Grande estratégia e idiossincrasias corporativas: uma reflexão a partir da experiência de George Kennan (2012) - Paulo Roberto de Almeida

 Grande estratégia e idiossincrasias corporativas:

uma reflexão a partir da experiência de George Kennan

 

Paulo Roberto de Almeida

Brasília, 2409: 14 de julho de 2012

 

 

Lendo a biografia de John Lewis Gaddis, sobre o grande diplomata e historiador americano, que dominou a segunda metade do século XX, George F. Kennan: An American Life (New York: The Penguin Press, 2011), deparo-me com um trecho, relativo ao ano de 1943, quando Kennan era encarregado de negócios na legação dos Estados Unidos em Lisboa; negociações eram conduzidas na capital portuguesa para assegurar o uso, por forças americanas, dos Açores, como plataforma absolutamente indispensável para conduzir as operações europeias da Segunda Guerra Mundial em sua vertente norte-atlântica:

“[George Kennan] began to develop... a new sense of responsibility within the duties assigned to him: at several points over the next few years Kennan took risks that jeopardized his own Foreign Service career because he thought that the national interest demanded that he do so. Obliged to operate for the first time at the level of grand strategy, he found the rules oh his profession falling short. He chose, successfully but dangerously, to violate them.” [Loc 3387 of 18204 Kindle edition, Ó Amazon].

Gaddis informa ainda, na sequência dessa passagem, as circunstâncias em que Kennan decidiu assumir vários riscos em sua carreira, violando deliberadamente várias regras do jogo, tal como definidas por instituições excessivamente burocráticas ou muito conservadoras, tanto o Departamento de Estado quanto o comando das Forças Armadas, como se pode depreender desta transcrição adicional:

“During the Azores base negotiations [com o próprio Primeiro-Ministro português Antonio de Oliveira Salazar], Kennan violated at least four rules, any one of which could have him sacked from the Foreign Service. He exceeded his instructions in a conversation with a foreign head of government. He refused to carry out a presidential order. He lied, to another government, about the position of his own. And he went over the heads of his superiors in the State Department – as well as the secretary of war and the Joint Chiefs of Staff – to make direct appeal to the White House.” (Loc 3436 of 18204 Kindle edition, Ó Amazon).

 

Estas passagens chamaram-me obviamente a atenção, ou “struck a cord on me”, como diria o próprio Gaddis, provavelmente o maior historiador vivo da Guerra Fria e o único biógrafo autorizado de George Kennan. Explico por que, já que isso tem a ver com a mesma sensação de barreiras burocráticas e conservadoras, em assuntos que demandariam uma visão mais larga dos processos diplomáticos, que eu já enfrentei na carreira. Não querendo me comparar a George Kennan, possivelmente o maior especialista diplomático americano em assuntos russos que jamais existiu nos anais daquele serviço diplomático, mas eu também adquiri, ainda antes de ingressar no serviço diplomático, uma percepção histórica e estrutural de muitos dos temas que compõem, burocraticamente, a agenda diplomática corrente. 

Tendo começado a estudar os assuntos brasileiros desde muito cedo – compulsando uma bibliografia de nível universitário, ou de pesquisa especializada, ainda quando estava em meio aos estudos do ciclo médio – desenvolvi provavelmente de maneira muito precoce um cuidado com a análise do contexto, dos precedentes históricos, e dos impactos estruturais ou implicações políticas de cada um dos problemas com que me deparava em minhas leituras ou pela leitura dos jornais de maior qualidade em suas edições dominicais (invariavelmente o velho jornal conservador O Estado de São Paulo, ainda quando discordasse profundamente de seus editoriais, que julgava representativos das opiniões da “classe dominante”). Foram anos, em meados da década de 1960, em que eu lia os grandes mestres da teoria social brasileira, entre eles os representantes da “escola paulista de Sociologia” – que pouco depois se tornaria minha alma mater, ao ter ingressado no curso de Ciências Sociais da Faculdade de Filosofia, Letras e Ciências Humanas da USP – e através dos quais eu filtrava minhas reações aos editoriais “reacionários” do Estadão, combinando todas essas leituras para refletir sobre os caminhos do desenvolvimento econômico e político brasileiro, no quadro das crises contínuas que agitavam o período que se tinha iniciado com o golpe de 1964, e que eu imaginava combater pela via do socialismo e de um governo comprometido com a “ditadura do proletariado”. 

Independentemente dessas ilusões e descaminhos ideológicos – que foram sendo corrigidos tão pronto eu deixei o país, no final de 1970, para conhecer o triste cenário do socialismo real do leste europeu e as nuances dos capitalismos realmente existentes na Europa, durante quase sete anos – eu adquiri, a partir desses hábitos juvenis de leitura, um sentido de abrangência analítica e de inserção contextual que me acompanharia pelo resto da vida, sobretudo no domínio profissional, quando ingressei na carreira diplomática, poucos meses depois de voltar da Europa em 1977. Mas o que isso quer dizer, no quadro desta seleção de trechos da biografia de Kennan por Lewis Gaddis? Explico-me agora mais detalhadamente. 

Ingressei no Itamaraty ainda na era militar, quando ainda pensava em derrubar o regime, embora não mais pela via das armas e sim pela via da pressão democrática. Tampouco pretendia converter o Brasil em uma nova Cuba ou uma nova China, como talvez fosse a intenção em meados dos anos 1960; mas o modelo ainda seria algo bem próximo do socialismo democrático europeu, que eu julgava bem mais propenso a empreender a correção das tremendas injustiças sociais em vigor no Brasil, desde sempre, do que, alternativamente, a visão mais pró-mercado que não tenho hesitação em defender atualmente. Nessa época, eu ainda era obrigado a escrever artigos com algum nom de plume, já que minhas “convicções radicais” provavelmente chocariam meus colegas e superiores diplomáticos – que eu considerava todos alinhados ao regime – e chamariam a atenção dos órgãos de segurança, especialmente ativos naquela conjuntura, quando a repressão física tinha amainado, mas o controle de inteligência continuava atento a todas as manobras da oposição ao governo militar.

Tendo iniciado minha carreira no Itamaraty por uma divisão secundária, a do Leste Europeu (então todo ele dominado pela União Soviética), pude distinguir-me rapidamente em alguns trabalhos analíticos, inclusive porque, ademais dos boletins da Radio Free Europe e da Radio Liberty – ambas financiadas pela CIA, obviamente – que líamos na DE-II, eu possuía um conhecimento interno, se ouso dizer, sobre o funcionamento desses regimes autoritários, já que tinha militado na esquerda marxista durante tempo suficiente para aprender – e apreender – todos os trejeitos vocabulares e as muitas peculiaridades políticas do mundo comunista. Recordo-me, em todo caso, de uma informação que preparei sobre o quadro político no leste europeu, em especial sobre a situação da Polônia, no imediato seguimento, em 1978, da surpreendente eleição do cardeal Karol Wojtila como o novo papa, de nome João Paulo II. Ao que parece, minha análise abrangente das implicações dessa escolha para todo o leste europeu e para o poder comunista foi devidamente apreciada pelos meus superiores, para ascender ao conhecimento do Gabinete do ministro, o que constitui, no Itamaraty, uma marca de distinção a dividir os assuntos que permanecem na “senzala”—como sempre foram depreciativamente chamados os serviços setoriais das divisões, no Anexo – e os que ascendem ao conhecimento da Casa Grande, como se designavam, respeitosamente, os dois gabinetes do Palácio. 

Não exatamente por esse episódio específico, mas talvez mais pelo meu jeito histórico-intelectual de interpretar cada iniciativa ou resposta do serviço diplomático brasileiro, em função de um contexto mais vasto, no tratamento dos assuntos da agenda corrente, fui sendo considerado um diplomata especial, ou diferente, talvez bizarro, em todo caso colocado num clube à parte, não necessariamente melhor, dessa tribo de elite dos servidores do Estado. De um lado, nunca tive que mendigar postos ou posições no curso da carreira, já que em geral recebia convites para servir em tal posto ou tal unidade da Secretaria de Estado; de outro lado, jamais me dediquei a “pescar” votos de colegas ou implorar apoio de chefes para ser promovido na escala funcional, o que ofenderia meus princípios pessoais, ou minha maneira de ser, mas que pode ter irritado muita gente da corporação. 

Tampouco pedia permissão para escrever à minha maneira – e não naquele burocratês diplomático que tanto desprezo – ou sequer me desculpava por pensar de forma muito diferente da maior parte dos colegas ou mesmo dos superiores, e mais de uma vez ousei contestar opiniões de chefes em reuniões de coordenação, quando os fundamentos de minha posição me pareciam suficientemente sólidos para levantar o dedo e exclamar – algumas vezes na estupefação dos colegas e alguns superiores – uma frase do tipo: “Não é bem assim [Fulano]!” Acho que isso talvez não tenha ajudado no curso ulterior, ou superior, da carreira. Já ao ingressar na carreira, revoltei-me contra a exigência, que sempre julguei absurda – e anticonstitucional, em todo caso violadora dos direitos individuais, que invariavelmente coloco acima dos interesses do Estado –, de ter de pedir permissão às autoridades pertinentes para contrair matrimônio com minha esposa: um abuso e uma indignidade, a que meu espírito anarquista jamais consentiu por princípio. Numa etapa intermediária, cansado do ritual de ter de pedir permissão para publicar que fosse uma simples resenha de livro sobre temas da diplomacia, deixei de submeter textos à apreciação superior, e passei a publicar o que julgava apropriado e conveniente (ainda que exercendo algum grau de autocensura no que era cabível dizer de público sobre tão augusta Casa e tão distinguido Serviço Exterior). 

