[Paleopsych] NYTBR: 'Sands of Empire': Civilizations and Their Discontents
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'Sands of Empire': Civilizations and Their Discontents
New York Times Book Review, 5.6.26
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/26/books/review/26SECORL.html
[First chapter appended.]
SOUTH PARK CONSERVATIVES
The Revolt Against Liberal Media Bias.
By Brian C. Anderson.
191 pp. Regnery Publishing. $24.95.
By LAURA SECOR
Robert W. Merry fingers what he calls the ''idea of progress'' as the
dangerous delusion that has given us neoconservatism. Its European
forefathers include Rousseau, who believed in the perfectibility of
human society through its political institutions, and Hegel, who
foresaw an end to history. In America, the ''idea of progress'' has
captured the imaginations of optimists from Woodrow Wilson to Francis
Fukuyama, Thomas Friedman and William Kristol -- leading them, in
Merry's view, to dangerous flights of fancy.
Merry, the president and publisher of Congressional Quarterly, argues
in ''Sands of Empire'' that history does not follow a linear course
with the West out in front, so much as a cyclical one in which
civilizations rise and fall. There will always be multiple power
centers, multiple cultures and fundamentally incompatible systems of
value. Following Samuel Huntington's famous thesis about clashing
civilizations, Merry divides the globe into broad categories, each
defined by an unchanging cultural essence. To interpret world events
-- say, the 1992-95 war in Bosnia or the current war on terrorism --
in moral terms, as humanitarian interventionists and neoconservatives
do, is to obscure the real story of intractable conflict among, for
instance, Islam, Western Christianity and Orthodox Christianity.
In such a Hobbesian world, grand idealistic designs will avail the
United States nothing. Nor will a quest for American dominance in the
name of the good. Merry calls instead for a foreign policy that seeks,
without swagger or sanctimony, to protect American lives, parry
threats and foster a global balance of power. In the Middle East, that
means unashamedly supporting dictatorships so long as they thwart
Islamic fundamentalist ambitions. Since the United States is leading a
civilizational war against the forces of Islamism, why behave as if we
had the time or resources to re-engineer alien societies?
In a foreign policy debate increasingly clouded by illusions of
American omnipotence, Merry often strikes a welcome note of humility.
He rightly cautions that cold war analogies cannot fruitfully be
extended to the Islamic world, where religious politics claim deeper
roots than Communism ever did in Eastern Europe. But the intellectual
framework into which he squeezes America's foreign policy options
seems barren, and his alternative vision for the post-cold-war era is
fundamentally tendentious.
To begin with, the idea of progress, which Merry scorns, and the clash
of civilizations position, which he champions, are more similar than
he indicates. Merry argues that through the idea of progress
Westerners project their own values onto the world. But the clash of
civilizations perspective also projects values onto the world -- the
benighted, alien values Westerners imagine others possess, and will
possess for all eternity.
Islamic civilization, in Merry's description, has always held religion
to be inseparable from politics, and will always view women as
inferior to men. These and other precepts are ''etched in the cultural
consciousness'' of the world's Muslims. But what about the centuries
of Muslim quietude under the premodern Islamic empires, let alone the
emerging Islamic feminist movement? With a sweep of his hand Merry has
flattened huge swaths of the globe into ahistorical, monolithic
stasis.
What's more, Merry holds that the boundaries between civilizations are
impermeable, but then expends enormous energy in arguing that they
should be made and kept so. The world, in actual fact, is untidy, and
so categories must be imposed and policed. Turkey's bid for European
Union membership, for example, should be rejected on the ground that
the inclusion of so many Muslims would dilute Europe's so-called
cultural identity. Although a great many Turks themselves identify as
much with Europe as with the Middle East, Merry advocates that the
West push Turkey away and urge it to become a leader of Islamic
civilization instead. Similarly, cultural heterogeneity within the
United States threatens the Western order. The American government
should ''seek to hold down . . . Muslim population growth.'' Merry
dresses these notions up as cold-eyed realism, but they smack of
old-fashioned racism.
Indeed, Merry expresses sympathy for the Serbian argument in favor of
ethnic cleansing in Bosnia -- namely, that the Bosnian Muslims were
seeking to establish a fundamentalist state. The only evidence Merry
produces is an academic book written 35 years ago by the Bosnian
Muslim leader Alija (not Aliza, as Merry has it) Izetbegovic before a
Bosnian state was forced into existence by the Yugoslav
disintegration. Never mind the cynical power politics of Yugoslavia's
post-Tito politicians; never mind the centuries of peaceful
coexistence up to the emergence of Western-style nationalism in the
late 18th century. As Merry describes them, the Yugoslav wars were
rooted in ancient ethnic hatreds that are ''part of the essence of
Yugoslavia and its peoples,'' at least since ''cultural venom'' was
''injected into the hearts of the peoples there through half a
millennium of Turkish rule.''
