Alfred Thayer Mahan, The Interest of America in Sea Power,

Present and Future (1897)

Credit to Joshua Boucher, Baylor University
The philosophy of Rear Admiral Alfred Thayer Mahan can be perfectly encapsulated
within this quote from his article “The United States Looking Outward” in the December
1890 issue of Atlantic Monthly: “That which I deplore, and which is a sober, just, and
reasonable cause of deep national concern, is that the nation neither has nor cares to
have its sea frontier so defended, and its navy of such power, as shall suffice, with the
advantages of our position, to weigh seriously when inevitable discussions arise.” A
prolific writer, Mahan became one of the most famous naval and sea power prophets of
the late nineteenth century. Concerned with the United States’ place in the world,
Mahan wrote to influence both policymakers and common Americans. Although some
of his articles and books are less resonant today, they still provide a fascinating
glimpse into the state of the world of in the 1890s, shortly before the Spanish-
American War, and how it was perceived by many Americans. While Mahan wrote over
one hundred articles, this essay will examine in particular the articles collected in The
Interest of America in Sea Power, Present and Future. These articles were first
published between 1890 and 1897 in widely-read magazines.
Born in September 1840 to the famous West Point military theorist and professor
Dennis Hart Mahan, Alfred Mahan’s early years seemed to destine him to a life of
mediocrity, or, at least, obscurity. After attending the Naval Academy (Class of 1859),
basically against his father’s wishes, Mahan served in the American Civil War, largely
on blockade duty. A dearth of civilian jobs and a rank of Lieutenant Commander (not
lightly given up in a military where post-Civil War promotion was scarce) kept Mahan
in the navy until his retirement in 1896. Due to his crusading character (for example,
he exposed corruption at the New York Naval Yard, much to the chagrin of some of his
superiors), Mahan was stationed on a variety of ever more decrepit ships.
In 1884-85, Mahan was in command of the USS Wachusett off the coast of Chile and
Peru to protect American interests during a war between the two nations. It was here
that he received the fated letter that led him from naval obscurity into one of the most
well-known and influential naval philosophers of the nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries. Rear Admiral Stephen B. Luce was in the process of creating the Naval War
College in Newport, Rhode Island, in order to provide naval officers with high-level
strategic training they might not have otherwise received.
Having worked with Mahan in the past, Luce asked Mahan if he would accept a position
as professor of naval history. Mahan agreed, and soon made his way to Rhode Island.
It was here that he became the prolific writer we know today; it was here at the War
College where Mahan made his claim to fame. The publication of The Influence of Sea
Power Upon History, 1660-1783, in 1890, was just the start of Mahan’s work—he
followed this with numerous books and articles, influencing some very important
people; among them were future president Theodore Roosevelt and many foreign
naval officers and political leaders, including the German Kaiser, Wilhelm II.
Some historical context might be necessary for a more complete understanding of
Mahan’s influence. The United States had allowed its navy following the Civil War to
undergo a rapid decline. Mahan knew this very acutely; while commander of the
USS Wachusett, he entertained a visit of a French naval officer then in the area. The
officer took one look at the guns aboard the Wachusett (which was a Civil War era ship
and certainly not top of the line, but still representative of a good part of the navy) and
commented that “we used to have guns like this.”
A stinging blow to the captain of any ship, to be sure. However, the decline of the
navy was only one problem the United States faced; making sure its coasts were
protected was another. The United States had only reached from “sea-to-shining-sea”
shortly before the Civil War. As population boomed and immigration increased, it was
now more important than ever to have a real Pacific naval presence. With the
possibility of a Central American canal growing greater with every year, it was
imperative for the United States to protect its interests.
As we will see, Mahan frequently pointed out that the advent of a canal in Central
America would make the Caribbean assume an international importance it had not held
since the days of Columbus. Furthermore, a Central American canal meant that the
heretofore distant Pacific shore of the United States would naturally grow in
importance and ease of access; Europeans uninterested in the Pacific coast previously
might suddenly be interested when they could reach it so easily. An increase of
American commerce in the Pacific (which needed protecting), and Americans clamoring
for the annexation of Hawaii, were other problems with which the United States had to
deal in the 1890s.
Enter Mahan. Although Mahan tells us in the preface to The Interest of America in Sea
Power, Present and Future, that the articles were written independently of one
another, many embody similar themes—or, that is, there are similar themes that can
be traced from one article to another.
One of the major themes, perhaps the most important and all-encompassing theme,
which runs throughout these articles is the importance of sea power, and, along with
it, the importance of possessing adequate naval power. While the line between sea
and naval power is sometimes blurred in Mahan’s account, they are not necessarily the
same thing. Whereas sea power simply means control of the seas “along the great
lines drawn by national interest or national commerce,” thus contributing to the
“merely material elements in the power and prosperity of nations,” naval power is the
means to that end. That is, because we cannot expect international law to protect
claims to geographical areas of national interest, we need the capability to protect
them ourselves. Sea power then requires adequate naval power, something that
Mahan stresses the United States does not possess.
We can see the importance of this theme quickly and clearly by the titles of four of the
eight articles: “Hawaii and Our Future Sea Power,” “The Isthmus and Sea Power,” “The
Future in Relation to American Naval Power,” and “Preparedness for Naval War.”
Mahan thought of himself, first and foremost, as an historian. One of his earliest
insights in preparing for his role at the Naval War College was that the course of the
Second Punic War would have been changed irrevocably if Hannibal had access to the
sea power that the Romans possessed. More prominently, Mahan recognized that
Great Britain’s rise to greatness was due in large part to its overwhelming command of
the sea. While this meteoric ascent could not be attributed solely to the power that its
navy provided, such a navy still factored into it; one could argue that without a strong
navy, an island nation like Great Britain would not have had the worldwide success
that it did.
In many ways, over the course of these articles Mahan establishes Great Britain as a
model for the United States to emulate in its growth. Mahan notes that Britain's island
position had encouraged its development as a first-rate sea power, and suggests that
the United States, in an almost analogous position, should develop along the same
lines: “they … are so severed geographically from all existing rivals as to be exempt
from the burden of great land armies; while, at the same time, they must depend upon
the sea, in chief measure, for that intercourse with other members of the body upon
which national well-being depends.”
Elsewhere, Mahan writes that both Great Britain and the United States have an abiding
interest to maintain “the laws that shall regulate maritime warfare.”
Mahan recognized that historically the United States was protected from European
interference by the presence of the Atlantic Ocean (he does not explicitly recognize the
fact that British naval power, wielded to be sure in the interests of the Britain, played a
key role in keeping the Atlantic sea lanes open and discouraging continental European
powers from intervening in the affairs of the New World). With oceans on the east and
west, and with only two relatively small land powers touching the northern and
southern borders, the United States was, for all intents and purposes, an island nation
itself.
Most of its trade was carried out by sea; for centuries, the sea provided the life-blood
of many a New England town; during the Civil War, the Confederacy was squeezed to
death by a naval blockade; many of America’s earliest heroes won fame on the naval
battlefield. Essentially without rivals to fight on land, the United States should have
been aware of the importance of the sea, and Mahan sought, through the preaching of
the importance of sea power, to cause the American public to recognize the error of its
ways.
As already mentioned, the United States had been for a long time protected from
interference from Europe by the presence of the Atlantic Ocean. But Mahan argued
that the policy of the American Founders, especially Jefferson, to ignore the navy in
favor of other internal developments was no longer a feasible strategy. Part of this
was due to the coming of new technologies—steam and coal-powered ships, for
instance, had made distances shorter and easier to travel than ever before. Part of it
was due to the emergence of the United States as an increasingly global power, and
therefore a power with interests to protect in other parts of the world.
And part of it was that the possession of a navy was never something to be so lightly
brushed aside, that people who did not favor a navy had always been wrong: “The War
of 1812 demonstrated the usefulness of a navy,--not, indeed, by the admirable but
utterly unavailing single-ship victories that illustrated its course, but by the prostration
into which our seaboard and external communications fell, through the lack of a navy
at all proportionate to the country’s needs and exposure.” If the United States wished
to protect itself, if it wished to exert its influence around the world, a powerful and
modern navy adequate to those purposes should have been the first thing it looked to
create: “while distances have shortened, they remain for us water distances … for
political influence they must be traversed in the last resort by a navy, the
indispensable instrument by which, when emergencies arise, the nation can project is
power beyond its own shore-line.”
Sea power without purpose—or for a purpose as ambiguous as international
influence—would be entirely pointless, however. As mentioned previously, Mahan
particularly had in mind the protection of American interests in the Caribbean. The
creation of a Central American canal (not yet built at this point) would impart new
importance to the region; after all, as Mahan was at pains to point out, easy sea
access to Asia and the Pacific had been a European dream since at least the days of
Columbus.
With such easy access to the Pacific, and with what would be increased amounts of sea
traffic along all the shorelines of America, Mahan stressed the importance of American
control of the canal and, essentially, the whole region—especially because the isthmus
would take on international commercial and military interest on a scale it had never
previously possessed. The canal would be of particular importance to the United
States, which possessed coastlines on both oceans, and this importance necessitated
American control of both the entrance to the Caribbean and transit across it.
This is most clear in the essay “The Strategic Features of the Gulf of Mexico and the
Caribbean Sea” from the October 1897 issue of Harper’s New Monthly Magazine. Here,
Mahan identifies the most important geographic and strategic points within the Gulf of
Mexico and Caribbean region – those points and passages that are important for the
United States to control if it wishes to protect its coasts and its interests. For Mahan,
control of the Caribbean was essential to control of the canal, which was essential for
the protection of all three coastlines of the United States.
As an essentially “island” nation, it was of the utmost importance that the United
States protect its coastline and its interests with a powerful navy. In the ”Isthmus and
Sea Power”, from the September 1893 issue of the Atlantic Monthly, Mahan points out
that control of the canal depends upon sea power. Control of the isthmus is only
possible through naval control of the region, and naval control of the region requires
naval predominance. Naval predominance will not be obtained unless Washington
becomes serious about upgrading its naval material and personnel. “The United States
has asserted a special interest” in the Isthmus, Mahan writes, and “In the present she
can maintain her claim, and in the future perform her duty, only by the creation of that
sea power upon which predominance in the Caribbean must ever depend.” And until
Washington takes seriously its own naval prerogatives it cannot expect other nations
to take it seriously.
Without the canal, the United States could ignore its naval prerogative in the
Caribbean; as Mahan says, the United States could afford to be weak in the past. But
when the Europeans suddenly find themselves interested in the area, Washington
cannot afford to appear weak to its rivals. While it might be acceptable if Great Britain
(a country with which, as we shall see, Mahan suggests fostering stronger ties) were to
control the canal, ultimately we cannot count on such an occurrence. The canal in the
wrong foreign hands would be a disaster for the United States, and the only way to
fully avert disaster will be for the United States itself to take control of the canal.
Washington cannot count on international law to protect its interests in the region,
especially in the face of stronger powers. In order for the United States to take control
of the canal and the region, he looks to the ways Great Britain, another island nation,
had previously used its own sea power in order to exert influence or protect its
interests. America, he writes, could learn a lot from Great Britain’s past success.
Inherent in the idea of naval control of a region of the world is the idea that America
could no longer be “isolated” from it. To protect one’s interests, one needs to take an
actual interest in and take upon oneself a role in the world. For Mahan, the “isolation”
that George Washington supposedly advised in his Farewell Address was no longer a
feasible geopolitical strategy when considering all of the above factors at play in the
1890s. Americans needed to lose their disposition to isolation while the various
nations of Europe were out in the world looking for greatness. And even if Americans
wanted to remain isolated in the world, the creation of the canal would forcibly end it:
“this isolation will pass away, and with it the indifference of foreign nations. From
wheresoever they come and whithersoever they afterward go, all ships that use the
canal will pass through the Caribbean.” Those who refuse to look towards the rest of
the world and focus solely on internal developments forget that “no nation, as no man,
can live to itself or die to itself.” Importantly, and perhaps bitingly, Mahan comments,
Those who hold that our political interests are confined to matters within our own
borders, and are unwilling to admit that circumstances may compel us in the future to
political action without them, look with dislike and suspicion upon the growth of a body
[the navy] whose very existence indicates that nations have international duties as
well as international rights, and that international complications will arise from which
we can no more escape than the states which have preceded us in history, or those
contemporary with us.