De fato, se ouso julgar, agora, as características do serviço em prol do qual exerci meus talentos nas últimas três décadas e meia, eu diria que o Itamaraty tem uma cultura muito especial, em todo caso diferente das demais corporações a serviço do Estado. Confessadamente, eu nunca fui muito adepto das manias e trejeitos dos meus colegas diplomatas: trata-se de uma carreira ultra competitiva, com altas doses de autocontenção, marcada por dogmas de disciplina e hierarquia que nunca se encaixaram bem ao meu natural libertário, exigindo ainda certo enquadramento nos rituais internos para que essa competição seja bem sucedida no plano individual, ou seja, para que ela se reflita na progressão funcional, na atribuição de postos e outras distinções. Visivelmente, eu nunca pretendi me enquadrar no estilo de rigor. Sempre mantive meus hábitos de trabalho, em parte isolado, estudando e escrevendo, de outra parte falando com sinceridade aquilo que me parecia negativo do ponto de vista da pura racionalidade instrumental dos objetivos diplomáticos. Ainda que tal tipo de atitude possa suscitar admiração em certas áreas, acredito que essas não são as qualidades requeridas para se triunfar numa Casa que faz da obediência estrita aos superiores a pedra de toque para a inserção no inner circle dos premiados oficiais.

Tomando como base o que acima vai descrito, não tenho qualquer restrição mental em confessar que, em diversas ocasiões, dissenti das opiniões oficiais da Casa – ou seja, aprovadas em alguma instância superior – no tratamento de temas específicos ou na condução de algumas negociações para as quais eu me julgava especialmente preparado, em função, justamente, dos estudos que eu conduzia paralelamente à carreira, para aprofundar-me nos assuntos que me eram atribuídos. Uma atitude desse tipo não é fácil de ser assumida, quando se trata, não das preliminares para a formulação de uma posição negociadora, mas de instruções formais, consubstanciadas em telegrama da série, com base na qual a resposta invariável do diplomata obediente deve ser: “Cumpri instruções”, e o chefe do posto passa a relatar como ele se ateve fielmente às ordens emanadas da Santa Casa.

Pessoalmente, já passei por esse tipo de situação, envolvendo uma negociação internacional de um tratado multilateral. Tendo me ocupado do tema durante meses e meses, eu literalmente dominava o assunto, técnica e diplomaticamente, e as instruções formuladas em Brasília, de nítido corte tradicional, eram claramente inadequadas. Os argumentos que poderiam ser mobilizados em favor de teses diferentes ou alternativas, por mais racionais ou “probatórios” que sejam (com base numa análise histórica, nos dados da economia, numa visão de longo prazo), nem sempre são convincentes ou suficientes para “dobrar” o burocrata na outra ponta do processo ou até fazer com que a instituição como um todo se mova em outra direção. Esse tipo de situação pode ser terrível, pois aparentemente (ou concretamente) o diplomata em causa pode estar se colocando contra as instruções da sua instituição.

Não tive medo de fazê-lo, naquele momento preciso, assim como em outras circunstâncias posteriores. De certa forma, esse tipo de atitude me prejudicou, pois fiquei com fama de rebelde, de dissidente, de arrogante, de pretencioso “sabe-tudo” e outros qualificativos mais, que nem são do meu conhecimento. Se insisto em certas teses é, contudo, com base num estudo profundo das problemáticas das quais me é dado ocupar. Sou por excelência um estudioso compulsivo, e não costumo me dobrar a nenhum argumento de autoridade, e sim à autoridade do argumento. Numa casa “feudal”, como é o Itamaraty, isso é quase um crime de lesa-majestade.

Mas o assunto supera as atitudes individuais de um diplomata, para adentrar no terreno mais complicado das questões macro-políticas, ou se quisermos, no eterno debate sobre como interpretar o chamado “interesse nacional”, um conceito altamente difuso para permitir qualquer tipo de argumento não fundamentado ou especioso. Não vou tratar das bases epistemológicas do que, exatamente, constituiria o interesse nacional nos limites desta reflexão, mas vou tratar da questão no contexto da própria formação e educação dos diplomatas. Acredito, com base numa avaliação puramente subjetiva, que poucos diplomatas têm uma cultura econômica verdadeira, ou seja, o instrumental analítico de cunho histórico e econômico que poderia levá-los a analisar uma questão qualquer de política externa do ponto de vista daquilo que os economistas chamam de custo-oportunidade do capital, ou seja, a eficiência paretiana dos meios e fins, que não se restringe ao melhor emprego dos recursos, ou a um cálculo sobre o retorno dos investimentos, mas envolve todos os “fatores de produção” de um determinado assunto diplomático. Tudo, ou quase tudo, na diplomacia, é feito de forma muito politizada e, por vezes, de forma irracional, já que levando em conta circunstâncias imediatas e as preferências políticas de quem manda, não necessariamente os interesses de mais longo prazo da nação.

Teríamos inúmeros exemplos de decisões claramente absurdas, no contexto mais vasto das tradições diplomáticas brasileiras, tomadas em certo período, e que no entanto foram tomadas, ao arrepio de qualquer racionalidade administrativa ou mesmo política; eximo-me, por razões diversas, mas claramente compreensivas, de discorrer sobre elas neste momento. O fato é que, em momentos como esses, o ator em questão tem várias escolhas, todas elas difíceis: submeter-se passivamente a instruções que ele pode julgar prejudiciais ao país ou ao serviço, no contexto dos interesses de mais longo prazo; negar cumprimento e argumentar alternativamente ao que julga contrário a suas convicções ou avaliação do tema em apreço; afastar-se do processo, com prejuízo pessoal ou fricção funcional. 

Minhas próprias atitudes sempre foram pautadas em função de minha trajetória habitual de estudos e de busca de coerência lógica no processo decisório, esforçando-me por manter minha indispensável integridade intelectual, em face de eventuais adversidades momentâneas, que sempre julgo devam ser afrontadas com serenidade e com a dignidade funcional que devem guiar o comportamento de membros de uma corporação como esta à qual pertenço. Em tempos difíceis de submissão a vocações autoritárias essas atitudes cobram um preço por vezes difícil em termos pessoais, mas a coerência e a honestidade na defesa de certos princípios, que reputamos mais elevados do que a acomodação servil, e a consciência de se estar defendendo causas mais altas do que as escolhas sectárias do momento constituem os prêmios mais gratificantes que se possa ter num itinerário de vida. 

Vale persistir, como aliás demonstrou o próprio George Kennan, ao abandonar a carreira diplomática, para ingressar numa categoria à parte da história intelectual de seu país, como um grande pensador das relações internacionais dos Estados Unidos. Sem aspirar a tanto, e sem renunciar a uma carreira que me trouxe tantos benefícios intelectuais e pessoais, vou persistir na defesa da coerência com o livre pensamento mesmo nos tempos sombrios e tristes de um outro regime autoritário.

Paulo Roberto de Almeida

Brasília, 2409: 14 de julho de 2012.

Postado no blog Diplomatizzando (http://diplomatizzando.blogspot.com.br/2012/07/uma-reflexao-baseada-em-george-kennan.html).

Postado novamente no Diplomatizzando em 4/01/2016 (link: http://www.diplomatizzando.blogspot.com.br/2016/01/george-kennan-era-um-contrarianista.html).

 

Sobre a necessidade de História para os diplomatas:-George Kennan

 Uma citação que vale um frontspicio:

George Kennan, sobre a necessidade de História para os diplomatas:

Enviado pelo embaixador Rubens Ricupero: 

“… artigo de Kennan em The Atlantic Monthly (Training for Statesmanship, 191, maio 1953, p.40/43). 

A opinião de Kennan me impressionou por resumir o que também sinto em relação ao estudo da diplomacia e das relações internacionais. Citando o artigo de GFK, Gaddis dizia: 

“The only useful preparation for diplomacy came from history, as well ‘from the more subtle and revealing expressions of man’s nature’ found in art and literature. Students should be reading ‘their Bible and their Shakespeare, their Plutarch and their Gibbon, perhaps even their Latin and their Greek’. These alone would build those qualities of ‘honor, loyalty, generosity [and] consideration for others’ that had been the basis for effectiveness in the Foreign Service”.

A História continua sendo a mãe de todas as ciências: nasceu na Grécia, com Herodoto e sobretudo Tucidides.

George Kennan e as duas guerras frias - Fredrik Logevall (Foreign Affairs)

 Foreign Affairs, Nova York – Jan.-Fev.2023

The Ghosts of Kennan

Lessons From the Start of a Cold War

Fredrik Logevall

 

 

We all read him, those of us who did graduate work in U.S. diplomatic history in the late 1980s and early 1990s. For although there were other important figures in modern U.S. foreign relations, only one was George Kennan, the “father of containment,” who later became an astute critic of U.S. policy as well as a prize-winning historian. We dissected Kennan’s famous “Long Telegram” of February 1946, his “X” article in these pages from the following year, and his lengthy and unvarnished report on Latin America from March 1950. We devoured his slim but influential 1951 book, American Diplomacy, based on lectures he gave at the University of Chicago; his memoirs, which appeared in two installments in 1967 and 1972 and the first of which received both the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award; and any other publication he wrote that we could get our hands on. (I figured there was no skipping Russia Leaves the War, from 1956, as it won not only the same awards garnered by the first volume of his memoirs but also the George Bancroft Prize and the Francis Parkman Prize.) And we dove into the quartet of important studies of Kennan then coming out in rapid succession by our seniors in the guild—by David Mayers, Walter Hixson, Anders Stephanson, and Wilson Miscamble.