Merry suggests that the humanitarian interventionism of the 1990's
rested on the same American hubris that considers the United States'
hegemony to be desirable, as well as sustainable in perpetuity. But it
hardly seems necessary to adhere to an idea of American exceptionalism
to press the country to act when it can to stop mass slaughter. Merry
contends, moreover, that our interventions in the Balkans have been
disastrous. Unfortunately for him (if not for the Bosnians and
Kosovars), they haven't been. And while he repeatedly declares that
Bosnia has become a ''geopolitical monster,'' a ''Muslim staging area
and recruitment ground for actions aimed at killing Americans in
Iraq,'' he doesn't provide anything like the evidence that would
support such catastrophic and sweeping claims.
What Merry's analysis reveals, in spite of itself, is the bankruptcy
of the dichotomies into which foreign policy thinking is too often
forced. Why must we choose between American exceptionalism and
xenophobic relativism? Both views are arrogant. Neither deals with the
world as it actually is -- complex, crosscut by strains of similarity
and difference, shaped by politics and moral striving as well as by
history and culture. The difference between the two worldviews Merry
describes is not so much the difference between the real and the
imaginary as between the utopian and the dystopian. Merry rightly
notes that the dangers of the utopian imagination are -- have always
been -- blindness, arrogance and overreach. Yet Merry's vision of
eternal civilizational strife prescribes its own fulfillment. It is
hard to imagine a worse outcome than that.
Laura Secor is a staff editor for The Times's Op-Ed page.
---------------
First chapter of 'Sands of Empire'
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/26/books/chapters/0626-1st-merry.html
By ROBERT W. MERRY
Globalization and the End of History
In 1910, a starry-eyed British economist named Norman Angell published
a book called The Great Illusion, positing the notion that war among
the industrial nations had become essentially obsolete. "How," he
asked, "can modern life, with its overpowering proportion of
industrial activities and its infinitesimal proportion of military,
keep alive the instincts associated with war as against those
developed by peace?" The book was an instant smash, translated into
eleven languages and stirring something of a cult following throughout
Europe. "By impressive examples and incontrovertible argument," wrote
Barbara Tuchman in her narrative history The Guns of August, "Angell
showed that in the present financial and economic interdependence of
nations, the victor would suffer equally with the vanquished;
therefore war had become unprofitable; therefore no nation would be so
foolish as to start one."
At major universities throughout Britain, study groups of Angell
acolytes sprang up. Viscount Esher, friend and confidant of the king,
traveled widely to spread the gospel that "new economic factors
clearly prove the inanity of aggressive wars." Such wars, he
suggested, would spread "commercial disaster, financial ruin and
individual suffering" on such a scale that the very thought of them
would unleash powerful "restraining influences." Thus, as he told one
military audience, the interlacing of nations had rendered war "every
day more difficult and improbable."
In recounting all this, Tuchman barely conceals her contempt for
Angell and Esher, which seems understandable given the carnage
unleashed upon the European continent just four years after Angell's
volume began its massive flow through bookstores. And yet there's
something remarkably durable about the Angell thesis. In 1930, a year
when the memory of World War I's rivers of blood must have been vivid
in European minds, the king of England gave him a knighthood. Three
years later he won the Nobel Peace Prize for his earnest agitations
for world tranquillity. And in 1999, nearly ninety years after The
Great Illusion appeared, a prominent New York Times columnist, Thomas
L. Friedman, pronounced Angell's thesis to be "actually right,"
although he leavened his endorsement with a bow to Thucydides'
observations about the causes of war.
All this poses a question: to what can we attribute the durability of
Angell's discredited thesis and its reemergence after nearly a century
filled with global conflict? The answer lies in the convergence of two
developments of significance to Western thought - one distant and
occurring over centuries, the other recent and bursting forth with
stunning rapidity. The recent development was the West's Cold War
victory over the Soviet Union in 1989 after nearly a half century of
eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation. The distant development was the
emergence of that seminal Western concept, the Idea of Progress.
This convergence is reflected in two publishing events of deep
significance in America's recent intellectual life. One was the 1989
publication, in an obscure scholarly journal called The National
Interest, of that essay by Francis Fukuyama entitled "The End of
History?" Fukuyama, then a functionary on the State Department's
planning staff but now a prominent academic, posited the notion that
the West's coming Cold War victory represented "the end point of
mankind's ideological evolution and the universalization of Western
liberal democracy as the final form of human government." Borrowing
from Hegel, he said this represented "the end of history" in that the
ideological struggles of the ages had reached absolute finality, with
profound benefit to the cause of world peace. It was a bombshell
article, stirring debates that still reverberate among academics and
intellectuals.