With its “newfound” strength, the United States should be out staking its claims in the
world, protecting its international interests, rather than staying home, wringing its
hands, or ignoring the rest of the world. The United States could no longer
internationally isolate itself; if anything, the demands of commerce and trade by the
1890s called for the United States to bring its attention to bear on the international
realm.
In relation to isolation and sea power is Mahan’s discussion of the Monroe Doctrine.
While all of Mahan’s views on sea power are compatible with the Monroe Doctrine—
“reduced to its barest statement, and stripped of all deductions, natural or forced, the
Monroe Doctrine, if it were not a mere political abstraction, formulated an idea to
which in the last resort effect could be given only through the instrumentality of a
navy”—he argues that Washington is not doing the doctrine justice so long as it
remains at home.
The Monroe Doctrine must be vigorously defended if the United States is serious about
its interests; otherwise, “the Monroe Doctrine as popularly apprehended and indorsed,
is a rather nebulous generality, which has condensed about the Isthmus into a faint
point of more defined luminosity.” While he refrains from saying “how far the Monroe
Doctrine itself would logically carry us, or how far it may be developed,” he accepts the
Doctrine’s enunciation as fact related to a “great national interest” because “it voiced
an enduring principle of necessary self-interest.” In short, as popular as the Monroe
Doctrine is among Americans, it can only be perpetuated in a world of shorter
distances by the vigorous maintenance of sea power.
Connected with his push for a new look at the importance of sea power was Mahan’s
belief that the calls for permanent peace in the world were misguided. In particular,
Mahan derided those who believed that the creation or expansion of a military would
necessarily lead to war: “That the organization of military strength involves
provocation to war is a fallacy, which the experience of each succeeding year now
refutes.
The immense armaments of Europe are onerous; but nevertheless, by the mutual
respect and caution they enforce, they present a cheap alternative, certainly in misery,
probably in money, to the frequent devastating wars which preceded the era of general
military preparation.”
Further, Mahan points out that “war is simply a violent and tumultuous political
incident” (how much Mahan was influenced by or knowledgeable of Clausewitz is not
entirely known). That is to say, for Mahan the push for permanent, arbitrated peace in
the world was misguided because sometimes war is waged for legitimate means: “in
public disputes … there is not uncommonly on both sides an element of right … which
prevents either party from yielding, and that it is better for men to fight than, for the
sake of peace, to refuse to support their convictions of justice.”
The United States simply could not afford to ignore the possibility of war, and thus
had to be prepared for it. Americans pushing for isolation or disarmament may have
been guided by noble goals, but for Mahan they were wrong in how they pursued those
goals. Peace could be obtained, but not artificially. No, peace can only be obtained
through legitimate, organic means—sometimes through force, sometimes through the
show of force. By “showing the flag”, the United States would make a better attempt
at preserving the peace than by simply discarding its military power wholesale.
Developed also by Mahan over the course of these essays is the relationship that the
United States should have with Great Britain (see, for instance, “Possibilities of an
Anglo-American Reunion” in the November 1894 issue of The North American
Review). Mahan argues that Britain could be the biggest problem the United States
might face in the coming years, not least because of its already established sea power:
“Britain is undoubtedly the most formidable of our possible enemies, both by her great
navy and by the strong positions she holds near our coasts.” However, in Mahan’s
eyes, this problem was mitigated by a number of factors—for instance, “both, also, are
controlled by a sense of law and justice, drawn from the same sources, and deep-
rooted in their instincts.” While he believed that the United States could not force a
formal alliance with its colonial forebears, he argued that
“a cordial recognition of the similarity of character and ideas will give birth to
sympathy, which in turn will facilitate a co-operation beneficial to both; for if
sentimentality is weak, sentiment is strong.” What luck, of course, that what Mahan
believed was America’s greatest rival was also the nation with which America shared
such a common root—and the apple had certainly not fallen far from the tree, despite
the differences exhibited by both nations in America’s earliest years of nationhood. By
fostering such similarities, by recognizing this common root, Great Britain and the
United States would be able to overcome most, if not all, of their differences. And
while such recognition might not be capable of being created actively, Mahan urged
Washington not to make the mistake of impeding the organic creation of ever-stronger
ties.
Mahan spends a good deal of time concerned with the Hawaiian Islands as well (see
especially “Hawaii and Our Future Sea Power”, in the Forum, March 1893). Again, this
is yet another theme connected back to the overall importance of sea power. Mahan is
concerned with Hawaii for a variety of reasons. For instance, he knows that
possession of Hawaii by the United States would disrupt the ring of naval bases and
commercial facilities that Great Britain had busied itself building around the western
Pacific. But Mahan was not only concerned with checking Great Britain—no, Mahan
was worried that China or Japan could expand to Hawaii and in Mahan’s eyes, such an
expansion would be devastating.
Additionally, in a furthering of his sea power thesis, Mahan argues that the military
value of a naval position depends upon its situation (location), strength, and resources,
with situation being the most important factor. Hawaii possesses one of the best
situations in the entire Pacific, he argues, “equidistant from San Francisco, Samoa, and
the Marquesas, and an important post on our lines of communication with both
Australia and China.” Its situation fulfills Mahan’s dictate that no foreign power control
important points within 3000 miles of San Francisco. And, moreover, its situation also
connects back to control of the new Central American canal—any power looking to pass
to China or Japan through the canal will have to go by Hawaii; therefore, possession of
Hawaii reinforces American control of the Caribbean and Canal. In short, by pushing
for control of Hawaii, Mahan was aiming for two objectives: (1) a foothold for control of
the Pacific and (2) a reinforcement of American control of the Caribbean and Central
American canal.
There are a number of other themes that we can find within these articles by Mahan—
among them, some arguments in favor of empire (again connected with the
importance of sea power) and discussion of an “East vs. West” dichotomy (and
Mahan’s own views, many of which would not be accepted today, about the nature of
the East and the conflict itself). However, in pursuit of brevity this essay will not touch
on either one of these themes; a topic for another time, especially when we consider
the common (and likely correct) argument that Mahan was an imperialist of the first
order.
Instead, a conclusion. Concerned that the United States was not reaching its full
potential, Mahan sought through his writings to rectify that evil. The overriding
argument was the importance of sea power, and from it a number of other themes
emerged, including the importance of control of Hawaii, the Caribbean, and the soon-
to-be Panama Canal. And connected further still to the protection of American
interests was Mahan’s view that the United States needed to emerge once and for all
from self-imposed isolation, that it needed to ignore the misguided calls for artificial
(and therefore short-term) peace, and that it was imperative that it strengthen its
ancestral bond with Great Britain. Although some of his arguments might be outdated
over a century later, Mahan provides an acute look at the thought process of late
nineteenth century policymakers and he opens an intellectual window into what
became the rapid expansion of American power and international influence.
America's Strategy in World Politics by Nicholas Spykman (1942)
American national security policy in the 21st century is conducted on the foundations of
a global network of military bases and strategic alliances that first emerged during
World War II and the early years of the Cold War. The American security network had
many fathers, above all Franklin Roosevelt and Harry Truman. One important
intellectual contributor, however, is barely known today: Nicholas John Spykman, a
Dutch-American geographer who was the Sterling Professor of International Relations
at Yale.
In the late 1930s, Spykman published several articles in the American Political Science
Review that considered the relationship between geography and politics. He later wrote
two books that bore upon U.S. war and post-war strategy: America's Strategy in World
Politics: The United States and the Balance of Power (1942); and The Geography of
the Peace (1944), which was completed after Spykman's death. America's
Strategy has recently been republished, with an introduction by Francis P. Sempa.
Spykman was a balance of power realist who argued that American security depended
to a first order on preventing a hostile power or coalition of powers from dominating
the Old World. The combined resources of the "World Island" of Eurasia would simply
overwhelm those of the Americas. The ocean would become a highway, not a barrier,
to foreign invasion (or more likely) to economic strangulation and political intimidation
and subversion. This balance of power logic—controversial then as now—was hardly
original.
But Spykman provided a conceptual map that proved highly congenial to key civilians
and military officers in the emerging U.S. national security establishment. Spykman's
precise influence on policy is difficult to document but his major ideas resonated with
those strategists who wanted to move the United States permanently beyond
hemispheric-oceanic isolationism, while avoiding the mistakes of Woodrow Wilson.
Wilson, they thought, had pursued an overly ambitious agenda during and after World
War I that made no distinction between vital and peripheral U.S. interests; and that
turned democratization and self-determination into categorical imperatives. Wilson
thereby divided what was otherwise a political majority of conservative and liberal
internationalists, who agreed on the need for the United States to "look outward" and
participate actively in the security affairs of Eurasia.
The catastrophic experience of the 1930s and early 1940s, which put Western
civilization at such grave risk, convinced internationalists of all stripes of the need to
develop a politically persuasive post-war grand strategy—one that grounded idealistic
American involvement in Eurasian affairs in specific and definable material interests.
Spykman provided an easily-understood geopolitical template that defined and
prioritized those interests. (In doing so, Spykman drew upon, but modified
significantly, the concepts of the British geographer Halford Mackinder.) First,
Spykman concluded that America was best defended—indeed, it could only be
defended—forward, in Eurasia.
Second, he argued that a properly-structured forward defense in Eurasia was militarily
feasible despite changes in technology (airpower and railroad transportation) that
seemed to advantage large continental states over maritime powers. Third, a close
reading of Spykman indicated that American strategic interests outside the Americas
were not indiscriminate or open-ended. Spykman's analysis offered a middle ground
between those who sought to fall back on a defensive hemispheric security system;
and those who believed that overseas threats were so grave that preventive war and
American global hegemony—or world government—were the only alternatives to
totalitarian domination of Eurasia.
According to Spykman, America's principal security concerns were located in the
"Rimland" of Eurasia. The Rimland, broadly speaking, included Western Europe, the
Maghreb, the Middle East, and continental South, Southeast, and East Asia. This region
contained the majority of the world's population and natural resources. The Rimland
was connected by a series of marginal seas, such as the Mediterranean. The gravest
threat to the global balance of power would occur if a single power or coalition of
powers dominated the Rimland. That power could then close off communication
between the Heartland—essentially Russia and Eastern Europe—and the offshore
islands and continents, above all the United States. By isolating the offshore powers
from Eurasia, the united Rimland power bloc would be able to dominate the Heartland,
organize the World Island's resources, and present a very real possibility of global
hegemony. The recent contenders had largely come from within the Rimland itself
(Austria, Spain, France, and Germany), but the threatening power could also come
from the offshore islands (e.g., Japan) or the Heartland (Russia).
Spykman's key proposition was that American security depended on ensuring that the
states of the Rimland remained independent from a would-be hegemon. Modern
technology and communications were such that threats to the Rimland could emerge
very rapidly. The United States could no longer afford to hang back and see how
events developed. The United States must become actively engaged across the oceans
during peacetime, through alliances and military bases that maintained air and
maritime access to the Rimland and that preserved the security of the marginal seas.
The United States need not be responsible entirely for the security of the Rimland,
however, because other powers would naturally align with it against any hegemonic
threat, irrespective of their political orientation. Spykman assumed that the natural
post-World War II security alignment would be that of Britain (with its global empire
along the Rimland), the Soviet Union, and the United States, all of which shared the
desire to suppress the revival of a German or Japanese threat to the balance of power.