Even then, some of us wondered whether Kennan was quite as important to U.S. policy during the early Cold War as numerous analysts made him out to be.Perhaps, we thought, he should be considered an architect of American strategy, not the architect. Perhaps the most that could be said was that he gave a name—containment—and a certain conceptual focus to a foreign policy approach that was already emerging, if not indeed in place. Even at the Potsdam Conference in mid-1945, after all, well before either the Long Telegram or the “X” article, U.S. diplomats understood that Joseph Stalin and his lieutenants were intent on dominating those areas of Eastern and Central Europe that the Red Army had seized. Little could be done to thwart these designs, officials determined, but they vowed to resist any effort by Kremlin leaders to move farther west. Likewise, the Soviets would not be permitted to interfere in Japan or be allowed to take control of Iran or Turkey. This was containment in all but name. By early 1946, when Kennan penned the Long Telegram from the embassy in Moscow, the wartime Grand Alliance was but a fading memory; by then, anti-Soviet sentiment was a stock feature of internal U.S. policy deliberations.

Still, the 1946 telegram and the 1947 article were remarkable pieces of analytical writing that explained much about how U.S. officials saw the postwar world and their country’s place in it. That Kennan soon began to distance himself from containment, and to claim that he had been grievously misunderstood, that the policy in action was turning out to be more bellicose than he had envisioned or wanted, only added to the intrigue. Was he more hawkish regarding Moscow in this early period than he later claimed? Or had he merely been uncharacteristically loose in his phrasing in these writings, implying a hawkishness he did not feel? The available evidence suggested the former, but one held off final judgment, pending the full opening of Kennan’s personal papers and especially his gargantuan diaries, which spanned 88 years and ran to more than 8,000 pages.

These materials were indeed rich, as the world learned with the publication of John Lewis Gaddis’s authorized biography, three decades in the making, which appeared to wide acclaim in 2011 and won the Pulitzer Prize. Gaddis had full access to the papers and made extensive and incisive use of them. Then, in 2014, came the publication of The Kennan Diaries, a 768-page compendium of entries ably selected and annotated by the historian Frank Costigliola. Scholars had long known about Kennan’s prickly, complex personality and his tendency toward curmudgeonly brooding, but the diaries laid bare these qualities. What emerged was a man of formidable intellectual gifts, sensitive and proud, expressive and emotional, ill at ease in the modern world, prone to self-pity, disdainful of what he saw as America’s moral decadence and rampant materialism, and given to derogatory claims about women, immigrants, and foreigners. 

Yet in one key respect, Kennan’s diaries proved unrevealing. Like many people, Kennan journaled less when he was busy, and there is virtually nothing of consequence from 1946 or 1947, when he wrote the two documents on which his influence rested and when he began to reconsider fundamental assumptions about the nature of the Soviet challenge and the preferred American response. For the entirety of 1947, arguably the pivotal year of both the early Cold War and Kennan’s career, there is but a single entry: a one-page rhyme. Any serious assessment of Kennan’s historical importance—How deeply did he shape U.S. policy at the dawn of the superpower struggle? When and why did he sour on containment as practiced? Is it proper to speak of “two Kennans” with respect to the Cold War?—must center on this period of the late 1940s. 

Now Costigliola has come out with a full-scale biography of the man, from his birth into a prosperous middle-class family in Milwaukee, in 1904, to his death in Princeton, New Jersey, in 2005. (What a century to live through!) It is an absorbing, skillfully wrought, at times frustrating book, more than half of which is focused on the diplomat’s youth and early career. Costigliola’s unmatched familiarity with the diaries is on full display, and although he does not shy away from quoting from some of their more unsavory parts, his overall assessment is sympathetic, especially vis-à-vis the “second” Kennan, the one who decried the militarization of containment and pushed for U.S.-Soviet negotiations. Kennan, he writes, was a “largely unsung hero” for his diligent efforts to ease the Cold War.

Intriguingly, as Costigliola shows but could have developed more fully, these efforts were already underway in the late 1940s, while the superpower conflict was still in its infancy. This transformation in Kennan’s thinking is especially resonant today, in an era that many analysts are calling the early stages of yet another cold war, with U.S.-Russian relations in a deep freeze and China playing the role of an assertive Soviet Union. If the analogy is correct, then it bears asking: How did Kennan’s thinking change? And does his evolution hold lessons for his successors as they forge policy for a new era of conflict?

 

OUR MAN IN MOSCOW

 

Kennan’s love of Russia came early, and partly because of family ties: his grandfather’s cousin, also named George Kennan, was an explorer who achieved considerable fame in the late nineteenth century for his writings on tsarist Russia and for casting light on the harsh penal system in Siberia. Soon after graduating from Princeton, in 1925, the younger Kennan joined the Foreign Service and developed an interest in the country; in time, it became much more. Costigliola writes, “Kennan’s love for Russia, his quest for some mystical connection—impulses that stemmed in part from the hurt and loneliness in his psyche going back to the loss of his mother—had enormous consequences for policy.” That is a pregnant sentence indeed, with claims that would seem hard to verify, but there can be no doubt that Kennan’s passion for pre-revolutionary Russia and its culture was real and abiding, staying with him to the end of his days.

In the late 1920s and early 1930s, as an ambitious young State Department officer, Kennan toggled between Germany, Estonia, and Latvia, working hard to develop facility in the Russian language and serving from 1931 to 1933 at the Soviet listening post in Riga. There followed an intense, exhilarating, draining period in the U.S. embassy in Moscow, under the mercurial ambassador William Bullitt. Costigliola finds the middle of the decade to be a formative period for Kennan—he devotes an entire 48-page chapter to “The ‘Madness of ’34,’” and another of equal length to the years 1935–37, writing, in effect, a small book within a book and adding much to our understanding of Kennan’s worldview—as the diplomat worked to the point of exhaustion to establish himself as the premier Soviet expert in the Foreign Service.

Kennan treasured Russians as a warm and generous people but looked askance at Marxist-Leninist ideology, speculating even then that Russian communism was headed toward ultimate disintegration, on account of its disregard for individual expression, spirituality, and human diversity. About Western capitalism he had scarcely better things to say: it was characterized by systemic overproduction, crass materialism, and destructive individualism. He disliked and distrusted the “rough and tumble” of his own country’s democracy and longed for rule by an “intelligent, determined ruling minority.”

During World War II, Kennan served first as the chief administrative officer of the Berlin embassy and then, after a brief assignment in Washington in 1942, as second-in-command at the U.S. diplomatic mission in Lisbon. The top U.S. representative at the post, Bert Fish, seldom set foot in the building, which left Kennan to negotiate base rights in the Azores with Portugal’s premier, António de Oliveira Salazar, whose dictatorial but anti-Nazi rule Kennan admired. He grew disenchanted, by contrast, with U.S. President Franklin Roosevelt’s wartime diplomacy. He opposed the president’s demand that Germany and Japan unconditionally surrender, as it foreclosed the possibility of a negotiated settlement. And after returning to the Moscow embassy in mid-1944, he faulted as naive Roosevelt’s belief that the United States could secure long-term cooperation with Stalin. Both then and later, Costigliola maintains, Kennan failed to detect Roosevelt’s underlying realism and shrewd grasp of power politics, as he continually mistook the president’s public statements for his private views. He missed the degree to which, despite their differences, he and Roosevelt “agreed on the fundamental issue of working out with the Soviets separate spheres of influence in Europe.”

About the subsequent Cold War, Costigliola is unequivocal: it need not have happened and, having broken out, need not have lasted nearly as long as it did. This argument is less novel than the book implies, but the author is certainly correct that “the story of Kennan’s life demands that we rethink the Cold War as an era of possibilities for dialogue and diplomacy, not the inevitable series of confrontations and crises we came to see.”

All the more puzzling, then, that Costigliola gives scant attention to the sharp downturn in U.S.-Soviet relations that began in the fall of 1945, as the two powers clashed over plans for Europe and the Middle East. He notes in passing that Kennan was “unaware how rapidly U.S. opinion and policy were souring on Russia” in this period, but he does little to contextualize this important point. The schism over the Soviet occupation of Iran goes unmentioned, and readers learn nothing of Washington’s decision in early 1946 to abandon atomic cooperation with Moscow. And if indeed Kennan was incognizant of how swiftly American views and policy were changing as the year turned, how is this ignorance to be explained?