The other publishing event was the 1999 publication of Thomas
Friedman's The Lexus and the Olive Tree, an analysis and celebration
of what he called "the new era of globalization," characterized by the
triumph of Western-style democratic capitalism and by greater
prospects for global tranquillity than ever before in history.
Friedman's book was widely reviewed, generated abundant favorable
comment, and spent several months on the New York Times bestseller
list. One reviewer called it "[perhaps] the first indispensable book
of the new millennium."
These two efforts to explain the post-Cold War world reflect a
fundamental reality of current Western thinking - namely, that the
Idea of Progress remains for many the central underlying philosophical
precept and the wellspring for much of what we see today in the way of
perceptions, outlooks, predictions, and convictions. Both "The End of
History?" and The Lexus and the Olive Tree are distillations of the
Idea of Progress, applied to the post-Cold War world. And both embrace
the mischievous corollary and the two great contradictions of the
Progress concept. The mischievous corollary suggests that progress can
alter fundamental human nature. The contradictions are, first, the
notion that this inexorable progress can actually stop at a perceived
end point of history; and, second, the persistent underlying idea of
Eurocentrism, the perceived superiority and universality of Western
ideas and ideals.
Francis Fukuyama, the son of a Congregational minister and religion
professor, grew up in a middle-class housing development on
Manhattan's Lower East Side. At Cornell, he majored in classics and
lived at a residence called Telluride House, a haven for philosophy
students who enjoyed sitting around and discussing the great thinkers.
After Cornell it was on to Yale, where he did graduate work in
comparative literature, and then to Paris to further his literary
studies. But he became alienated from what he considered the
postmodern nihilism of the prominent scholars there, and he redirected
his focus toward the tangible world of geopolitics. Three years later
he had a Ph.D. from Harvard in political science, with a specialty in
Middle Eastern and Soviet politics.
Upon getting the doctorate he joined the RAND Corporation in Santa
Monica, where he spent several years writing papers of informed
speculation on the fine points and likely implications of Soviet
foreign and military policy. Then in early 1989, just before he was to
join the State Department's planning staff, he delivered a lecture at
the University of Chicago that sought to place the day's geopolitical
events in a broad perspective. Owen Harries, editor of The National
Interest (just four years old at the time, with a circulation of
5,600), read the speech and considered it precisely the kind of
attention-grabbing analysis he wanted. Running to ten thousand words
and appearing in the summer issue, it instantly thrust Fukuyama into
the role of intellectual celebrity.
Fukuyama's embrace of the Idea of Progress is manifest in his
provocative title, in his declaration that Western democratic
capitalism represents the final destination point of human civic
development, and in his belief in the universality of Western
political ideals. But more fundamental is his reliance on the
philosophy and dialectic of Hegel, the great nineteenth-century German
philosopher.
Penetrating Hegel and his thinking is not an easy task. Irving
Kristol, the neoconservative intellectual, calls Hegel "the most
unreadable of our great philosophers." But more than anyone else Hegel
established the history of philosophy as an important area of study.
Robert Nisbet calls him "without question the preeminent philosopher
of the nineteenth century." Kristol calls him "along with Kant the
greatest philosopher of modernity." Aiming to develop a field of
philosophy that would integrate the thinking of all his great
philosophic predecessors, he posited the notion that these
predecessors represented so many states of mind, each signifying a
particular stage in the development of the human spirit toward ever
greater levels of maturity.
Thus he was crucial to the development of the Idea of Progress. "In no
philosopher or scientist of the nineteenth century," writes Nisbet,
"did the idea of progress ... have greater weight than in Hegel's
thought. There is scarcely a work in Hegel's voluminous writings that
is not in some fashion or degree built around the idea of becoming, of
growth and progress." In his essay replying to the Fukuyama article,
Kristol offers a penetrating analysis of Hegel and his significance to
Fukuyama's End of History thesis. On one level, he writes, Hegel's
outlook was rather conventional in that he viewed history as an
evolution from the more simple to the more complex and from the more
naive to the more sophisticated. "All this," he writes, "was familiar
to the eighteenth century under the rubric of Progress."
But Hegel went further, suggesting that this evolution represented a
destiny determined by an inner logic - "an inner dialectic, to be more
precise" - of which the historical actors were themselves ignorant.