Spykman did not dismiss the possibility of a Soviet drive for hegemony, but he
concluded that the Heartland lacked the resources and the easy invasion routes that
would allow it to dominate the Rimland against the counter-alliances that the United
States could form. He believed that Soviet leaders must appreciate the limits of their
power, as long as they were convinced that the United States would remain actively
involved in Eurasian security.
When Soviet behavior in the late 1940s indicated that Stalin had not grasped this
essential geopolitical point, American officials, consciously or not, applied the logic of
Spykman's conclusions against Moscow when developing the national security policy
known as containment. The United States could not withdraw from Eurasia because the
war-weakened Rimland was unable to resist unaided a Soviet drive for global
hegemony. But the states of the Rimland, especially once they recovered from the war,
contained ample resources to defend themselves, with the aid of the United States.
Spykman's strategy required a much larger commitment of peacetime resources and
overseas commitments than Americans had become used to; but not so massive as to
bankrupt the country or force it to abandon its constitutional order. The power-political
challenge of creating an anti-Soviet dike seemed manageable because of the strategic
contribution and positional advantages supplied by the Rimland states. The Soviet
challenge was not so overwhelming as to require the adoption of a constant near-war
state of readiness or preventive war to forestall an otherwise inevitable defeat.
The devil, of course, was in the details, to which Spykman could not offer authoritative
guidance. Should containment be thought of in terms of a series of strong points or a
continuous line? To what degree should containment be thought of in military-strategic
terms, as opposed to its political, economic, or cultural dimensions? Did the
development of nuclear weapons, unforeseen by Spykman, strengthen or compromise
the defense of the Rimland? Would forces outside the scope of strict geopolitical
analysis—above all, ideology and nationalism—trump or reinforce the logic of
containment?
Would Americans or other peoples become too weary, bored, or frightened to wage the
long twilight struggle? Should American policy be limited and reactive—merely to see
that the Rimland remained divided—or should it proactively seek to unite the Rimland
(and the heavens above?) to compel an end to the Soviet hegemonic threat? Was
there a point of Soviet strategic success in breaching the dike of containment, or in
developing a first-strike threat, at which the United States must adopt a near-war
state of readiness or even preventive war? The varying answers to these questions
contain in themselves the history of the Cold War. They are not without interest in
present times.
U.S. Foreign Policy: Shield of the Republic by Walter
Lippman (1943)
During World War I, Walter Lippmann temporarily put aside his career in journalism
and joined the Wilson administration, where he participated in the ill-fated American
effort at post-war planning (the Inquiry). He soon became disillusioned with liberal
internationalism as it was reflected in the Treaty of Versailles. For the next two
decades, Lippmann attempted to work out a consistent theory of American diplomacy
based on what he understood to be the national interest. In 1943, from his platform as
America's most influential columnist and public philosopher, Lippmann penned U.S.
Foreign Policy: Shield of the Republic to fill what he regarded was an appalling gap in
America's understanding of the fundamentals of national security; and the failure of
President Roosevelt to lay out publicly his plans for a post-war settlement.
Shield of the Republic formulated what might be called the Lippmann equilibrium,
which has become the standard of American realists: "Foreign policy consists in
bringing into balance, with a comfortable surplus of power in reserve, the nation's
commitments and the nation's power. I mean by a foreign commitment an obligation,
outside the continental limits of the United States, which may in the last analysis have
to be met by waging war. I mean by power the force which is necessary to prevent
such a war or to win it if it cannot be prevented. In the term necessary power I include
the military force which can be mobilized effectively within the domestic territory of the
United States and also the reinforcements which can be obtained from dependable
allies." If this strategic equilibrium could be brought into being, American foreign policy
would command domestic support. On the other hand, if American commitments
exceed American power, the resulting insolvency—"the Lippmann gap"—would lead to
deep political dissension.
Lippmann wrote Shield of the Republic to counteract the two likely policy alternatives
in the post-war era—a resumption of isolationism or (more likely) hyper-Wilsonian
One-Worldism. Either of these paths would lead to strategic insolvency and paralyzing
domestic controversy. He rejected the idealists' belief in world law and international
parliaments and grounded his policy in national interest and alliances. "If there is to be
peace in our time," he maintained, "it will have to be peace among sovereign national
states."
Lippmann offered his readers a primer in the history of American foreign policy to
demonstrate his theses. Although George Washington in particular among the
Founders understood the imperatives of power politics, Lippmann argued that the
period between 1789 and 1823 was plagued by insolvency and inconstancy, with
predictable internal dissension over foreign policy. The end of the great wars of the
French Revolution and Napoleon permitted American foreign policy to became solvent:
with the advent of the Monroe Doctrine, U.S. commitments were limited to the western
hemisphere and underwritten by the "concert with Great Britain" and the British fleet.
By that act of statesmanship, according to Lippmann, America's foreign commitments
were in accord with its vital interests and the means to sustain those commitments
were more than adequate. Then, and only then, did foreign relations cease to be great
domestic issues.
Beginning in the late nineteenth century, however, the extension of American interests
and commitments in the Pacific began to erode this solvency. The U.S. defeat of Spain
and acquisition of the Philippines in 1898 ended it. The foreign policy that served the
United States on the whole so well during most of the nineteenth century became
dangerously inadequate after 1900. Because of the failure to readjust the foreign
policy of the United States to this revolutionary change in the strategic situation, the
nation had for over forty years been unprepared to wage war or to make peace, and
remained divided within itself on the conduct of U.S. foreign relations. U.S. foreign
policy during these years was based on a foundation of sand: disarmament, no
entangling alliances, and collective security. The results were Hitler's conquest of
continental Europe and the Japanese conquest of East Asia. Americans had lost the art
of shaping a policy, and could not find a policy because they no longer knew what they
needed.
Shield of the Republic concludes that a strategic equilibrium in the post-World War II
era could be established best through what Lippmann called the "nuclear alliance" of
the United States, Britain and Russia, and to a lesser extent with China. (This did not
refer to nuclear weapons, of course, as the atomic bomb had not yet been developed.)
"For more than a century, whenever our vital interests were at stake, American foreign
relations have always been primarily with Britain, with Russia, and with China,"
Lippmann wrote. "Our relations with all other states have followed upon and have been
governed by our relations with those three. In the conduct of American foreign policy
our position has been solvent, our power adequate to our commitments, in so far as
we were in essential agreement with these three states." None of these powers was a
European state, Lippmann noted. "I submit that while our concern has not been with
European affairs, we have always been concerned with world affairs. Our primary
relations have been, and are, with the extra-European powers, and with Europe itself
only as someone inside of Europe threatens to disrupt the order of things outside of
Europe. Therefore our two natural and permanent allies have been and are Britain and
Russia. For they have the same fundamental interest—to each of them a matter of life
or death—of preventing the rise of such a conquering power in Europe."
Lippmann recognized that the unconditional surrender of Germany and of Japan was
bound to leave all the allies with an immediate sense of mortal peril averted; and that
this fact would naturally reduce the compulsion that bound the wartime alliance
together. These fissures would tend to become wider and deeper if any one of the
great powers sought to aggrandize itself either at the expense of one of the other
great powers, or at the expense of their smaller allies. For the nuclear alliance to
succeed, the cooperating great powers must moderate their post-war ambitions, which
Lippmann believed possible if they properly understood their own interests.
The United States must realize that any attempt to break-up the British Empire to its
own advantage would impair profoundly, if not destroy, the Atlantic Community. By
the same token, if Britain refused to recognize the necessary changes in the colonial
and imperial system of the nineteenth century, it would face insurgent forces in Asia,
the Middle East, and Africa. Britain could not count on American support in that
circumstance, and almost certainly she would have to expect Russian and Chinese
encouragement of these forces. By the same token again, a Russian policy of
aggrandizement in Europe, one which threatened the national liberties of her
neighbors, would inexorably be regarded as such a threat to Britain and America that
they would begin to encourage the nations which resisted Russia.
On the other hand, an anti-Russian policy in which Britain, American, and the
European states sought, as they did in 1919, to blockade and even disrupt Russia
would provoke Russian communist intervention to counteract it. This would be followed
inevitably and immediately by competition among the Allies to win over to their side
the vanquished nations (Germany and Japan) by restoring their power.
"The nuclear alliance cannot hold together if it does not operate within the limitations
of an international order that preserves the national liberties of other peoples,"
Lippmann concluded hopefully. "Nor could the nuclear allies divide the globe into
spheres of influence which each was free to dominate and exploit separately. For no
spheres of influence can be defined which do not overlap, which would not therefore
bring the great powers into conflict. In no other way but by supporting a world-wide
system of liberty under law can they win the consent, earn the confidence, and insure
the support of the rest of the world in the continuation of their alliance."
Lippmann used his considerable journalistic talents to put the message in language
that would appeal to the general reader. His prose was simple and direct. U.S. Foreign
Policy quickly climbed to the top of best-seller lists and sold nearly half a million
copies. The Reader's Digest printed a condensation. The U.S. armed forces distributed
a twenty-five-cent paperback edition to the troops.
Lippmann's analysis of the American strategic situation—in many ways, a
popularization of the argument previously advanced by Yale geographer Nicholas
Spykman—helped shape American public opinion even when the nuclear alliance broke
down after the end of the war. "American foreign policy did become solvent in the
postwar years, although not exactly in the way Lippmann anticipated," Harvard
political scientist Samuel Huntington has explained. "That solvency was based on the
overwhelming economic and military power of the United States compared to other
countries, its continued close association with Great Britain and France, and the rapid
recovery of Germany and Japan and eventually their equally close association with the
United States. For almost a quarter-century after World War II, this combination
provided what Lippmann would call a 'comfortable surplus of power' abroad and a
general consensus on policy at home." (To this we might add the overhang of power
provided by the American nuclear deterrent.)
According to Huntington, when a capabilities-commitments gap reemerged by the end
of the 1960s, due to the loss of American nuclear and economic superiority and the
Vietnam disaster, the United States sought with mixed success to deal with it by
reducing commitments and by increasing the role of U.S. allies. Eventually President
Reagan used policies of rhetorical assertion, military build-up, strategic defense,
insurgency support, coercive diplomacy and arms control.
Lippmann himself grew disillusioned with the U.S. response to the breakdown in the
nuclear alliance. He criticized U.S. "globalism" and "missionary" interventionism in
Eurasia proper. He believed that America's primary areas of strategic responsibility
were in the Atlantic Basin and the Pacific islands, linked together by a "blue-water"
strategy of naval and air bases and fleets. Outside this perimeter he believed there
should be no permanent political commitments or military facilities. Lippmann's dissent
reminds that his influential formula for foreign policy equilibrium does not provide a
certain answer for defining its terms; but his aversion to the U.S. interventionism in
the political-strategic affairs of Eurasia remains an enduring element of the realist
approach to American strategy.
Herodotus, The Histories (5th Century BCE)
The Landmark Edition, Robert B. Strassler, editor, Andrea L. Purvis,
translator, with an introduction by Rosalind Thomas, Anchor Books,
2009.
"This is the publication of the inquiry of Herodotus of Halicarnassus,
which he presents in hope that the achievements of men should not be
obliterated by time, nor that the great and wonderful deeds of both
Greeks and barbarians should be without their due fame, and also for
what reason they ought each other." Thus begins Herodotus' Histories
(inquiries) of the great conflict between the Persian (Achaemenid)
Empire and an alliance of Greek city-states during the 5th century BC.
Herodotus' outlook on human affairs falls between that of Homer's
divine and heroic poetry and Thucydides' cool rationalism. He traces the
Greek-barbarian hostility back into mythical times, and "digresses" in
detail about the geography and peoples of the lands of the known world,
many (not all) of which he investigated personally. Modern investigative
science and anthropology have refuted his "tall tales" but much of our
insight about the ancient world comes from
his research.