 

“X” MARKS THE SPOT

 

Costigliola is surely correct to note Kennan’s transformation from a position of opposing negotiations with the Kremlin in 1946 to one of advocating them in 1948. But one wants to know more about this metamorphosis. Costigliola is authoritative (if, especially compared to Gaddis, terse) on the Long Telegram and the “X” article, but one wishes for more context—even in a biography—especially concerning 1947, when the latter piece appeared. There is no discussion, or even mention, of the crises in Greece and Turkey that raged during that year; of President Harry Truman’s speech to a joint session of Congress, in which he asked for $400 million in aid for the two countries and articulated what became known as the Truman Doctrine, by which the United States pledged to “support free peoples who are resisting attempted subjugation by armed minorities or by outside pressures”; or of the 1947 National Security Act, which was closely tied to the perceived Soviet threat and which gave the president vastly enhanced power over foreign affairs.

Kennan, as other sources reveal, objected to the expansive nature of Truman’s speech and what it implied for policy. But he chose not to alter the “X” article—then still in production—by emphasizing his desire for a limited form of containment. Appearing in these pages in July under the pseudonym “X” and the title “The Sources of Soviet Conduct,” the essay was widely seen as a systematic articulation of the administration’s latest thinking about relations with Moscow, as its author laid out policy of “firm containment, designed to confront the Russians with unalterable counter-force at every point where they show signs of encroaching upon the interests of a peaceful and stable world.” For the foreseeable future, Kennan seemed to be saying, diplomacy was a waste of time. Stalin’s hostility to the West was irrational, unjustified by any U.S. actions, and thus the Kremlin could not be reasoned with; negotiations could not be expected to ease or eliminate the hostility and end the U.S.-Soviet clash. The Soviet Union, he wrote, was “committed fanatically to the belief that with the United States there can be no permanent modus vivendi, that it is desirable and necessary that the internal harmony of our society be disrupted, our traditional ways of life be destroyed, the international authority of our state be broken, if Soviet power is to be secure.”

The assertion likely raised few eyebrows among Foreign Affairs readers that tense summer of 1947. But not everyone in the establishment was convinced. The influential columnist Walter Lippmann railed against Kennan’s essay in a stunning series of 14 articles in The New York Herald Tribune in September and October that were parsed in government offices around the world. The columns were then grouped in a slim book whose title, The Cold War, gave a name to the superpower competition. Lippmann did not dispute Kennan’s contention that the Soviet Union would expand its reach unless confronted by American power. But to his mind, the threat was primarily political, not military.

Moreover, Lippmann insisted that officials in Moscow had genuine security fears and were motivated mostly by a defensive determination to forestall the resurgence of German power. Hence their determination to seize control of Eastern Europe. It distressed Lippmann that Kennan, as well as the Truman White House, seemed blind to this reality and to the possibility of negotiating with the Kremlin over issues of mutual concern. As he wrote,

The history of diplomacy is the history of relations among rival powers, which did not enjoy political intimacy and did not respond to appeals to common purposes. Nevertheless, there have been settlements. Some of them did not last very long. Some of them did. For a diplomat to think that rival and unfriendly powers cannot be brought to a settlement is to forget what diplomacy is all about. There would be little for diplomats to do if the world consisted of partners, enjoying political intimacy, and responding to common appeals.

Containment as outlined by Kennan, Lippmann added, risked drawing Washington into defending any number of distant and nonvital parts of the world. Military commitments in such peripheral areas might bankrupt the Treasury and would in any event do little to enhance U.S. security. American society would become militarized to fight a “Cold War.”

Kennan was stung by this multipronged, multiweek takedown, which Costigliola oddly does not discuss. The diplomat admired Lippmann’s stature as perhaps the most formidable foreign policy analyst in Washington, and he felt flattered that the great man would devote so much space to something he had written. More than that, he found himself agreeing with much of Lippmann’s interpretation, including with respect to Moscow’s defensive orientation and the need for U.S. strategists to distinguish between core and peripheral areas. “The Soviets don’t want to invade anyone,” he wrote in an unsent letter to Lippmann in April 1948, adding that his intention in the “X” article had been to make his compatriots aware that they faced a long period of complex diplomacy when political skills would dominate. Once Western Europe had been shored up, he assured Lippmann, negotiations under qualitatively new conditions could follow. 

In the months thereafter, Kennan, now director of the newly formed Policy Planning Staff in the State Department, began to decry the militarization of containment and the apparent abandonment of diplomacy in Truman’s Soviet policy. He pushed for negotiations with the Kremlin, just as Lippmann had earlier. His influence waning, Kennan left the government in 1950, returning for a brief stint as ambassador to Moscow in 1952 and later, under President John F. Kennedy, a longer spell as ambassador to Yugoslavia.

 

OUT OF THE ARENA

 

So began George Kennan’s second career, as a historian and public intellectual, from a perch at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton. It would last half a century. Costigliola is consistently fascinating here, even if he is less interested in Kennan’s writings and policy analysis than in his deep and deepening alienation from modern society and his strenuous efforts to curate his legacy. Readers get almost nothing on American Diplomacy, Kennan’s important, realist critique of what he called the “legalistic-moralistic” approach to U.S. foreign policy, or on the two volumes of memoirs, the first of which must be considered a modern classic. Costigliola says little about Kennan’s analysis of the U.S. military intervention in Vietnam (he was less dovish in 1965–66 than Costigliola implies) but a great deal about his loathing of the student protesters—with their “defiant rags and hairdos,” in Kennan’s words—against the war. As elsewhere in A Life Between Worlds, more would have been better. Readers deserve more, for example, on what the diplomat-historian made of the crises over Berlin and Cuba under Kennedy in the early 1960s or on how he interpreted the severe worsening of superpower tensions under Jimmy Carter in 1979–80.

More and more as the years passed, Kennan felt underappreciated. Never mind the literary prizes and other accolades, never mind the Presidential Medal of Freedom presented to him by President George H. W. Bush in 1989. On more days than not, he was a Cassandra, despairing at the state of the world and his place in it, worried about how he would be remembered. Thrilled to secure in Gaddis a brilliant young historian as his biographer, he grew apprehensive, especially as it became clear that Gaddis did not share his low opinion of U.S. Cold War policy in general and nuclear strategy under President Ronald Reagan in particular. (Another worry: that Gaddis would be too distracted by other commitments to complete the work in a timely fashion, thus allowing supposedly less able biographers—“inadequate pens,” Kennan called them—to come to the fore.)

Even the Soviet Union’s collapse, in 1991, brought Kennan little cheer. For half a century, he had predicted that this day would come, but one finds scant evidence of public or private gloating, only frustration that the Cold War had lasted so long and concern that Washington risked inciting Russian nationalism and militarism with its support for NATO expansion into former Soviet domains. The result, he feared, could be another cold war. In the fall of 2002, at the age of 98, he railed against what he saw as the George W. Bush administration’s heedless rush into war in Iraq. The history of U.S. foreign relations, he told the press, showed that although “you might start a war with certain things on your mind . . . in the end you found yourself fighting for entirely different things that you had never thought of before.” It dismayed him that the administration seemed to have no plan for Iraq after the fall of Saddam Hussein, and he doubted the evidence about the country’s supposed weapons of mass destruction. For that matter, he argued, if it turned out Saddam in fact had the weapons or would soon acquire them, the problem was in essence a regional one, not America’s concern.

All the while, Kennan condemned what he saw as the abuses of industrialization and urbanization and called for a restoration of “the proper relationship between Man and Nature.” In the process, Costigliola convincingly argues, he became an early and prescient advocate of environmental protection. And all the while, his antimodernism showed a retrograde side, as he looked askance at feminism, gay rights, and his country’s increasing ethnic and racial diversity. Maybe only the Jews, Chinese, and “Negroes” would keep their ethnic distinctiveness, he suggested at one point, and thus use their strength to “subjugate and dominate” the rest of the nation. Costigliola comments acidly: “Kennan was aware enough to confine such racist drivel to his diary and the dinner table, where his adult children squirmed.”

Kennan’s long-held skepticism about democracy, meanwhile, showed no signs of abating. “‘The people’ haven’t the faintest idea what’s good for them,” he groused in 1984. Left to themselves, “they would (and will) simply stampede into a final, utterly disastrous, and totally unnecessary nuclear war.” Even if they somehow managed to avoid that outcome, they would complete their wrecking of the environment, “as they are now enthusiastically doing.” In his 1993 book, Around the Cragged Hill, a melancholy rumination on all that plagued modern American life, Kennan called for the creation of a nine-member “Council of State,” an unelected body to be chosen by the president and charged with advising him on pressing medium- and long-term policy issues, with no interference by the hoi polloi. The idea was half-baked at best. That American democracy was in its essence a messy, fractious, pluralistic enterprise, with hard bargaining based on mutual concessions and with noisy interest groups jockeying for influence, he never fully grasped.

What he did understand was diplomacy and statecraft. Here, his body of writing, published as well as unpublished, historical as well as contemporaneous, stands out for its cogency, intricacy, and fluency. He was not always consistent; he got some things wrong. But as a critic of the militarization of U.S. foreign policy, in the Cold War and beyond, Kennan had few if any peers. For he grasped realities that have lost none of their potency in the almost two decades since his death—about the limits of power, about the certainty of unintended consequences in war-making, about the prime importance of using good-faith diplomacy with adversaries to advance U.S. strategic interests. Understanding the growth and projection of American power over the past century and its proper use in this one, it may truly be said, means understanding this “life between worlds.”

 

FREDRIK LOGEVALL is the Laurence D. Belfer Professor of International Affairs and Professor of History at Harvard University. He is the author of JFK: Coming of Age in the American Century, 1917–1956.

