians who try to appeal exclusively to national interest have repeatedly run into trouble with national electorates. And the rise of America, as a great power with an easily troubled conscience, has confirmed that trend.

The years of the Cold War also had a deep and lasting effect. In that period, when the world was divided into two armed blocs with opposing ideologies – capitalism and socialism – the upholding of national interest and the upholding of political principles were for most of the time a seamless web. And though much has been questioned since the end of the Cold War, there have been few attempts to suggest that considerations of national interest are all that matter in weighing up foreign policy choices.

For my part, I favour an approach to statecraft that embraces principles, as long as it is not stifled by them; and I prefer such principles to be accompanied by steel along with good intentions. I accordingly suggest three axioms which the statesman would do well to bear in mind today.

First, the extension of democracy through every country and continent remains a legitimate and indeed fundamental aspect of sound foreign policy. There are many practical reasons for this: democratic states do not generally make war on each other; democracy generally promotes good government; democracy generally accompanies prosperity. But I do mean true democracy – that is a law-based state with a limited government, in which the tyranny of the majority no less than that of a minority is banished. Furthermore, as I shall explain, I entertain deep reservations about some initiatives taken in the name of human rights and democracy, on grounds of both practicality and of legitimacy.* And I would also caution against making the best (perfect democracy) the enemy of the good (imperfect democracy).† Commonsense must always temper moral zeal.

Second, a sound and stable international order can only be founded upon respect for nations and for nation states. Whatever the flaws of particular nationalisms, national pride and national institutions constitute the best grounding for a functioning democracy. Attempts to suppress national differences or to amalgamate different nations with distinct traditions into artificial states are very likely to fail, perhaps bloodily. The wise statesman will celebrate nationhood – and use it.

Third, whatever stratagems of international diplomacy are deployed to keep the peace, the ultimate test of statesmanship is what to do in the face of war. Deterring wars, and being in a position to win wars that are forced upon one, are two sides of the same coin: both require continuous investment in defence and a constant and unbending resolution to resist aggression. Our present age is one in which even the thought of war has become anathema. Yet at any one time wars of varying intensity are being fought around the globe. For example, in 1999 alone there were civil wars of one kind or another taking place in nineteen countries around the world.* In addition there were four international armed conflicts between governments over sovereignty and territory: the Kosovo conflict (and subsequent NATO intervention); the war between Ethiopia and Eritrea; the clash between India and Pakistan over Kashmir; and the Arab—Israeli conflict in Southern Lebanon. Most such conflicts are in places remote from the daily concerns of Western electorates and politicians. But in today’s world, with its widely available weapons of mass destruction, its ethnic and religious fault-lines, and its propensity for international interventions, distant wars easily pose present dangers.

The first draft of this book was completed before the terrorist attacks on America of Tuesday, 11 September 2001. Any study of events always runs the risk of being overtaken by them.† This happened to Statecraft. In fact, so traumatic and far-reaching have been the consequences of that day’s vile outrages that an author may be tempted to follow some commentators in concluding that only entirely new approaches are relevant to an entirely different world.

But I resisted that temptation. Instead, I set about reconsidering my thinking and revisited my conclusions in the light of what we now know about the scale of the threat posed by Islamic terrorism. I also reflected upon how the requirements of the global war against terrorism, which President Bush and his allies have declared, altered the way in which we should handle relations with other world powers like Russia, China and India. I weighed up the case for a radically different approach to the Middle East. I tried to assess whether the crisis altered Britain’s role in Europe or Europe’s role in the Western Alliance. In fact, I sought to test everything.

On some questions I did indeed find myself altering my emphasis. In giving priority – as we now must – to beating terrorism, we inevitably give less attention to other issues. We have to achieve a somewhat different balance between individual liberties and the safety of the public at home. Abroad, our attentions will also be refocused. In forging a coalition to defeat one enemy we may have, at least temporarily, to deal more closely with unsatisfactory regimes which we have otherwise been right to criticise. But then, having a conservative rather than a liberal view of foreign and security policy, I agree with Winston Churchill, who once remarked of his alliance with the Soviet Union to defeat Nazi Germany: ‘If Hitler invaded Hell I would at least try to make a favourable reference to the Devil.’ Thankfully, we are not confronted with allies like Stalin, and the Devil’s hand is clearly recognisable in the works of Osama bin Laden and his al-Qaeda network.

Yet, all that said, I do not in fact find myself altering my analysis in any very significant respect. And this is not mere stubbornness on my part. Let me explain why.

In the wake of America’s tragedy, we heard it said again and again that Tuesday, 11 September was ‘the day the world changed’. The headlines proclaimed it. The newscasters repeated it. The politicians, with a few exceptions, echoed it. It is easy to understand why the statement came to be made. What happened that day was the worst ever terrorist outrage. Westerners in general, Americans in particular, never felt more vulnerable or less prepared. The scale of the grief and the depth of the anger simply have no equivalent.

For those who mourn, of course, reality had changed – for ever. In time, perhaps, they will find new lives, new sources of consolation, blessed forgetfulness; but nothing politicians or generals do can recapture what they have lost.

But in a different way the world has stayed the same: it is just that years of illusion have been stripped away. Ever since the end of the Cold War, the West had come to believe that it was time to think and speak only of the arts of peace. With one great enemy – Soviet communism – vanquished, it was all too demanding and unsettling to think that other enemies might yet arise to disturb our prosperous calm.

So we heard more and more about human rights, less and less about national security. We spent more on welfare, less on defence. We allowed our intelligence efforts to slacken. We hoped – and many were the liberal-minded politicians who encouraged us to hope – that within the Global Village there were only to be found good neighbours. Few of us were tactless enough to mention that what makes good neighbours is often good fences.

Yet, the world we all view so much more clearly now, with eyes wiped clean by tears of tragedy, was in truth there all along. It is a world of risk, of conflict and of latent violence. Democracy, progress, tolerance – these values have not yet taken possession of the earth. And the only sense in which we have reached the ‘end of history’ is that we have gained a glimpse of Armageddon.*

We now know that bin Laden’s terrorists had been planning their outrages for years. The propagation of their mad, bad ideology – decency forbids calling it a religion – had been taking place before our eyes. We were just too blind to see it. In short, the world had never ceased to be dangerous. But the West had ceased to be vigilant. Surely that is the most important lesson of this tragedy, and we must learn it if our civilisation is to survive.