The Persian Wars were a series of clashes
between the two sides, and typically
delineated by two unsuccessful Persian
invasions of the Greek mainland in 490 BC
and 480-479 BC. The first invasion, a
punitive campaign led by Darius I in
retaliation for Athens' support of a revolt of
Greek cities against Persian rule in Ionia,
was repulsed at Marathon. In the second
campaign, King Xerxes' massive force
overcame Greek defenses at Thermopylae, including the famous Spartan
contingent of 300 under the command of King Leonidas. The citizens of
Athens fled their Attic homeland and, after much debate, were
persuaded by Themistocles to join with other Greeks to fight the Persian
fleet in a last-ditch effort to prevent conquest by Xerxes. The
overwhelming Greek naval victory at Salamis demoralized the Persians.
Xerxes fled back to Asia and his army was subsequently routed and
driven out of Hellas at the battles of Plataea and Mycale. The war
elevated Athens to the first rank of Greek city-states, led to the creation
of the Athenian Empire, and laid the foundations for the subsequent
rivalry with Sparta.
Herodotus, who wrote a generation after the Persian Wars, puts these
battles in the context of a great clash of civilizations, between Greek
freedom and Asian despotism. He seeks to explain why and how a
relatively poor, small, and divided collection of Greek-speakers were
able to defeat a much larger, wealthier, and centralized empire. On the
battlefield itself, on land and at sea, the Greeks were better disciplined
and employed superior close-order tactics, such as staying in ranks
rather than attempting to kill the greatest number of enemy soldiers in
open combat. But Herodotus' generic answer reflected the views of his
contemporaries and greatly influenced the West's understanding of
itself: "As long as the Athenians were ruled by a despotic government,
they had no better success in war than any of their neighbors. Once the
yoke was flung off, they proved the finest fighters in the world." In the
past, "they battled less than their best because they were working for a
master; but as free men each individual wanted to achieve something
for himself." This was true generally of the citizens of all Greek city-
states, from Athens' relatively new democracy to the more variegated
Spartan regime: the belief that freedom (eleutheria), the equality of
citizens, and the rule of law represented a superior way of life, and war,
to that of the non-free peoples of the East.
Herodotus' conclusion of the qualitative distinction between West and
East has been challenged, of course, by postmodern, deconstructionist
views. But it should be noted that his is hardly a deterministic,
triumphalist narrative of inevitable Greek success. Salamis, for instance,
was a damn near run thing and was very nearly not fought at all;
Themistocles' opponents made a strong case for fighting on land, for
living to fight another day, or for withdrawing entirely from Hellas.
Themistocles himself (according to Herodotus), like many other Greek
leaders, played both sides of the street. The majority of Greek cities on
the mainland on the line of the Persians' march did not resist Xerxes or
were quickly cowed. Herodotus believes in accounting for the power of
custom, not just Greek custom, when considering relations between
peoples and the limits of imperial rule. Chance, personality, and
leadership matter. But the stakes unquestionably were enormous; and
the narrative of the historic West runs through Herodotus.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War (c. 500-300 B.C.)
Credit to Nicholas Morrow, Johns Hopkins University SAIS
Sun Tzu’s The Art of War is perhaps the oldest and one of the most
widely read classics of military strategy. Published in ancient China an
estimated 2,500 years ago, it has remained “the most important military
treatise in Asia” according to the historian and translator Ralph D.
Sawyer.[1] This classic of Eastern thought draws from Taoist philosophy
and addresses the conduct of war and competition between states with
poeticism unlike any classic of Western military theory. Thought to be
the transcriptions of a general’s advice to his king, The Art of
War emphasizes the use of the unorthodox and deception to overcome
adversaries without jeopardizing the dynasty’s existence during a period
of increase lethality of warfare. Since its ancient origins, Sun Tzu’s The
Art of War has become one of the most influential documents on
statesmanship and military strategy and is a classic in the East and
West.
Origins of The Art of War
Reading The Art of War today poses unique difficulties because it is as
much a historical artifact as it is a modern strategic guideline. Originally
written in ancient Chinese, the translation of The Art of War is a source
of inquiry and debate for scholars. Since 1905 when British Royal Field
Artillery Captain E.F. Calthrop made the first English translation while a
student in Japan, successive English translations have increasingly
sought to add greater historical and philosophical context. The Art of
Warwas widely read in Asia—making its way to Japan around A.D. 516
via Korea.[2] Then in 1772 it was translated from Chinese to a European
language (French) for the first time by the French Jesuit, Jean Joseph
Marie Amiot, who came across the text in Beijing. The Art of War did not
gain its popularity in Western Europe though until Lionel Giles’ 1910
translation.
Today, there are dozens of translations. The most popular include
General Samuel B. Griffith’s classic 1963 edition published by Oxford
University Press and Ralph D. Sawyer’s 1994 edition renowned for his
research of Sun Tzu’s historical context. The number of translations can
bewilder just about any reader and the cause of their differences
represent a unique challenge. Arthur Waldron addresses the importance
of debating the value of each translations’ contributions to the study of
Sun Tzu in a Naval War College Review article of J.H. Huang’s 1993
translation. Waldron notes that, translation, “is more than a matter of
philological or semantic quibbling. It brings us to one of the fundamental
questions about Chinese ‘strategic culture.’”[3] The matter of which
translation to read is therefore not a simple question. This article will
reference the Griffith translation when citing from The Art of War but will
list other translations that have contributed to an understanding of
Chinese strategic culture in the bibliography with the objective being to
encourage readers to review multiple translations.
Yet another source of difficulty for understanding Sun Tzu’s original
intent is his yet undetermined identity and time in which he lived. There
are three major views explaining the historic origin of The Art of
War largely based on an interpretation of internal evidence and
anachronisms found in the text, according to Ralph D. Sawyer.[4] The
first is the traditionalist view that The Art of War was written c. 512 B.C.
by the historical Sun Wu, active in the last years of the Spring and
Autumn period (c. 722-481 B.C.). Second, scholars that include Samuel
Griffith place The Art of War at the middle-to-late Warring States period
(c. 481-221 B.C.), just after the Spring and Autumn period.[5] The
transition from the Spring and Autumn period to the Warring States
period is characterized by the change in warfare from a ritual engaged
in for honor to one of China’s most chaotic periods of conflict among
declining hegemons in which “war was no longer a regulated pastime,
but the ultimate instrument of statecraft,” according to
Griffith.[6] Finally a third school claims on the basis of interpretations of
the bamboo slips discovered at Yin-ch’ueh-shan in A.D. 1972 that The
Art of War was published in the last half of the fifth century
B.C.[7] Further, scholars speculate as to whether the author of The Art
of War is a General from these time periods or the work is a compilation
produced by his acolytes. As controversial as these questions are among
historians, the circumstances of Sun Tzu’s chronology are addressed to
the extent generally necessary for appreciating the originality of Sun
Tzu’s concepts by the extensive introductions and appendices of the
most popular translations.
While one does not have to be a Sinologist or scholar of Eastern
philosophy to appreciate The Art of War, a basic contextual
understanding of the time in which Sun Tzu lived is beneficial for
understanding his intent. Regardless of the view on when The Art of
War was written, the late Spring and Autumn period or early Warring
States period, Sun Tzu lived in a time of great transition in China. The
translators of the two most popular editions of The Art of War agree on
this. In The Tao of Deception, Ralph D. Sawyer writes that The Art of
War was, “composed against a backdrop of multiparty, internecine
strife.”[8] Similarly, Samuel Griffith (who places The Art of War’s origins
in the period of c. 400-320 B.C.[9]) writes that, “war had become more
ferocious” and, “when Sun Tzu appeared on the scene, the feudal
structure, in the ultimate stages of disintegration, was being replaced by
an entirely different type of society.”[10] As a sort of modern day
National Security Advisor, Sun Tzu (which translates as Master Sun)
would have been trusted to advance his king’s goals without risking the
existence of his regime among a violent, multi-state system. Today,
strategists benefit from the basic agreement among scholars that The
Art of War is the product of a respected ancient Chinese military advisor
during a time of intense competition between multi-polar warring states
that endangered their own existence through conflict.
The Art of War is sometimes called the ‘thirteen chapters’ because it
comprises thirteen major sections. Its structure and format are unique
from that of any Western classic. The chapters are presumably the
transcribed aphorisms of Sun Tzu to his king or acolytes. In terse and
enigmatic quips, the thirteen chapters span topics from statecraft to the
methods for marching an army. Their breadth, from the grand strategic
to tactical, in such a short text, lends them to expansive interpretations
that pose a challenge for most Western readers seeking to understand
Sun Tzu’s original intent. Also, as with any disputed translation, the
titles of the thirteen chapters vary from translation to translation,
further opening the text up to interpretation. Griffith and Sawyer
interpret The Art of War’s structure and evident attention to every facet
of war to show Sun Tzu’s recognition of warfare’s increase capacity for
the destruction of the state. Such a rational and wide scope on all
aspects of warfare and statecraft would not be necessary in earlier times
when war did not endanger the existence of the state. Sun Tzu’s
recognition of the changing consequences of war is evident in the first
chapter, Estimates, which begins, “war is a matter of vital importance to
the State; the province of life or death; the road to survival or
ruin.”[11] The Art of Warpresents a doctrine that emerges as the result
of the intense competition for the state’s survival and emphasizes the
use of unorthodox warfare, known as ch’i, in relation to cheng, or the
orthodox style of direct warfare commonly associated with Western
strategy.
Major Themes: Realpolitik and Deception
Sun Tzu’s emphasis on the unorthodox (also known as the indirect
approach) introduces an element of psychology in warfare that
distinguishes The Art of War from most other military classics. Henry
Kissinger, likened Chinese statesmanship’s, “tendency to view the entire
strategic landscape as part of a single whole” to Sun Tzu’s recognition
that, “everything is relevant and connected.”[12] Approaching The Art of
War with Kissinger’s framework in mind helps explain the larger
meaning of Sun Tzu’s chapters on minor topics—weather, terrain, spies,
logistics, and morale—which independently mean little. Establishing
their connected and shifting relative importance to one another is Sun
Tzu’s most important insight, according to Kissinger. Once the
interconnectedness of everything in warfare is established, success
depends on the accuracy of the strategist’s calculus weighing each
component’s relative importance and war becomes an effort to deceive
your enemies into arriving at incorrect solutions—not just a battle of the
wills as depicted by some interpretations of the Western way of war. The
Art of War’s thirteen chapters present a guideline for deceiving an
opponent in warfare on the basis of Sun Tzu’s insight—that warfare
depends on rationality.
The main characteristics of The Art of War that make it a foundational
text of realpolitik are the analytical nature and rational self-control with
which Sun Tzu advises the employment of military power. “His entire
approach to employing the army is thoroughly analytical, mandating
careful planning and the formulation of an overall strategy before
commencing the campaign,” writes Ralph D. Sawyer.[13] Sun Tzu’s
measured plan for warfare extends to control over emotions that he
states can cloud rationality to the detriment of the commander. Sawyer
explains, “haste, fear of being labeled a coward, and personal emotions
such as anger and hatred should never be permitted to adversely
influence state and command decisionmaking.”[14] In contrast, the
expectation for emotion in warfare from the classic Western military
strategist, Carl von Clausewitz’s, paradoxical trinity is that emotion is
ever present in conflict and is neither inherently positive nor
negative.[15]
The Art of War focuses on disrupting an enemy’s ability for rational
behavior using manipulation in order to create the conditions for an easy
victory and the minimal use of military force to achieve national ends.