Ucrânia-Rússia-OTAN: desenvolvimentos da crise e a opinião de George Kennan em 1997 (CNN)

 

CNN Meanwhile in America, February 7, 2022

 

 

Stephen Collinson and Shelby Rose

Was the Ukraine crisis tragic and unnecessary?

Does Vladimir Putin have a point?

The underlying cause of the Ukraine crisis is the Russian President’s belief that NATO, by expanding into former Warsaw Pact states in Eastern Europeafter the Cold War, is threatening the security of its old enemy Russia. As well as seeking a guarantee that Ukraine will never join the Western alliance, Putin wants NATO to pull troops and weapons out of states like Poland and Romania that were once behind the Iron Curtain. President Joe Biden has refused such demands since they would shatter the alliance’s core purpose, appease Russian aggression and desert nations that embraced democracy after decades under Soviet repression. He ordered US troops to both Poland and Romania last week.

Putin is right that NATO moved east after the Cold War, in a way that may almost have been guaranteed to anger Moscow. The bloc's assurances that it is a defensive alliance get no hearing in the Kremlin. Had Russia transformed into a western-style European democracy, this wouldn’t have been an issue. But starry-eyed optimists who held such hopes in the 1990s were always disregarding lessons of the country’s scorched-earth political history.

So did NATO’s triumphalism and stampede over Russian pride pave the way for where we are now? It was always a possibility that a future strongman in the Kremlin would use NATO expansion to spark a foreign policy crisis and as a nationalistic tool for his own legitimacy as Putin has done. George Kennan,the diplomat who in the 1940s coined the core US containment policy against an expansionist Soviet Union, predicted exactly this scenario after the Clinton administration decided to go ahead with NATO expansion.

“That the Russians will not react wisely and moderately to this decision of NATO to expand its boundaries to the Russian frontiers is clear,” Kennan wrote in his diary on January 4, 1997. He predicted a “strong militarization” of Russian politics and claims by Russia that it was an innocent victim of foreign aggressors. He predicted Moscow would seek to unite Iran and China to form an anti-Western bloc. “Thus will develop a wholly and even tragically unnecessary division between East & West and in effect a renewal of the Cold War," he wrote.

 

Twenty-five years later, the final plank of Kennan’s warning fell into place as Putin clinched a new strategic friendship Friday between China and Russia in his Olympian summit with President Xi Jinping in Beijing.

===============

The case for NATO expansion

But what would have happened had NATO not expanded? 

President Bill Clinton told historian Taylor Branch for his contemporary taped oral history of his administration that he spent a 1994 trip to Europe dancing between Russian fears of NATO expansion and NATO’s fear of Russia. He said then-German Chancellor Helmut Kohl worried about the possibility of Russian influence on the eastern border of his newly unified nation and also about the threat of authoritarianism in newly liberated post-Soviet Eastern Europe. Clinton also presciently noted that Poland’s move west would leave Ukraine isolated.

Critics of NATO expansion must also answer the question of why nations that had been suppressed, ruled by outsiders and even been wiped off the map at times, should not grasp the freedom denied them even before Soviet domination? And would a vacuum in Eastern Europe have already caused a resurgent, imperial Russia to move west once more and again threaten European democracies?

Biden’s actions have reaffirmed a 70-year American commitment to Western European security. US power allowed market democracies in Poland, the Czech Republic and the Baltics to grow and thrive, despite some political backsliding in recent years. But Putin also knows that US commitment is not a given in the long term. In a speech in Poland in 2017, then-President Donald Trump implied that the West was more threatened by the weakening of white culture and tradition through waves of outside immigration than it was by the Kremlin. His far-right populism and vision of national sovereignty is closer to Putin’s worldview than the traditional US creed. A new Trump presidency, should he run again in 2024, would raise new doubts about NATO’s purpose and his own affinity for Putin. Already, pro-Trump Republican senators are questioning Biden’s dispatch of more troops to Europe.

With all this in mind, the current standoff is hardly remarkable. It’s perhaps surprising that all the post-Cold War forces that have precipitated the crisis took so long to hit boiling point.

 

Ukraine’s plight is part of a broader crisis. It's about whether individual nations have the chance to choose their own political destiny or whether they must live in the sphere of influence of a greater, hostile power. And whether the US still has the stomach to serve as Europe’s security guarantor nearly a century after the political madness that caused World War II and forged the modern world.

The sources of Soviet conduct - Anonymous [George Kennan] (Foreign Affairs, 1947)

From: Council on Foreign Relations

In 1922, the world was dealing with the aftershocks of a calamitous war, and the United States was haltingly assuming a larger role in world affairs. Foreign Affairs published its first issue that September. The magazine’s aim, wrote its first editor, was to “promote the discussion of current questions of international interest.” It would display “a broad hospitality to divergent ideas,” so long as contributions were “competent and well informed, representing honest opinions seriously held and convincingly expressed.” 

In 2022, the world is once again consumed by crisis, and the United States is once again struggling to define its proper role in world affairs. As our 100th anniversary approaches, Foreign Affairs remains as committed as ever to fostering debate about “current questions of international interest,” with “divergent ideas . . . representing honest opinions seriously held and convincingly expressed.” Yet we’re also taking the opportunity to reflect on the past. 

Every week until September, this newsletter will share noteworthy essays from the Foreign Affairs archive, paywall free and open for all to read. These essays provide both a glimpse into the most consequential foreign policy debates of the last century and insight into the most important challenges of today. Some of these essays are remarkable because they were influential, some because they were prophetic, some because their substance is as illuminating now as it was when they first published—or, in the case of this week’s essay, all three. 

 

“The Sources of Soviet Conduct,” published in our July 1947 issue under the byline “X,” established a framework for Cold War strategy that would define U.S. policy for decades. In it, George Kennan—whose authorship was publicly confirmed several years after publication—laid out a rich analysis of the Soviet Union’s worldview and power, as well as a recommendation for strategists: the United States could manage the challenge from Moscow with “a long-term, patient but firm and vigilant containment of Russian expansive tendencies.” 

 

Today, with “Russian expansive tendencies” once again at the center of global politics—even as the United States grapples with a global pandemic, climate change, a new great-power challenger in China, and much more—Kennan’s essay remains fascinating reading, every page offering a relevant lesson or warning. In the decades since it was published, there have been countless attempts to revise or repurpose Kennan’s framework or to put forward an alternate framework that would prove as definitive as his did—with limited success. But one of Kennan’s most important conclusions requires little or nothing in the way of edits or updates: “To avoid destruction the United States need only measure up to its own best traditions and prove itself worthy of preservation.”

 

Thank you for reading. We hope you’ll stay with us as we celebrate 100 years of Foreign Affairs.

=============

The Sources of Soviet Conduct

By “X” (George F. Kennan)

Anonymous

I

The political personality of Soviet power as we know it today is the product of ideology and circumstances: ideology inherited by the present Soviet leaders from the movement in which they had their political origin, and circumstances of the power which they now have exercised for nearly three decades in Russia. There can be few tasks of psychological analysis more difficult than to try to trace the interaction of these two forces and the relative role of each in the determination of official Soviet conduct. Yet the attempt must be made if that conduct is to be understood and effectively countered.

It is difficult to summarize the set of ideological concepts with which the Soviet leaders came into power. Marxian ideology, in its Russian-Communist projection, has always been in process of subtle evolution. The materials on which it bases itself are extensive and complex. But the outstanding features of Communist thought as it existed in 1916 may perhaps be summarized as follows: (a) that the central factor in the life of man, the factor which determines the character of public life and the "physiognomy of society," is the system by which material goods are produced and exchanged; (b) that the capitalist system of production is a nefarious one which inevitably leads to the exploitation of the working class by the capital-owning class and is incapable of developing adequately the economic resources of society or of distributing fairly the material goods produced by human labor; (c) that capitalism contains the seeds of its own destruction and must, in view of the inability of the capital-owning class to adjust itself to economic change, result eventually and inescapably in a revolutionary transfer of power to the working class; and (d) that imperialism, the final phase of capitalism, leads directly to war and revolution.

The rest may be outlined in Lenin's own words: "Unevenness of economic and political development is the inflexible law of capitalism. It follows from this that the victory of Socialism may come originally in a few capitalist countries or even in a single capitalist country. The victorious proletariat of that country, having expropriated the capitalists and having organized Socialist production at home, would rise against the remaining capitalist world, drawing to itself in the process the oppressed classes of other countries." [see endnote 1] It must be noted that there was no assumption that capitalism would perish without proletarian revolution. A final push was needed from a revolutionary proletariat movement in order to tip over the tottering structure. But it was regarded as inevitable that sooner or later that push be given.

For 50 years prior to the outbreak of the Revolution, this pattern of thought had exercised great fascination for the members of the Russian revolutionary movement. Frustrated, discontented, hopeless of finding self-expression—or too impatient to seek it—in the confining limits of the Tsarist political system, yet lacking wide popular support for their choice of bloody revolution as a means of social betterment, these revolutionists found in Marxist theory a highly convenient rationalization for their own instinctive desires. It afforded pseudo-scientific justification for their impatience, for their categorical denial of all value in the Tsarist system, for their yearning for power and revenge and for their inclination to cut corners in the pursuit of it. It is therefore no wonder that they had come to believe implicitly in the truth and soundness of the Marxian-Leninist teachings, so congenial to their own impulses and emotions. Their sincerity need not be impugned. This is a phenomenon as old as human nature itself. It has never been more aptly described than by Edward Gibbon, who wrote in The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire: "From enthusiasm to imposture the step is perilous and slippery; the demon of Socrates affords a memorable instance how a wise man may deceive himself, how a good man may deceive others, how the conscience may slumber in a mixed and middle state between self-illusion and voluntary fraud." And it was with this set of conceptions that the members of the Bolshevik Party entered into power.