Thus, it was left to Hegel to reveal this whole inner dialectic and
this destiny. "From a metaphysical point of view," writes Kristol,
"this accession of self-consciousness by a German professor
represented an achievement of the universe itself, of which humanity
is the thinking self-conscious vehicle." In other words, before Hegel
came upon the scene the various philosophers hammered away at their
various bits of thinking, not knowing how they all fit together. But
now they had the benefit of Hegel's dialectic showing how these
fragments fit together and showing further how they would continue to
develop into the future. Thus the history of philosophy now could be
regarded as a kind of cultural evolution "whose inner dialectic,"
writes Kristol, "aimed always at increments of enlightenment - an
evolution which we, from the privileged heights of modernity, can
comprehend as never before."
This was breathtaking. And soon it wasn't just the history of
philosophy that came under the spell of the Hegelian dialectic, but
history itself. As Kristol points out, the idea that history is a
human autobiography in which events gradually and inexorably mature
into modernity serves as the underpinning for nearly all of today's
historical inquiry, which assumes, he writes, "that we have the
intellectual authority to understand the past as the past failed to
understand itself." And this heady, self-congratulatory thinking
inevitably captured Western politics as well. "After Hegel," writes
Kristol, "all politics too becomes neo-Hegelian." Hegel saw the modern
constitutional state and its liberal social order as the end point and
the final purpose of history. But he realized that this end point
resided largely in the realm of theory and that, in the practical
world, the evolution was ongoing. "Now," writes Kristol, "Mr. Fukuyama
arrives to tell us that, after almost two centuries, the job has been
done and that the United States of America is the incarnation we have
all been waiting for."
Viewing the Fukuyama thesis through such a prism, it is easy to see
why he stirred such interest and controversy. In his essay, Fukuyama
identifies Hegel as "the first philosopher to speak the language of
modern social science." That's because he pioneered the idea of man as
the product of his concrete historical and social environment and not,
as earlier natural right theorists had suggested, a collection of more
or less fixed "natural" attributes. This is precisely where Hegel
embraced the concept of the malleability of human nature. And this is
where Fukuyama did likewise.
As Fukuyama sees it, this perception of human nature is fundamental to
the inescapable modern view of mankind. He writes: "The notion that
mankind has progressed through a series of primitive states of
consciousness on his path to the present, and that these stages
corresponded to concrete forms of social organization ... [culminating
in] democratic-egalitarian societies, has become inseparable from the
modern understanding of man." In other words, we're all Hegelians now.
Fukuyama moves from his Hegelian analysis to the question of whether
the modern world harbors any fundamental "contradictions" that cannot
be resolved in the context of what he calls the "universal homogenous
state" of liberal democracy. The End of History, after all, represents
a state of human development in which no such contradictions can
emerge because we have reached "the common ideological heritage of
mankind." But to make his point he runs through the possibilities.
First, communism. Fukuyama wrote prior to the profound events of 1989
that marked the end of the Cold War - the massive exodus of East bloc
citizens through Hungary and into Austria in late summer; the Soviet
loss of nerve in the face of this display of defiance; the consequent
disintegration of the Soviets' Eastern European empire; and the
dramatic demolition of the Berlin Wall and the reunification of
Germany. Thus he was prescient in seeing that Soviet communism was
disintegrating and that it posed no serious alternative to Western
democracy. "The Soviet Union could in no way be described as a liberal
or democratic country," writes Fukuyama. "But at the end of history it
is not necessary that all societies become successful liberal
societies, merely that they end their ideological pretensions of
representing different and higher forms of human society."
Next he looked at the "Asian alternatives," with similar results. The
Fascism of Imperial Japan had been smashed, and postwar Japan had
created a consumer culture "that has become both a symbol and an
underpinning of the universal homogenous state." In other Asian
societies economic liberalism was ushering in varying degrees of
political liberalism. And even China had abandoned the strictures of
Marxism-Leninism in an effort to foster growing prosperity. China was
a long way from accepting the Hegelian formula, Fukuyama suggested.
"Yet the pull of the liberal idea continues to be very strong as
economic power devolves and the economy becomes more open to the
outside world."
Fukuyama notes the speculation of some that the Soviet disintegration
could usher in a threatening wave of Russian nationalism. He dismisses
this as "curious" on the ground that it assumes unrealistically that
the evolution of the Russian consciousness had "stood still" during
the Soviet interregnum. Similarly, he dismisses the idea that
nationalism or ethnic zeal could emerge from any quarter to pose a
serious threat to the universal homogenous state.
As for Islamic fundamentalism, he concedes that Islam has indeed
offered a theocratic state as a political alternative to Western
liberalism. . . .
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