Sun Tzu’s attention to influencing his enemy’s decisions is foundational
to his method of warfare. “What distinguishes Sun Tzu from Western
writers on strategy is the emphasis on the psychological elements over
the purely military,” wrote Henry Kissinger in On China. [16] The means
by which Sun Tzu advises this are, “deception, the creation of false
appearances to mystify and delude the enemy, the indirect approach,
ready adaptability to the enemy situation, flexible and coordinated
manoeuver of separate combat elements, and speedy concentration
against points of weakness,” according to Samuel Griffith.[17]These
themes are discussed in chapters that detail tactics and operations—the
route of the army’s march, the formation of archers, the collection of
intelligence. Each, though, are done in a manner in which to deceive and
gain a psychological advantage over the opponent.
The dual theme of deception and espionage is prevalent throughout The
Art of War. On one side, "all warfare is based on deception," said Sun
Tzu in the first chapter, Estimates.[18] The assumption is that warfare is
a constant appraisal of your enemy and success comes from capitalizing
on your enemy’s incorrect estimates. “Therefore, when capable, feign
incapacity; when active, inactivity. When near, make it appear that you
are far away; when far away, that you are near. Offer the enemy a bait
to lure him; feign disorder and strike him,” continues Sun Tzu.[19] A
key component of an estimate is the collecting of information to inform
decisions. Along these lines, Sun Tzu devotes an entire chapter to
espionage. Sun Tzu describes five types of agents used to both deceive
an enemy and collect accurate information in order to overcome your
adversary’s efforts to deceive you. Their purpose is to provide
“foreknowledge,” information about an adversary’s plans in advance,
and to conduct disinformation campaigns behind enemy lines—
operations very similar to today’s intelligence collection and covert
action operations. Sun Tzu calls these agents: “native, inside, doubled,
expendable, and living.”[20] Each type of agent has a separate purpose
and would be employed independently to vary the sources of collection
and confirm information. His advice for using espionage to a
commander’s advantage is one of the earliest and most sophisticated
treatments of the subject and shows the importance of information and
rational decision making for Sun Tzu.
The unorthodox is second major theme of The Art of War. Sun Tzu is
recognized as the progenitor of what is called ch’i, herein, and known
respectively as the indirect approach or unorthodox method by Samuel
Griffith and Ralph D. Sawyer. Ch’i is an ancient Taoist philosophical
concept with an almost mystical role in ancient Chinese history. Sawyer
defines ch’i as, “the unusual, unexpected, marvelous, strange,
heterodox, and sometimes eccentric.”[21] The pairing of these two
methods, by using for example, a direct, frontal assault to distract the
enemy from the indirect, flanking maneuver is done to keep your
opponent off balance. “He who knows the art of the direct and the
indirect approach will be victorious. Such is the art of maneuvering,”
Sun Tzu is quoted saying in The Art of War.[22] Executing ch’i is the
ultimate reason for the deception, espionage, and manipulation Sun Tzu
advises and it is done by manipulating an enemy for the purpose of
surprising and exploiting a confused enemy force. Sun Tzu describes
how to achieve this in his chapter on manoeuver, “march by an indirect
route and divert the enemy by enticing him with a bait. So doing, you
may set out after he does and arrive before him. One able to do this
understands the strategy of the direct and the indirect.”[23] Such
operations achieve the goal of tiring your enemy and forcing them to
fight on ground that is to your advantage. Here, in Sun Tzu’s example
of ch’i, he explains the purpose of deception.
The challenge of command is another major theme of The Art of War.
Sun Tzu lived during a time of heightened stakes in warfare that
necessitated the professionalization of the military and its leadership.
Effective management of the army came to be a focal point of Sun Tzu’s
advice. “The critical element is spirit, technically known as ch’i—the
essential, vital energy of life,” writes Sawyer.[24] (The Romanized
spelling and pronunciation of this word is the same as the
unorthodox/indirect approach but has a different meaning.) This spirit
will enable the troops to fight harder and depends on materiel provisions
as well as the leadership’s clarity of purpose. Command was a
combination of fear and respect. “If a general indulges his troops but is
unable to employ them; if he loves them but cannot enforce his
commands; if the troops are disorderly and he is unable to control them,
they may be compared to spoiled children, and are useless,” The Art of
War quotes Sun Tzu saying.[25] This warning and Sun Tzu’s theory of
command relates to an anecdote from his biography in the histories of
Ssu-ma Ch'ien. It is written there that when Sun Tzu came to the
attention of King of Wu, Sun Tzu said he could train the king’s
concubines to fight. He then called out the concubines and trained them
by executing the leaders when the group did not obey his
orders.[26] This story intimates the culture of command Sun Tzu
established during a time when warfare called for swift victories
delivered by fearless soldiers and a leader that emphasized the
psychology of warfare.
Influence: Historical and Modern
The Art of War is the most widely known of China’s military classics and
has had formative significance for both ancient and modern China’s
statecraft and military strategy. The idea that China, or any other
country, has a common understanding of strategy based on its collective
historical experience is known as ‘strategic culture.’ Originally introduced
with reference to the Soviet Union’s nuclear strategy by Jack L. Snyder
in a 1977 RAND report titled, The Soviet Strategic Culture: Implications
for Limited Nuclear Operations, Snyder defined strategic culture as, “the
sum total of ideas, conditioned emotional responses, and patterns of
habitual behavior that members of a national strategic community have
acquired through instruction or imitation and share with each other with
regard to nuclear strategy.”[27] Since, the concept of strategic culture
has been applied to China’s strategic literature. Strategic culture is more
broadly understood to be, “a historically imposed inertia on choice that
makes strategy less responsive to specific contingencies,” according to
Alastair Iain Johnston.[28] As a part of the canon of China’s strategic
literature, The Art of War is indisputably a part of China’s strategic
culture and understanding this ancient classic’s meaning has gained new
importance for students of China’s modern military modernization who
believe that culture has an influence over military operations.[29]
At the foundation of Chinese strategic culture is the collection of what
are often referred to as China’s seven military classics. Originally
published over a time period of an estimated 1,500 years, these classics
are comprised of: Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, Wu Qi’s Art of War,[30] T’ai
Kong's Six Secret Teachings, The Methods of the Ssu-ma, Wei
Liaozi, Three Strategies of Huang Shih-kung, and Questions and Replies
between Tang Taizong and Li Weigong. Together, they constitute the
basis for the study of the historic origins of Chinese strategic culture.
The seven military classics are recognized by China’s premier defense
university, the Academy of Military Sciences, as central to the identity of
China’s People’s Liberation Army (PLA). Thomas G. Mahnken notes in a
Lowy Institute for International Policy report he authored titled, Secrecy
and Stratagem: Understanding Chinese Strategic Culture, that, “most
Chinese military leaders believe that ancient Chinese values and
warfighting principles remain relevant today... PLA military handbooks
routinely refer to battles fought 4,000 years ago as object lessons, and
PLA leaders seek guidance from 2,500-year-old writings for modern
operations. Indeed, even today, Chinese officers freely distribute
translations of the Chinese military classics to their hosts.”[31] As
Mahnken shows here, the enduring lessons of China’s seven military
classics are still recognized by not only Western academics, but the
PLA’s own scholars of China’s strategic culture.
The Art of War is the most recognized, if not the most significant
contributor, to China’s strategic culture of the seven military classics.
The predominance of Sun Tzu’s concepts is attributed by scholars to the
founder of the People’s Republic of China, Mao Tse-tung’s adoption
of The Art of War’s concepts in his military writings. Even though there
are parallels between The Art of War and Mao’s revolutionary writings,
Johnston and Sawyer have both sought to add historical context to
China’s strategic culture, however. Griffith alludes to a false tendency to
assume that because The Art of War appears to have influenced
Maoism, that Chinese strategic culture is a monolithic continuation from
ancient times until today. In fact, Taoist philosophy, and with it Sun Tzu
and The Art of War, fell out of the favor during Confucianism and this
classic was lost until its ‘rediscovery’ by Mao Tse-Tung during the war
against China’s nationalists in the 1930s. Alastair Iain Johnston further
challenges what he writes is, “the tendency of the literature is to focus
almost exclusively on Sun Zi (an alternate spelling for Sun Tzu),
compare him with Mao, and assume that an unbroken strategic-cultural
chain links the two.”[32] Again, it would appear, that both Sawyer and
Johnston are urging readers to be aware of historical context while still
recognizing Sun Tzu’s role in influencing the ethos of the modern day
People’s Republic of China.
Western culture, with its foundation in Greek and Roman conceptions of
morality, is often stereotyped as rejecting the style of unorthodox
warfare Sun Tzu recommends. The deception it requires is viewed as
cowardly and belittles the pride exuded by direct, kinetic-intense
conflict. This traditional view of the Western way of war, though popular,
again does not present a monolith of Western strategic culture, either.
Ralph D. Sawyer points out Maurice’s Strategikon (c. B.C. 600) as an
example of a Western text that advises how to deceive your enemy.
Machiavelli, as well, is known for advocating “ruthless prosecution of
warfare and esteeming the use of deception in The Discourses and The
Prince,” writes Sawyer.[33] The debate over the morality that surrounds
these classics emphasizes the West’s disdain for the techniques of
deception they advocate, however. So, while deception has always been
a part of the Western way of warfare, long before Sun Tzu’s influence
was felt, it has a legacy few Western strategists accept. One of the
central disagreements between those that accept deception and those
that do not is over whether or not to accept Sun Tzu’s main assumption
that success in warfare depends on rationality. Assuming that war can
be rationalized through planning differs with Western expectations for
warfare found in Clausewitz’s paradoxical trinity in which war has
“dominant tendencies” to include, “violence, hatred, and enmity” that,
“always make war.”[34] Having acknowledged the inconsistency of this
oversimplified comparison above, Sun Tzu and Clausewitz represent
differing basic assumptions with respect to their expectations for
warfare and the humility of strategizing.
Today we can trace the reverberations of Sun Tzu’s concepts to the
modern fields of intelligence analysis, net assessment, decision-making
theory, and ‘soft’ national power. Recognizing the concepts of The Art of
War in the Western practice of these disciplines can improve our
practical understanding of Sun Tzu’s enigmatic writing. As an example,
Sun Tzu might say these fields all seek to, “know the enemy and know
yourself,” so that, “in a hundred battles you will never be in
peril.”[35] This aphorism remains true in modern warfare; at some
level, these disciplines all seek to understand the strategic culture of an
adversary. For some of these disciplines, the advent of “disruptive
technologies, such as the gift of flight, eventually forced a reevaluation
of theory and led to a rediscovery of sixth-century B.C. theory attributed
to Sun Tzu,” writes Mark Blomme.[36] He continues, “modern theorists
like Julian Corbett, John Boyd, John Warden, and Shimon Naveh
extended Sun Tzu’s concepts, perhaps unwittingly, such that Sun Tzu’s
theory continues to resonate within the twenty-first-century American
theory of warfare.”[37] By looking at the influence of Sun Tzu’s concepts
upon these disciplines we can also begin to see how Western culture has
addressed Sun Tzu’s concepts in its own, independent terms rather than
in the framework of a competition between realpolitik and Greco-Roman
heritage.
Among those in Western culture that Sun Tzu’s The Art of War has had
long-lasting influence is the field of espionage and intelligence. The
creation of the Central Intelligence Agency established a new era of
intelligence for which Sun Tzu’s emphasis on knowing the enemy
became a raison d'etre. Allen Dulles, Director of the Central Intelligence
Agency from 1953-1961, compared the pragmatism of Sun Tzu’s
emphasis on what Sun Tzu calls “foreknowledge” and intelligence
gathering to early attempts at gaining advance warning from oracles
and astrologers in the first chapter of his book, The Craft of Intelligence.