Now it must be noted that through all the years of preparation for revolution, the attention of these men, as indeed of Marx himself, had been centered less on the future form which Socialism [see endnote 2] would take than on the necessary overthrow of rival power which, in their view, had to precede the introduction of Socialism. Their views, therefore, on the positive program to be put into effect, once power was attained, were for the most part nebulous, visionary and impractical. Beyond the nationalization of industry and the expropriation of large private capital holdings there was no agreed program. The treatment of the peasantry, which according to the Marxist formulation was not of the proletariat, had always been a vague spot in the pattern of Communist thought; and it remained an object of controversy and vacillation for the first ten years of Communist power.

The circumstances of the immediate post-revolution period—the existence in Russia of civil war and foreign intervention, together with the obvious fact that the Communists represented only a tiny minority of the Russian people—made the establishment of dictatorial power a necessity. The experiment with "war Communism" and the abrupt attempt to eliminate private production and trade had unfortunate economic consequences and caused further bitterness against the new revolutionary regime. While the temporary relaxation of the effort to communize Russia, represented by the New Economic Policy, alleviated some of this economic distress and thereby served its purpose, it also made it evident that the "capitalistic sector of society" was still prepared to profit at once from any relaxation of governmental pressure, and would, if permitted to continue to exist, always constitute a powerful opposing element to the Soviet regime and a serious rival for influence in the country. Somewhat the same situation prevailed with respect to the individual peasant who, in his own small way, was also a private producer.

Lenin, had he lived, might have proved a great enough man to reconcile these conflicting forces to the ultimate benefit of Russian society, though this is questionable. But be that as it may, Stalin, and those whom he led in the struggle for succession to Lenin's position of leadership, were not the men to tolerate rival political forces in the sphere of power which they coveted. Their sense of insecurity was too great. Their particular brand of fanaticism, unmodified by any of the Anglo-Saxon traditions of compromise, was too fierce and too jealous to envisage any permanent sharing of power. From the Russian-Asiatic world out of which they had emerged they carried with them a skepticism as to the possibilities of permanent and peaceful coexistence of rival forces. Easily persuaded of their own doctrinaire "rightness," they insisted on the submission or destruction of all competing power. Outside of the Communist Party, Russian society was to have no rigidity. There were to be no forms of collective human activity or association which would not be dominated by the Party. No other force in Russian society was to be permitted to achieve vitality or integrity. Only the Party was to have structure. All else was to be an amorphous mass.

And within the Party the same principle was to apply. The mass of Party members might go through the motions of election, deliberation, decision and action; but in these motions they were to be animated not by their own individual wills but by the awesome breath of the Party leadership and the over-brooding presence of "the word."

Let it be stressed again that subjectively these men probably did not seek absolutism for its own sake. They doubtless believed—and found it easy to believe—that they alone knew what was good for society and that they would accomplish that good once their power was secure and unchallengeable. But in seeking that security of their own rule they were prepared to recognize no restrictions, either of God or man, on the character of their methods. And until such time as that security might be achieved, they placed far down on their scale of operational priorities the comforts and happiness of the peoples entrusted to their care.

Now the outstanding circumstance concerning the Soviet regime is that down to the present day this process of political consolidation has never been completed and the men in the Kremlin have continued to be predominantly absorbed with the struggle to secure and make absolute the power which they seized in November 1917. They have endeavored to secure it primarily against forces at home, within Soviet society itself. But they have also endeavored to secure it against the outside world. For ideology, as we have seen, taught them that the outside world was hostile and that it was their duty eventually to overthrow the political forces beyond their borders. The powerful hands of Russian history and tradition reached up to sustain them in this feeling. Finally, their own aggressive intransigence with respect to the outside world began to find its own reaction; and they were soon forced, to use another Gibbonesque phrase, "to chastise the contumacy" which they themselves had provoked. It is an undeniable privilege of every man to prove himself right in the thesis that the world is his enemy; for if he reiterates it frequently enough and makes it the background of his conduct he is bound eventually to be right.

Now it lies in the nature of the mental world of the Soviet leaders, as well as in the character of their ideology, that no opposition to them can be officially recognized as having any merit or justification whatsoever. Such opposition can flow, in theory, only from the hostile and incorrigible forces of dying capitalism. As long as remnants of capitalism were officially recognized as existing in Russia, it was possible to place on them, as an internal element, part of the blame for the maintenance of a dictatorial form of society. But as these remnants were liquidated, little by little, this justification fell away; and when it was indicated officially that they had been finally destroyed, it disappeared altogether. And this fact created one of the most basic of the compulsions which came to act upon the Soviet regime: since capitalism no longer existed in Russia and since it could not be admitted that there could be serious or widespread opposition to the Kremlin springing spontaneously from the liberated masses under its authority, it became necessary to justify the retention of the dictatorship by stressing the menace of capitalism abroad.

This began at an early date. In 1924 Stalin specifically defended the retention of the "organs of suppression," meaning, among others, the army and the secret police, on the ground that "as long as there is a capitalist encirclement there will be danger of intervention with all the consequences that flow from that danger." In accordance with that theory, and from that time on, all internal opposition forces in Russia have consistently been portrayed as the agents of foreign forces of reaction antagonistic to Soviet power.

By the same token, tremendous emphasis has been placed on the original Communist thesis of a basic antagonism between the capitalist and Socialist worlds. It is clear, from many indications, that this emphasis is not founded in reality. The real facts concerning it have been confused by the existence abroad of genuine resentment provoked by Soviet philosophy and tactics and occasionally by the existence of great centers of military power, notably the Nazi regime in Germany and the Japanese Government of the late 1930s, which did indeed have aggressive designs against the Soviet Union. But there is ample evidence that the stress laid in Moscow on the menace confronting Soviet society from the world outside its borders is founded not in the realities of foreign antagonism but in the necessity of explaining away the maintenance of dictatorial authority at home.

Now the maintenance of this pattern of Soviet power, namely, the pursuit of unlimited authority domestically, accompanied by the cultivation of the semi-myth of implacable foreign hostility, has gone far to shape the actual machinery of Soviet power as we know it today. Internal organs of administration which did not serve this purpose withered on the vine. Organs which did serve this purpose became vastly swollen. The security of Soviet power came to rest on the iron discipline of the Party, on the severity and ubiquity of the secret police, and on the uncompromising economic monopolism of the state. The "organs of suppression," in which the Soviet leaders had sought security from rival forces, became in large measure the masters of those whom they were designed to serve. Today the major part of the structure of Soviet power is committed to the perfection of the dictatorship and to the maintenance of the concept of Russia as in a state of siege, with the enemy lowering beyond the walls. And the millions of human beings who form that part of the structure of power must defend at all costs this concept of Russia's position, for without it they are themselves superfluous.

As things stand today, the rulers can no longer dream of parting with these organs of suppression. The quest for absolute power, pursued now for nearly three decades with a ruthlessness unparalleled (in scope at least) in modern times, has again produced internally, as it did externally, its own reaction. The excesses of the police apparatus have fanned the potential opposition to the regime into something far greater and more dangerous than it could have been before those excesses began.

But least of all can the rulers dispense with the fiction by which the maintenance of dictatorial power has been defended. For this fiction has been canonized in Soviet philosophy by the excesses already committed in its name; and it is now anchored in the Soviet structure of thought by bonds far greater than those of mere ideology.

II

So much for the historical background. What does it spell in terms of the political personality of Soviet power as we know it today?

Of the original ideology, nothing has been officially junked. Belief is maintained in the basic badness of capitalism, in the inevitability of its destruction, in the obligation of the proletariat to assist in that destruction and to take power into its own hands. But stress has come to be laid primarily on those concepts which relate most specifically to the Soviet regime itself: to its position as the sole truly Socialist regime in a dark and misguided world, and to the relationships of power within it.

The first of these concepts is that of the innate antagonism between capitalism and Socialism. We have seen how deeply that concept has become imbedded in foundations of Soviet power. It has profound implications for Russia's conduct as a member of international society. It means that there can never be on Moscow's side any sincere assumption of a community of aims between the Soviet Union and powers which are regarded as capitalist. It must invariably be assumed in Moscow that the aims of the capitalist world are antagonistic to the Soviet regime, and therefore to the interests of the peoples it controls. If the Soviet government occasionally sets its signature to documents which would indicate the contrary, this is to be regarded as a tactical maneuver permissible in dealing with the enemy (who is without honor) and should be taken in the spirit of caveat emptor. Basically, the antagonism remains. It is postulated. And from it flow many of the phenomena which we find disturbing in the Kremlin's conduct of foreign policy: the secretiveness, the lack of frankness, the duplicity, the wary suspiciousness and the basic unfriendliness of purpose. These phenomena are there to stay, for the foreseeable future. There can be variations of degree and of emphasis. When there is something the Russians want from us, one or the other of these features of their policy may be thrust temporarily into the background; and when that happens there will always be Americans who will leap forward with gleeful announcements that "the Russians have changed," and some who will even try to take credit for having brought about such "changes." But we should not be misled by tactical maneuvers. These characteristics of Soviet policy, like the postulate from which they flow, are basic to the internal nature of Soviet power, and will be with us, whether in the foreground or the background, until the internal nature of Soviet power is changed.

This means that we are going to continue for a long time to find the Russians difficult to deal with. It does not mean that they should be considered as embarked upon a do-or-die program to overthrow our society by a given date. The theory of the inevitability of the eventual fall of capitalism has the fortunate connotation that there is no hurry about it. The forces of progress can take their time in preparing the final coup de gráce. Meanwhile, what is vital is that the "Socialist fatherland"—that oasis of power which has been already won for Socialism in the person of the Soviet Union—should be cherished and defended by all good Communists at home and abroad, its fortunes promoted, its enemies badgered and confounded. The promotion of premature, "adventuristic" revolutionary projects abroad which might embarrass Soviet power in any way would be an inexcusable, even a counterrevolutionary act. The cause of Socialism is the support and promotion of Soviet power, as defined in Moscow.

This brings us to the second of the concepts important to contemporary Soviet outlook. That is the infallibility of the Kremlin. The Soviet concept of power, which permits no focal points of organization outside the Party itself, requires that the Party leadership remain in theory the sole repository of truth. For if truth were to be found elsewhere, there would be justification for its expression in organized activity. But it is precisely that which the Kremlin cannot and will not permit.

The leadership of the Communist Party is therefore always right, and has been always right ever since in 1929 Stalin formalized his personal power by announcing that decisions of the Politburo were being taken unanimously.

On the principle of infallibility there rests the iron discipline of the Communist Party. In fact, the two concepts are mutually self-supporting. Perfect discipline requires recognition of infallibility. Infallibility requires the observance of discipline. And the two together go far to determine the behaviorism of the entire Soviet apparatus of power. But their effect cannot be understood unless a third factor be taken into account: namely, the fact that the leadership is at liberty to put forward for tactical purposes any particular thesis which it finds useful to the cause at any particular moment and to require the faithful and unquestioning acceptance of the thesis by the members of the movement as a whole. This means that truth is not a constant but is actually created, for all intents and purposes, by the Soviet leaders themselves. It may vary from week to week, month to month. It is nothing absolute and immutable—nothing which flows from objective reality. It is only the most recent manifestation of the wisdom of those in whom the ultimate wisdom is supposed to reside, because they represent the logic of history. The accumulative effect of these factors is to give to the whole subordinate apparatus of Soviet power an unshakable stubbornness and steadfastness in its orientation. This orientation can be changed at will by the Kremlin but by no other power. Once a given party line has been laid down on a given issue of current policy, the whole Soviet governmental machine, including the mechanism of diplomacy, moves inexorably along the prescribed path, like a persistent toy automobile wound up and headed in a given direction, stopping only when it meets with some unanswerable force. The individuals who are the components of this machine are unamenable to argument or reason which comes to them from outside sources. Their whole training has taught them to mistrust and discount the glib persuasiveness of the outside world. Like the white dog before the phonograph, they hear only the "master's voice." And if they are to be called off from the purposes last dictated to them, it is the master who must call them off. Thus the foreign representative cannot hope that his words will make any impression on them. The most that he can hope is that they will be transmitted to those at the top, who are capable of changing the party line. But even those are not likely to be swayed by any normal logic in the words of the bourgeois representative. Since there can be no appeal to common purposes, there can be no appeal to common mental approaches. For this reason, facts speak louder than words to the ears of the Kremlin; and words carry the greatest weight when they have the ring of reflecting, or being backed up by, facts of unchallengeable validity.

But we have seen that the Kremlin is under no ideological compulsion to accomplish its purposes in a hurry. Like the Church, it is dealing in ideological concepts which are of long-term validity, and it can afford to be patient. It has no right to risk the existing achievements of the revolution for the sake of vain baubles of the future. The very teachings of Lenin himself require great caution and flexibility in the pursuit of Communist purposes. Again, these precepts are fortified by the lessons of Russian history: of centuries of obscure battles between nomadic forces over the stretches of a vast unfortified plain. Here caution, circumspection, flexibility and deception are the valuable qualities; and their value finds natural appreciation in the Russian or the oriental mind. Thus the Kremlin has no compunction about retreating in the face of superior force. And being under the compulsion of no timetable, it does not get panicky under the necessity for such retreat. Its political action is a fluid stream which moves constantly, wherever it is permitted to move, toward a given goal. Its main concern is to make sure that it has filled every nook and cranny available to it in the basin of world power. But if it finds unassailable barriers in its path, it accepts these philosophically and accommodates itself to them. The main thing is that there should always be pressure, unceasing constant pressure, toward the desired goal. There is no trace of any feeling in Soviet psychology that that goal must be reached at any given time.

These considerations make Soviet diplomacy at once easier and more difficult to deal with than the diplomacy of individual aggressive leaders like Napoleon and Hitler. On the one hand it is more sensitive to contrary force, more ready to yield on individual sectors of the diplomatic front when that force is felt to be too strong, and thus more rational in the logic and rhetoric of power. On the other hand it cannot be easily defeated or discouraged by a single victory on the part of its opponents. And the patient persistence by which it is animated means that it can be effectively countered not by sporadic acts which represent the momentary whims of democratic opinion but only by intelligent long-range policies on the part of Russia's adversaries—policies no less steady in their purpose, and no less variegated and resourceful in their application, than those of the Soviet Union itself.

In these circumstances it is clear that the main element of any United States policy toward the Soviet Union must be that of a long-term, patient but firm and vigilant containment of Russian expansive tendencies. It is important to note, however, that such a policy has nothing to do with outward histrionics: with threats or blustering or superfluous gestures of outward "toughness." While the Kremlin is basically flexible in its reaction to political realities, it is by no means unamenable to considerations of prestige. Like almost any other government, it can be placed by tactless and threatening gestures in a position where it cannot afford to yield even though this might be dictated by its sense of realism. The Russian leaders are keen judges of human psychology, and as such they are highly conscious that loss of temper and of self-control is never a source of strength in political affairs. They are quick to exploit such evidences of weakness. For these reasons, it is a sine qua non of successful dealing with Russia that the foreign government in question should remain at all times cool and collected and that its demands on Russian policy should be put forward in such a manner as to leave the way open for a compliance not too detrimental to Russian prestige.

III

In the light of the above, it will be clearly seen that the Soviet pressure against the free institutions of the Western world is something that can be contained by the adroit and vigilant application of counterforce at a series of constantly shifting geographical and political points, corresponding to the shifts and maneuvers of Soviet policy, but which cannot be charmed or talked out of existence. The Russians look forward to a duel of infinite duration, and they see that already they have scored great successes. It must be borne in mind that there was a time when the Communist Party represented far more of a minority in the sphere of Russian national life than Soviet power today represents in the world community.

But if ideology convinces the rulers of Russia that truth is on their side and that they can therefore afford to wait, those of us on whom that ideology has no claim are free to examine objectively the validity of that premise. The Soviet thesis not only implies complete lack of control by the west over its own economic destiny, it likewise assumes Russian unity, discipline and patience over an infinite period. Let us bring this apocalyptic vision down to earth, and suppose that the western world finds the strength and resourcefulness to contain Soviet power over a period of ten to fifteen years. What does that spell for Russia itself?

The Soviet leaders, taking advantage of the contributions of modern technique to the arts of despotism, have solved the question of obedience within the confines of their power. Few challenge their authority; and even those who do are unable to make that challenge valid as against the organs of suppression of the state.

The Kremlin has also proved able to accomplish its purpose of building up in Russia, regardless of the interests of the inhabitants, an industrial foundation of heavy metallurgy, which is, to be sure, not yet complete but which is nevertheless continuing to grow and is approaching those of the other major industrial countries. All of this, however, both the maintenance of internal political security and the building of heavy industry, has been carried out at a terrible cost in human life and in human hopes and energies. It has necessitated the use of forced labor on a scale unprecedented in modern times under conditions of peace. It has involved the neglect or abuse of other phases of Soviet economic life, particularly agriculture, consumers' goods production, housing and transportation.

To all that, the war has added its tremendous toll of destruction, death and human exhaustion. In consequence of this, we have in Russia today a population which is physically and spiritually tired. The mass of the people are disillusioned, skeptical and no longer as accessible as they once were to the magical attraction which Soviet power still radiates to its followers abroad. The avidity with which people seized upon the slight respite accorded to the Church for tactical reasons during the war was eloquent testimony to the fact that their capacity for faith and devotion found little expression in the purposes of the regime.

In these circumstances, there are limits to the physical and nervous strength of people themselves. These limits are absolute ones, and are binding even for the cruelest dictatorship, because beyond them people cannot be driven. The forced labor camps and the other agencies of constraint provide temporary means of compelling people to work longer hours than their own volition or mere economic pressure would dictate; but if people survive them at all they become old before their time and must be considered as human casualties to the demands of dictatorship. In either case their best powers are no longer available to society and can no longer be enlisted in the service of the state.