“But in the craft of intelligence the East was ahead of the West in 400
B.C. Rejecting the oracles and the seers, who may well have played an
important role in still epochs of Chinese history, Sun Tzu takes a more
practical view,” wrote Dulles. [38] He continues, “To Sun Tzu belongs
the credit not only for this remarkable analysis of the ways of espionage
but also for the first written recommendations regarding an organized
intelligence service… He comments on counterintelligence, on
psychological warfare, on deception, on security, on fabricators, in
short, on the whole craft of intelligence.”[39] Dulles’ regard for Sun Tzu,
whose analytical approach to war and treatment of covert action, is
reflected in the guiding principles of what has now become the U.S.
intelligence community.
Conclusion
As the most recognized of China’s military classics and the earliest
proponent of the unorthodox in military strategy, The Art of War is a
classic in the East and West. This ancient document with convoluted
origins and enigmatic advice has become a guide for modern strategists
seeking an unorthodox approach to the existential consequences of
conflict today. Sun Tzu’s increase lethality of warfare harbored the risk
of existential threat to the state only more present today given the
mechanization of warfare and advent of nuclear weapons. B.H. Liddell
Hart, a modern proponent of the unorthodox, assures readers that Sun
Tzu remains relevant today even given advances in warfare’s
mechanization and the collapse of countries witnessed during his
lifetime in the world wars. He extolls The Art of War as, “the best short
introduction to the study of warfare, and no less valuable for constant
reference in extending study of the subject.”[40] Written over 2,500
years ago, The Art of Warprovides a unique insight into war today.
Plato, Laches (Fourth Century BC)
Credit to Stephen Sims, Baylor University
Plato (428-348 BC) hardly needs an introduction. The student of
Socrates and the teacher of Aristotle, Plato stands at the origin of the
philosophic tradition of the Western world. It is not surprising then that
we turn to him as a perennial source of insight and wonder concerning
the human condition.
About Plato’s life, biographical details are sparse. His father was Ariston,
who was reputed to be a descendant of early Athenian kings. His
brothers were Adeimantus and Glaucon, both of whom appear in Plato’s
most famous work, the Republic. War and philosophy were two
determinative events in Plato’s life. Plato’s encounter with Socrates
determined his life of study and reflection that gave rise to his dialogues
that cemented his reputation as one of the greatest, if perhaps also the
most perplexing of Western philosophic minds. But another event that
informed his reflections about life was the Peloponnesian War. Plato was
born during the fourth year of that war, which lasted in Thucydides’
estimation twenty-seven years. Thucydides called it a war like no other
war, and it no doubt revealed the vagaries of human nature, and also
the vagaries of the city itself, Athens.
One might wonder what someone as supposedly “abstract” or
“metaphysical” as Plato could offer by way of strategic insight. Why
should practical men, not philosophers, read Plato? Although one could
point to a number of examples showing both the speculative and
practical worth of the Platonic corpus, the Laches stands out for two
reasons. The first is that it is a dialogue on courage, or more literally
“manliness,” which seems a quality above all necessary for the
successful conduct of warfare.
The second is that Socrates’ main interlocutors in the dialogue are two
famous Athenian generals, Laches and Nicias. The dialogue is about,
among other things, the intellectual commitments each man had about
courage. Since Plato knew of the deaths of these generals in battle at
the time he wrote the dialogue—each made mistakes and paid for them
with their lives—the dialogue implicitly reflects on the practical
consequences of that commitment, and the qualities that make up the
good general, understood as the man who does not lose battles. Thus it
is about strategy.
Socrates approaches the question of strategy and the good general by
asking questions about courage and the education of young men. The
more fundamental questions of education of the youth and genuinely
confusing nature of courage have implications then for the art of
generalship. In looking at a brief synopsis of the dialogue, we can see
some of those implications.
The Argument of Laches
The Laches is of interest to us primarily because it has to do with the art
of generalship and the moral virtue of courage, the necessary quality of
any good soldier. But the dialogue begins with a discussion of education
for young men; indeed the dialogue is unique in that it opens with a
very long monologue by the undistinguished (by his own
admission)Lysimachus, the son of the famous Aristides. He is
accompanied by the quiet Melesias, who is the son of the famous
Thucydides (not the historian). Both blame their fathers for not
educating them; they were so busy with the affairs of the city and its
allies that they took no time to educate their sons. Lysimachus and
Melesias wish to avoid this with respect to their own sons, and thus
come to the Athenian generals, Laches and Nicias, to ask them about
education. Specifically, they wish to know whether a young man should
learn to fight with shields[1] or not, and whether that would make their
sons the best of men. Laches suggests that they should speak to
Socrates instead, but Socrates demurs and asks Laches and Nicias to
give their own thoughts about shield fighting.
Nicias argues that shield fighting is particularly suited to a free citizen,
since freedom depends on the capacity to make war. He reasons that it
could be useful and advantageous for one who is fighting both within
and without a phalanx, and whether one wishes to pursue and attack an
enemy or defend against an attack. Because pursuit is of dubious aid in
hoplite warfare (for example, in the battle of Mantinea, in which Laches
lost his life, the Athenian right wing pursued the Spartan left, which left
the center exposed and led to Athenian defeat), it is likely that from
Nicias’ point of view, shield fighting is actually best used for personal
safety, especially when one is separated from the phalanx. When a
hoplite is within the phalanx, a shared shield-wall protects all the men;
it would seem that a particular art of fighting with the shield would be
more useful for someone who is outside the phalanx. But whether shield
fighting is meant to be practiced primarily within or without the phalanx,
it seems that for Nicias, knowledge that minimizes personal risk in the
battle for civic freedom is ipso facto desirable.
Laches, on the other hand, ridicules the notion of shield fighting. It is
worse than useless in his opinion, for it stands in the way of developing
real manliness. His evidence is that the teachers of shield fighting do not
go to Sparta, where, if they taught a really worthwhile skill in the
service of manliness, teachers above all would be welcome. The
implication is that the teachers are fraudulent, seeking to trick
Athenians who are naïve about real manliness. He then reports that he
saw one of the teachers, Stesilaus, make a fool of himself during a naval
battle. Stesilaus got his unique “sickle spear” tangled up in the rigging
of the enemy ship (causing laughter from both friend and foe), and then
dropped it when a stone was thrown at his feet—hardly an exemplar of
manliness. Laches prefers Spartan endurance and toughness to the
showboating of the “shield fighters.” He then tells Lysimachus to ask
Socrates’ opinion.
Socrates reveals that two experts on the worth of shield fighting—
generals—disagree on its aid in inculcating virtue in young men. He then
steers the conversation toward the question of what sort of teacher is
able to put the souls of the young men in a good condition. Thus rather
than focusing on shield fighting as such and whether it leads to
manliness, we should ask about manliness itself. Nicias is more reluctant
than Laches, because he has “suffered” Socrates’ questioning previously
and knows that it results in a kind of self-knowledge that can be
unpleasant. Laches has a different experience of Socrates, for they
fought together in the Athenian army. Because he has experienced
Socrates’ courage in battle, he is willing to be questioned by the
philosopher.
As Socrates questions Laches, we see an unfolding of the encounter
familiar to readers of Plato’s dialogues. Socrates asks the general what
manliness is, and the general proposes two definitions. Each of these is
found lacking in some way. He first claims that the manliness is holding
a position in battle rather than running away. Socrates counters that
this does not hold in the case of cavalry. For the Scythians fight both by
advancing and fleeing, but never by standing still. Laches persists and
says that he is presuming a hoplite battle, but Socrates again counters
and gives the example of the Spartan “flight” at the battle of
Plataea.[2] Laches realizes that his view of manliness is too narrow.
Socrates then asks Laches about the manliness that covers the Spartan
tactical retreat, the steadfast hoplite, the mobile Scythian, and indeed
all walks of life such as illness, poverty, and bad weather. Laches
suggests in response that this form of manliness is endurance of the
soul. Socrates praises this definition, but questions Laches further about
what he really means, for Socrates knows that Laches holds that
manliness is among the noblest things for human beings. Noble things
lead to human goods. But Socrates is able to lead Laches to the
conclusion that foolish endurance of evils can hardly be noble—true
noble endurance, true manliness, must be accompanied by prudence.
Thus, prudent endurance seems to be the meaning of manliness. But
then Socrates asks whether we can attribute courage to a prudent
spender of money or a prudent doctor. Laches says no. He believes that
the risk in battle, of possibly losing life, is an essential part of true
manliness and wherein it derives its nobility. He does not want
manliness to be simply useful for calculating how to achieve a further
end.
Socrates then invites Nicias to take part in the conversation. Nicias
thinks that a good man possesses wisdom, and thus holds that true
manliness must involve wisdom. Nicias does not object to Socrates’
formulation that courage is wisdom. Socrates then points out one who
possesses wisdom about the lyre is not necessarily courageous. Nicias
then says that manliness is not all knowledge, but of what is to be
feared and what is to be hoped for in war. Laches finds this suggestion
distasteful, and ridicules Nicias, for the possession of knowledge
removes the risk he associates with courage. Socrates and Laches both
question Nicias extensively about the character of the courageous man’s
knowledge, and Nicias persistently shifts his position and words to avoid
admitting his failing to say what courage is. Finally, since he maintains
that courage is knowing what is to be feared and hoped for, and
therefore knowing future goods and evils, he admits that the knowledge
required by courage must belong to a soothsayer.
While Laches tried to distinguish manliness from knowledge in order to
preserve the risk and uncertainty from which it derives its nobility,
Nicias tries to eliminate risk through knowledge of the future. He wishes
to do away with the unknown in human life, the unknown that requires
a kind of endurance and a hope for good things. Hence Laches’
vituperative responses to Nicias, which seem over the top for two men
who should at least share a professional friendship. Socrates appears in
the end to support Laches when he argues against Nicias that perfect
knowledge of future good and evil belongs to the whole of virtue,
whereas they were looking only for a part of it, courage.
Although we might be wary of Laches’ annoyance at Nicias’ opinions in
the conversation, Laches explains his frustration: Nicias does not
possess prudence (phronesis), but only contempt (kataphronesis) for
those who appear ignorant. Nicias disdains the risk taken by the man
who possesses manliness as Laches understands it. Indeed, Nicias is the
very picture of unmanliness, risking, enduring, hoping for nothing
because he thinks he can know the future by means of soothsaying.
Thus, although the dialogue is often described by commentators as
failing to define courage, it is not simply inconclusive. Laches
understands that neither he nor Nicias (perhaps especially not Nicias)
are fit to educate young men toward becoming good. He does
recommend Socrates to Lysimachus, doubtless because Laches
recognizes something worthwhile in his encounter with the philosopher:
his own ignorance. Plato, after all, named the dialogue after Laches
rather than Nicias.
Socrates’ encounter with the Athenian generals acquires greater
meaning when we consider how each general met his end during the
war, something that would have been known to Plato when he wrote the
dialogue. Laches, as noted above, was killed at the battle of Mantinea.
Before the battle, he, with his coalition of Argives and Athenians,
successfully drove off the Spartans under the command of Agis II while
in possession of higher ground. He initially refused to follow the fleeing
Spartan onto unfavorable ground, but his men accused him of lacking
manliness and being afraid of the Spartans. Perhaps ashamed by the
accusation, he led his men into a battle in which the Spartans bested
the Athenians. Thucydides the historian states that in the battle the
Spartans showed themselves superior in manliness, and restored the
reputation for fighting prowess that they lost after the debacle of
Sphacteria, where three hundred Spartans surrendered to light-armed
Athenians. Laches thinks of manliness in terms of endurance and risk-
taking, but there is little room in his account for prudence – he chooses
the nobility of risk over the more certain, and cautious, path to victory.