Here only the younger generation can help. The younger generation, despite all vicissitudes and sufferings, is numerous and vigorous; and the Russians are a talented people. But it still remains to be seen what will be the effects on mature performance of the abnormal emotional strains of childhood which Soviet dictatorship created and which were enormously increased by the war. Such things as normal security and placidity of home environment have practically ceased to exist in the Soviet Union outside of the most remote farms and villages. And observers are not yet sure whether that is not going to leave its mark on the overall capacity of the generation now coming into maturity.

In addition to this, we have the fact that Soviet economic development, while it can list certain formidable achievements, has been precariously spotty and uneven. Russian Communists who speak of the "uneven development of capitalism" should blush at the contemplation of their own national economy. Here certain branches of economic life, such as the metallurgical and machine industries, have been pushed out of all proportion to other sectors of economy. Here is a nation striving to become in a short period one of the great industrial nations of the world while it still has no highway network worthy of the name and only a relatively primitive network of railways. Much has been done to increase efficiency of labor and to teach primitive peasants something about the operation of machines. But maintenance is still a crying deficiency of all Soviet economy. Construction is hasty and poor in quality. Depreciation must be enormous. And in vast sectors of economic life it has not yet been possible to instill into labor anything like that general culture of production and technical self-respect which characterizes the skilled worker of the west.

It is difficult to see how these deficiencies can be corrected at an early date by a tired and dispirited population working largely under the shadow of fear and compulsion. And as long as they are not overcome, Russia will remain economically a vulnerable, and in a certain sense an impotent, nation, capable of exporting its enthusiasm and of radiating the strange charm of its primitive political vitality but unable to back up those articles of export by the real evidences of material power and prosperity.

Meanwhile, a great uncertainty hangs over the political life of the Soviet Union. That is the uncertainty involved in the transfer of power from one individual or group of individuals to others.

This is, of course, outstandingly the problem of the personal position of Stalin. We must remember that his succession to Lenin's pinnacle of preeminence in the Communist movement was the only such transfer of individual authority which the Soviet Union has experienced. That transfer took 12 years to consolidate. It cost the lives of millions of people and shook the state to its foundations. The attendant tremors were felt all through the international revolutionary movement, to the disadvantage of the Kremlin itself.

It is always possible that another transfer of preeminent power may take place quietly and inconspicuously, with no repercussions anywhere. But again, it is possible that the questions involved may unleash, to use some of Lenin's words, one of those "incredibly swift transitions" from "delicate deceit" to "wild violence" which characterize Russian history, and may shake Soviet power to its foundations.

But this is not only a question of Stalin himself. There has been, since 1938, a dangerous congealment of political life in the higher circles of Soviet power. The All-Union Congress of Soviets, in theory the supreme body of the Party, is supposed to meet not less often than once in three years. It will soon be eight full years since its last meeting. During this period membership in the Party has numerically doubled. Party mortality during the war was enormous; and today well over half of the Party members are persons who have entered since the last Party congress was held. Meanwhile, the same small group of men has carried on at the top through an amazing series of national vicissitudes. Surely there is some reason why the experiences of the war brought basic political changes to every one of the great governments of the west. Surely the causes of that phenomenon are basic enough to be present somewhere in the obscurity of Soviet political life, as well. And yet no recognition has been given to these causes in Russia.

It must be surmised from this that even within so highly disciplined an organization as the Communist Party there must be a growing divergence in age, outlook and interest between the great mass of Party members, only so recently recruited into the movement, and the little self-perpetuating clique of men at the top, whom most of these Party members have never met, with whom they have never conversed, and with whom they can have no political intimacy.

Who can say whether, in these circumstances, the eventual rejuvenation of the higher spheres of authority (which can only be a matter of time) can take place smoothly and peacefully, or whether rivals in the quest for higher power will not eventually reach down into these politically immature and inexperienced masses in order to find support for their respective claims? If this were ever to happen, strange consequences could flow for the Communist Party: for the membership at large has been exercised only in the practices of iron discipline and obedience and not in the arts of compromise and accommodation. And if disunity were ever to seize and paralyze the Party, the chaos and weakness of Russian society would be revealed in forms beyond description. For we have seen that Soviet power is only a crust concealing an amorphous mass of human beings among whom no independent organizational structure is tolerated. In Russia there is not even such a thing as local government. The present generation of Russians have never known spontaneity of collective action. If, consequently, anything were ever to occur to disrupt the unity and efficacy of the Party as a political instrument, Soviet Russia might be changed overnight from one of the strongest to one of the weakest and most pitiable of national societies.

Thus the future of Soviet power may not be by any means as secure as Russian capacity for self-delusion would make it appear to the men in the Kremlin. That they can keep power themselves, they have demonstrated. That they can quietly and easily turn it over to others remains to be proved. Meanwhile, the hardships of their rule and the vicissitudes of international life have taken a heavy toll of the strength and hopes of the great people on whom their power rests. It is curious to note that the ideological power of Soviet authority is strongest today in areas beyond the frontiers of Russia, beyond the reach of its police power. This phenomenon brings to mind a comparison used by Thomas Mann in his great novel Buddenbrooks. Observing that human institutions often show the greatest outward brilliance at a moment when inner decay is in reality farthest advanced, he compared the Buddenbrook family, in the days of its greatest glamour, to one of those stars whose light shines most brightly on this world when in reality it has long since ceased to exist. And who can say with assurance that the strong light still cast by the Kremlin on the dissatisfied peoples of the western world is not the powerful afterglow of a constellation which is in actuality on the wane? This cannot be proved. And it cannot be disproved. But the possibility remains (and in the opinion of this writer it is a strong one) that Soviet power, like the capitalist world of its conception, bears within it the seeds of its own decay, and that the sprouting of these seeds is well advanced.

IV

It is clear that the United States cannot expect in the foreseeable future to enjoy political intimacy with the Soviet regime. It must continue to regard the Soviet Union as a rival, not a partner, in the political arena. It must continue to expect that Soviet policies will reflect no abstract love of peace and stability, no real faith in the possibility of a permanent happy coexistence of the Socialist and capitalist worlds, but rather a cautious, persistent pressure toward the disruption and weakening of all rival influence and rival power.

Balanced against this are the facts that Russia, as opposed to the western world in general, is still by far the weaker party, that Soviet policy is highly flexible, and that Soviet society may well contain deficiencies which will eventually weaken its own total potential. This would of itself warrant the United States entering with reasonable confidence upon a policy of firm containment, designed to confront the Russians with unalterable counterforce at every point where they show signs of encroaching upon the interest of a peaceful and stable world.

But in actuality the possibilities for American policy are by no means limited to holding the line and hoping for the best. It is entirely possible for the United States to influence by its actions the internal developments, both within Russia and throughout the international Communist movement, by which Russian policy is largely determined. This is not only a question of the modest measure of informational activity which this government can conduct in the Soviet Union and elsewhere, although that, too, is important. It is rather a question of the degree to which the United States can create among the peoples of the world generally the impression of a country which knows what it wants, which is coping successfully with the problems of its internal life and with the responsibilities of a world power, and which has a spiritual vitality capable of holding its own among the major ideological currents of the time. To the extent that such an impression can be created and maintained, the aims of Russian Communism must appear sterile and quixotic, the hopes and enthusiasm of Moscow's supporters must wane, and added strain must be imposed on the Kremlin's foreign policies. For the palsied decrepitude of the capitalist world is the keystone of Communist philosophy. Even the failure of the United States to experience the early economic depression which the ravens of the Red Square have been predicting with such complacent confidence since hostilities ceased would have deep and important repercussions throughout the Communist world.

By the same token, exhibitions of indecision, disunity and internal disintegration within this country have an exhilarating effect on the whole Communist movement. At each evidence of these tendencies, a thrill of hope and excitement goes through the Communist world; a new jauntiness can be noted in the Moscow tread; new groups of foreign supporters climb on to what they can only view as the bandwagon of international politics; and Russian pressure increases all along the line in international affairs.

In would be an exaggeration to say that American behavior unassisted and alone could exercise a power of life and death over the Communist movement and bring about the early fall of Soviet power in Russia. But the United States has it in its power to increase enormously the strains under which Soviet policy must operate, to force upon the Kremlin a far greater degree of moderation and circumspection than it has had to observe in recent years, and in this way to promote tendencies which must eventually find their outlet in either the breakup or the gradual mellowing of Soviet power. For no mystical, messianic movement—and particularly not that of the Kremlin—can face frustration indefinitely without eventually adjusting itself in one way or another to the logic of that state of affairs.

Thus the decision will really fall in large measure on this country itself. The issue of Soviet-American relations is in essence a test of the overall worth of the United States as a nation among nations. To avoid destruction the United States need only measure up to its own best traditions and prove itself worthy of preservation as a great nation.

Surely, there was never a fairer test of national quality than this. In the light of these circumstances, the thoughtful observer of Russian-American relations will find no cause for complaint in the Kremlin's challenge to American society. He will rather experience a certain gratitude to a Providence which, by providing the American people with this implacable challenge, has made their entire security as a nation dependent on their pulling themselves together and accepting the responsibilities of moral and political leadership that history plainly intended them to bear.

[1] "Concerning the Slogans of the United States of Europe," August 1915. Official Soviet edition of Lenin's works

[2] Here and elsewhere in this paper "Socialism" refers to Marxist or Leninst Communism, not to liberal Socialism of the Second International variety.

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• MORE BY GEORGE F. KENNAN