Likewise, Nicias’ death after the unsuccessful invasion of Sicily also
reflects his intellectual commitment to possessing perfect knowledge
before acting. Thucydides makes it clear that during the Athenian
withdrawal from Syracuse, Nicias was overcome with fear of death. He
feared both death at the hands of the Syracusans, but also feared what
his fellow citizens might do to him if he returned to Athens. Caught
between two nasty alternatives, he put his faith in soothsayers, who told
him to do nothing. So he did nothing, and his army was slaughtered
while he endured an ignominious death. An unwillingness to take a risk,
especially when there seemed to be no personally profitable outcome,
led to paralysis that led, ultimately, to the defeat of Athens, a defeat
from which the city never recovered. Thus Nicias puts himself at risk
because he was afraid, and Laches does so out of boldness.
Conclusion
The twin fates of Laches and Nicias provide a sober reflection on the
import of Socrates’ encounter with the generals and the meaning of the
art of the general. The general must be able to take risks and act on
imperfect knowledge. Socrates attempts to make Nicias see this when
he points out that the general is supposed to command the soothsayer,
not the soothsayer the general. We cannot have the perfect knowledge
that a soothsayer is supposed to provide. Strategy and generalship, as
practical forms of reasoning, are in fact uncertain and not precise.
Socrates is pointing out that in the greatest of human acts, such as
preserving the safety of the city through victory in war, we are reliant
on probability and chances that we hope go our way. Other than that,
we use what little knowledge we have and endure through the rest.
Laches promptly agrees with the Socratic ordering of the general and
the soothsayer. But of course, he tends to separate reasoning too much
from the endurance and risk of manliness, as seen by the circumstances
of his death. Nicias, on the other hand, as we know from his death was
beholden to soothsayers, afraid to take action without them.
What does all this matter to us? It is not as if we rely on soothsayers
before we go to war. But one might note that there is a tendency,
especially in advanced liberal democracies, to reduce risk and make
safety more certain. This makes sense in a society based on the fear of
violent death, or even one that seeks security for the sake of
comfortable living. Even in that realm of traditional manliness,
soldiering, one might see a preference for drone strikes over manned
missions, a preference for air war over land combat, and in general the
desire to “stay alive” rather than to achieve honor. Of course, these
preferences do not totally excise the need for traditional manliness.
Although continued reliance on technology may deprive the human
beings that make up a liberal military of the manliness necessary for
warfare, at some point soldiers will need to come to grips with the
enemy, and so far soldiers from advanced liberal societies have proven
themselves capable of risking and enduring. It is an open question as to
whether this occurs despite or because of the liberal character of the
societies from which they come.
But it is not only a desire for safety that impedes successful soldiering. A
far more dangerous and problematic desire, seen again in advanced
liberal societies, is a quest for certainty in political life, including
diplomatic-strategic conduct. If Nicias’s fearfulness is contemptible, it is
understandable. His foray into soothsaying, seeking perfect knowledge,
is paradoxically irrational, that is a true forsaking of reason. But a
political science, especially a science of international relations, that
claims predictive power is not far from the shamans that clouded Nicias’
judgment. This was the reason for Morgenthau’s distrust of liberal
foreign policies that put more weight on science than on the virtue of
prudence. If technology threatens to soften a liberal military, technique
threatens its mental capacity. In Socrates’ terms, we run the risk
(without nobility or honor) of placing the soothsayer above the general.
Bhagavad Gita (3rd Century BC- 3rd
Century AD)
“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.” So J. Robert
Oppenheimer, the scientific director of the Los Alamos Laboratory during
World War II, said he had reflected while witnessing the detonation of
the first atomic device in July 1845. The source of this inspiration, or
despair, was the Hindu scriptural epic, the Bhagavad Gita. (On another
occasion, Oppenheimer claimed to have recalled another passage: “If
the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that
would be like the splendor of the mighty one . . .”)
Great works of literature, including religious literature, often have a
major influence on the strategic culture and outlook of civilizations and
nations. The Bible and Homer are certainly prime exhibits. Yet such
literature does not always generate a single strand of thought about war
and peace, but often competing strands, or ideas that metamorphose
under different circumstances. In a New York Review of Books essay,
Wendy Doniger asks: How did Indian tradition transform the Bhagavad
Gita (the “Song of God”) into a bible for pacifism, when it began life,
sometime between the third century BC and the third century CE, as an
epic argument persuading a warrior to engage in a battle, indeed, a
particularly brutal, lawless, internecine war? Doniger uses Richard H.
Davis’ new book Bhagavad Gita: A Biography, to explore this question.
As described Doniger in the New York Review of Books, “the Gita (as it
is generally known to its friends) occupies eighteen chapters of book 6
of the Mahabharata, an immense (over 100,000 couplets) Sanskrit epic.
The text is in the form of a conversation between the warrior Arjuna,
who, on the eve of an apocalyptic battle, hesitates to kill his friends and
family on the other side, and the incarnate god Krishna, who acts as
Arjuna’s charioteer (a low-status job roughly equivalent to a bodyguard)
and persuades him to do it.”
For Doniger, the insights contained in the Gita can be, and have been,
read in contradictory fashion: whether the superior life is that of
engagement with the world (the warrior), or disengagement (the
philosopher, to use her term). She argues that the Gita’s theology binds
the two points of view in an uneasy tension that has persisted through
the centuries, with which the Nationalists (and later the BJP of current
Indian Prime Minister Modi) and Gandhi have tried to come to grips.
These are deep waters, indeed. Churchill remarked that "a man
must nail his life to a cross either of thought or of action." Perhaps this
tension, creative or not, is exemplified in the modern, or post-modern
West by Oppenheimer, the philosopher-scientist who is also the
potential destroyer of worlds. Modern science, in its own way, has a
foot in both camps: it contemplates nature in order to learn its secrets
but also (according to Bacon) tortures natures in order to control it --
or, we might say, hope to control it.

Julius Caesar Commentarii de bello Gallico

(mid-1st Century BC)
Credit to Stephen Sims, Baylor University
Great generals and statesmen are not always
eminent men of letters, but the founder of
monarchical Rome was such a man. He is so well
regarded as a writer that for a time he was
probably more known as a master of Latin prose,
rather than the man who reshaped Western
Civilization. Gaius Julius Caesar (100-44 BC),
perhaps the most famous Roman of them all, was
born a patrician. He rose to power by keenness of
intellect as well as a healthy dose of democratic
sympathies that made him one of the most popular politicians in Rome.
Supposedly descended from Aeneas and Venus, as well as nephew to
Gaius Marius, he did not lack an illustrious family. During Sulla’s
ascendancy Caesar took the opportunity to gain military experience in
Asia Minor, where he showed himself to be a conscientious officer.
Caesar, like many Roman statesmen, used his military prowess and
experience to his political advantage throughout his life, achieving the
consulship in 59 BC. After his consulship he was chosen to be governor
of Cisalpine Gaul, Illyricum, and Transalpine Gaul. Such extensive
political responsibilities came with the command initially of four legions,
probably between 15,000 and 20,000 heavy infantry.
Caesar’s Commentarii de bello Gallico tells the story of how he used
them.
Roman-Gallic relations had been strained, to say the least, ever since
the Gauls sacked Rome in 390 B.C. The Gauls, or Celts, were a massive
race that extended across Europe venturing at one point as far as Asia
Minor. For the early Romans, Gallic tribes living in northern Italy were a
fact of life. Before Rome could drive the Gauls from Italy, it had to
develop a more effective military and deal with other strategic threats to
the south, especially the Etruscans and the Samnite. After the victory
over the Samnites, Rome turned its attention to the north, finally
pushing the Gauls out of the Po Valley and then the rest of Italy.
Eventually, the lands on either side of the Alps, Cisalpine Gaul and
Transalpine Gaul, became incorporated into Roman territories. When
Caesar famously begins his book by dividing Gaul into three parts, he is
dividing what was left of traditionally Gallic territory not actually part of
the by now well-established Roman Empire. Caesar, following previous
Roman practice, used the political disunity of the Gauls as a way of
inserting Roman power into Gallic politics.Some tribes were formal allies
of the Romans, others were clients, and still others were autonomous or
actively hostile. The alignments could shift, especially due to frequent
intra- and inter-tribal conflicts, into which Rome was inevitably drawn.
There was also the danger of a major uprising of the tribes against
Roman authority, especially if Rome failed to manage tribal politics
successfully, or suffered a major military defeat and seemed to be losing
its grip on the Gallic lands. For Caesar, the challenges and dangers of
command in Gaul offered a splendid opportunity to redeem the large
debts he had incurred during his political career and to achieve military
glory by pacifying Gaul once and for all – and to position himself for the
political battle for power and personal survival in Rome that would occur
once his governorship ended.
Although the Romans probably no longer feared Gallic power at Caesar’s
time as much as they had in the past, the fear of the Germans – tribal
peoples on the far side of the Rhine – was very real and current. Indeed,
Caesar’s uncle Marius was referred to as the third founder of Rome
(according to Plutarch) after Romulus and Camillus. And while Romulus
was the man who first built Roman walls, Camillus was the man who
drove the Gauls out of Rome after they had sacked it. Confronting and
defeating the Gauls and the Germans was thus constitutive of the
Roman character. Caesar took this Roman character to new lengths with
the final defeat and incorporation of the Gallic tribes and the creation of
a firm boundary between Germanic and Roman territory.
There is some disagreement as to the character of De bello Gallico.
Consisting of seven books by Caesar himself, it is completed in an
eighth book by one of his generals, Aulus Hirtius. It has been suggested
that they are something like battle-reports given to the Senate. Others
have claimed that the books are nothing other than Caesar’s attempt to
increase his popularity with the people. Either way, the collection is
almost universally regarded as a propaganda piece, rather than an
honest and factual account of the pacification of Gaul. I will take up this
interpretation of the work later—a brief summary of De bello
Gallico reveals the problematic character of “politically motivated”
interpretation. I will spend more time laying out the events of Book I to
reveal the complex nature of Caesar’s writing and his thoughts in
politics.
The Structure of the Gallic War
Caesar begins Book I by discussing the origins of his labors in Gaul,
namely the migration of the Helvetii, a confederation of Gallic tribes that
lived on the Swiss plateau. Caesar’s style is laconic, but he does not
spare details about why the Helvetii came to blows with Rome. They
were famous for their courage (fortissimi) and glory in war, and so
excelled in the military arts that they kept even the ferocious Germans
at bay. The defensible nature of their territory was an aid in their
success against the Germans. So easy was the defense that the Helvetii
“felt much sorrow, for they were men who lusted for war.” It was not
hard for a nobleman of the Helvetii, Orgetorix, to persuade his people to
raze their cities and migrate into Gaul and compete for leadership there
(continual pressure from the German tribes undoubtedly contributed to
this decision).
Caesar regarded the Helvetii as fortissimi, and it is worth considering
why. As Caesar tells it, their struggle against the Germans had much to
do with the need for the martial virtues. But the Helvetii were also the
farthest away from “culture” (cultu)[1]and “humanity” (humanitate)[2],
as well as receiving only the rare visit from merchants, thus limiting
their exposure to “those thing which make the soul soft (effeminandos
animos).”[3] Later in his work, Caesar again will link this commerce and
“humanity” to a decline in the fighting abilities of most Gauls. Caesar
thus identifies civilization and prosperity as causes of the incapacity for
political independence and ruling over others. Making this connection is
not unique to Caesar, but as a Roman he had the benefit of being a
citizen in a civilized polity that was remarkably prosperous—De bello
Gallico is a product of cultus and humanitatatis. Likewise Roman
soldiers, although perhaps not as well-educated as Caesar, were men
who had lived in the conditions expressly avoided by the Helvetii for fear
of losing their endurance and becoming soft. Romans, Germans, and
Gauls could be described as civilized, barbaric, and semi-civilized. The
question is how can the fully civilized not be susceptible to the vices of
the semi-civilized, the Gauls? The implicit answer is that enjoying the
benefits of civilization is not the same thing as carrying the weight of
civilization against those who wish to plunder and destroy it.
Furthermore, the fact of enjoying prosperity in a mercantile setting and
the fruits of a relatively peaceful existence does not automatically make
a people incapable of achieving virtue. Possession of virtue is due to
human choice, and does not automatically flow from rustic living.
Caesar himself does not show up in Book I until seven paragraphs in,
after he has set up the wars in Gaul as a clash between the semi-
civilized and the barbaric. Concerned by a migration of peoples
overrunning the territory of allied Gallic tribes, Caesar takes his one
legion on hand and constructs a nineteen-mile fence to slow the Helvetii
down. Refusing to give the ambassadors of Helvetii a definitive answer,
he delays until he has enough forces to decide the issue.
Before Caesar has a chance to meet the Helvetii in battle, delicate
diplomacy is in order to sort out why his allies are not supplying his men
with grain. This episode reveals the difficulties as well as the
opportunities faced by Rome in the conquest of Gaul. Two brothers,
Dumnorix and Diviticacus of the Aedui, a tribe allied with Rome, were at
odds, though not openly, over what Aedui policy toward Rome should
be. Divitiacus, a druid and thus a man of great authority, wished for the
tribe to remain loyal to Rome and in general seems to have done his
best to serve Rome well as an ally. It is worth noting that the Aedui
were in a position of some authority over other tribes, and ruled many
different clans, due to the influence of Rome in Gallic affairs. Divitiacus
seems to have been aware that the Aedui owed much to the Romans,
and tried to live up to that debt. His brother, however, was aware that
Roman generosity had put him in a position of power over the Aedui. He
used that knowledge to his own benefit, cultivating loyalty toward
himself through gift-giving and marriage alliances. Dumnorix had
convinced some of his fellow Aedui to delay the Roman grain supply.
Later, he caused the Helvetii to win a minor cavalry skirmish.
Caesar, careful not to offend Diviaticus and the Gauls by punishing
Dumnorix, places the recalcitrant Gaul under surveillance. Knowing who
was responsible for causing his men hardship but prudently refusing to
do much about it reveals the difficulty with which Caesar will grapple
throughout the rest of his conquest of Gaul. The first part of the
difficulty is that, as noted above, the Gallic tribes, let alone the whole of
Gaul, were not monolithic political communities—indeed it is not clear
that it would be appropriate to call them “political” at all. They were
more like extended families, and subject to the disputes, blurred lines of
authority, and factions that often plague extended families. This meant
that although there were many Gallic allies, the disposition of these
allies to Rome was an extremely changeable thing, depending on who
happened to be ruling and in what capacity he ruled. The strategic
situation in Gaul was unstable at best, and required much in the way of
personal diplomacy and relationships between Caesar and the leading
men of Gaul.
The second difficulty has to do with the intersection of strategy and
moral responsibility. Caesar is notable for his generally merciful and
clement behavior. He was no Sulla or Marius—his “nature” was inclined
toward mercy, according to Hirtius. But being benefited by a Roman was
a short step removed from slavery, as far as many Gauls were
concerned. Dumnorix revealed that personal connections forged by
generosity and gratitude, the weapons of Caesar, could be used against
him. This personal aspect of Gallic politics, reflected by Caesar’s policy
of mercy rather than cruelty, laid the groundwork for instability and
chaos over the next decade, but ultimately led to victory and the
complete pacification of Gaul. Patience and the long view are necessary
for Caesar-style conquest.
Defeating the Helvetii in battle, Caesar turns his attention to a major
tribal rival of the Aedui, the Sequani. The Sequani, also allies of Rome,
had recently defeated the Aedui in battle but had done so by enlisting
the aid of Germans from across the Rhine. Led by their king Ariovistus,
the Germans had upset the balance of power between the Aedui and the
Sequani, securing the victory for the Sequani. Ariovistus, like the Aedui
and Sequani, was yet another ally to Rome. But after participating in the
Gallic dispute, he rewarded himself and his German troops with a sizable
portion of Sequani territory. This was not tolerable turn of events for
either the Gauls or the Romans, and so Caesar moved against
Ariovistus, no small task. Indeed, Caesar’s men nearly mutiny over the
prospect of fighting the Germans, who had near a mythical reputation
for fighting prowess. He shames them into battle by holding up the
famed Tenth Legion as superior to the rest in virtue.
Caesar tells us that he was determined to expel the Germans for two
reasons. The first is that the subjection of the Aedui and Sequanito
foreign rule was an affront to honor of the Roman people. We see that
as far as Caesar was concerned, allies must be treated almost like
Romans themselves. The word and honor of Rome must mean
something, and peoples must be persuaded of the worth of aligning
themselves with Rome rather than some other power. The other reason
was a fear of Germans crossing over the Rhine too easily. The Rhine
remained a kind of unofficial border between Roman imperium and the
barbarism outside it, although both Germans and Romans would cross it
from time to time, keeping the other on its toes. German invasion is a
specter throughout Caesar’s writings. Caesar defeats Ariovistus, striking
fear in the German world.
In Book II he turns his attention toward the Belgae, a large
confederation of tribes living in northern Gaul between the English
Channel and the west bank of the Rhine. Caesar is responding to
aggression by the Belgae against a Roman ally and by their reported
formation of a large anti-Roman coalition. Caesar reports that the
causes of the coalition were a mixture of fear of Roman domination
along with a desire for power. He also notes that there were those who
possessed “mobile and light souls” and yearned for novelty[4] in the
Gallic political situation. The causes of this alliance opposed to Rome
were both rational and irrational—some people simply like the chaos of
war and the change it brings to the status quo. Caesar marches very
quickly toward the Belgic peoples with his characteristic speed,
detaching the Remi tribe from the other Belgic peoples and adding them
as allies. Defeating and then sparing the Bellovaci, Caesar moves on to
confront the Nervii, a tribe that refused to drink wine for fear that it
would dampen their ability to wage war. Weathering a surprise attack by
the Nervii and their allies, Caesar again displays his mercy by forgiving
the much weakened tribe. The conquest of the Belgic peoples boosts
Caesar’s fame in the area. Even the Germans across the Rhine
voluntarily give him political hostages, securing their future obedience to
Rome.
In Book III Caesar and his troops are under attack once again by the
temperamental Gallic tribes. Fortunately, the local commander is more
than up to the task of quelling the Gallic temper. But the Veneti, a
seafaring Gallic tribe from northeastern Gaul, soon revolt as well. They
announced their revolt by detaining two Roman envoys, a breach of
the ius gentium. Caesar observes that although the Gauls in particular
desire “new things,” it is the case that “all men long for freedom by
nature and despise the condition of servitude,” a rare general
observation that he makes in conjunction with the Veneti. Caesar notes
that the human desire for freedom is similar to yet distinct from the
Gallic desire for “new things.” Both are connected to injustice and
breaking the laws of war and the ius gentium. After suffering some
initial setbacks, Caesar defeats the Veneti and executes the leading men
while selling the rest of the people into slavery for breaking diplomatic
custom. Harshness, for Caesar, must serve a very specific purpose and
should always be attached to justice, especially when combating human
nature itself, which has an indiscriminate yearning for liberty from rule,
including the rule of law.
Book IV deals with the Suebi, some of the most fearsome Germans. It is
here that Caesar first mentions the German custom of devastating the
land around their villages to prevent unfriendly neighbors from settling
near them. The Suebi are particularly good at keeping other tribes at a
distance, to the point of pushing some of the weaker Germans over the
Rhine into Gaul. Caesar’s men, apparently no longer afraid of supposed
German prowess, easily defeat their opponents. Caesar, in a gesture of
Roman superiority and fearlessness, constructs a bridge and crosses the
Rhine. He spends enough time there to intimidate the Germans into
respecting the Rhine as a kind of informal boundary between the Roman
and Germanic worlds. In this incursion,Caesar does not actually confront
the Suebi, but forces them to withdraw from their settlements and
prepare for battle. More importantly, he proves the ability of Rome to
project power even into areas not under the Roman imperium. Caesar
continues to show Roman power by crossing the English Channel and
briefly invading Britain. Although this invasion had few permanent
results in terms of material benefits for Rome, his arrival there made it
clear that the Britons were not to deal with the Gauls independently.
Gaul was under Roman control, which meant the Britons had to deal
with the Romans on Roman terms.
Caesar continues his Britannic affairs in Book V and once again deals
with the intransigent Gauls. Although the Britons initially all band
together to face the common threat of the Romans, slowly but surely
various Briton tribes end up allying themselves to Rome, much as
happened in Gaul. After returning to northern Gaul to winter there, a
shortage of food forces Caesar to scatter his troops all over Gaul. This
invites the Eburones, a rebellious Belgic tribe led by the ambitious
Ambiorix, to attack the Romans encamped near them, presumably
because the Romans were taking a large portion of scarce food.
Ambiorix parleys with the Roman commanders, Cotta and Sabinus, and
lies, saying the whole of Gaul is in rebellion when it is not, and tells
them that their best hope for safety is in marching out and linking up
with other Roman garrisons. The Romans believe him and are
subsequently ambushed and destroyed by the Eburones. Ambiorix, with
new Belgic allies, attempts to repeat the ruse, this time with Quintus
Tullius Cicero, brother of the more famous Marcus. Cicero refuses to
follow Ambiorix’s “advice” and resists while secretly sending word to
Caesar. Despite having only a handful of men relative to the Belgic
coalition, Caesar is able to defeat them and relieve Cicero. It is here that
Caesar recounts the story of Pullo and Vorenus, two centurions and “real
men” (viri, as distinct from the more common homines) who wished to
be the most preeminent of all the Romans. This brief vignette reveals
that Roman success in battle was not due to superior tactics and
techniques, but with a kind of concern for virtue. Competing with each
other in virtue, each centurion saves the other's lives. Meanwhile,
Caesar’s resourceful general Labienus deals with a rebellion of the
Treveri facing him by having his cavalry assassinate their leader,
Indutiomarus.
Book VI begins with Caesar replacing his lost men by holding a levy in
Gaul. The Treveri, who were giving sanctuary to Ambiorix, sought
revenge for the death of Indutiomarus by organizing another anti-
Roman coalition. Devastating great swathes of territory in response to
the coalition and the treachery of Ambiorix, Caesar attempts—for a
great deal of time—to catch the Belgian rebel. It is also in Book VI that
Caesar gives a long consideration of Gallic and Germanic customs,
paying particular attention to the differences in how property was held
and religious customs. The books ends with Caesar ravaging the land of
the Eburones, avenging the deaths of Cotta and Sabinus.
Book VII tells the perhaps the most famous story of Caesar in Gaul: the
rising of the whole of Gaul under the leadership of Vercingetorix and the
siege of Alesia. There is little doubt that Vercingetorix is Caesar’s
greatest challenge in De bello Gallico. He avoids direct confrontation
with Caesar, quite aware that Gauls have difficulty fighting pitched
battles against the Roman heavy infantry. He instead tells the Gauls
that they must destroy their own villages and burn their own crops to
deny forage and shelter to the Romans. When the Romans besiege
Avaricum (the inhabitants having refused to take Vercingetorix’s advice)
the Gallic general picks off Caesar’s foraging parties and keeps the
Romans on the brink of starvation, while also working to detach the
longtime Roman allies, the Aedui, from Caesar. Avaricum falls to the
Romans as Vercingetorix predicted, but he then defeats Caesar at the
town of Gergovia. When Vercingetorix retires to Alesia, Caesar
constructs a circumvallation, and when Gallic reinforcements arrive, a
contravallation. The combined attacks of the besieged Gauls and the
relieving Gauls against the Romans comes close to success. Caesar
personally leads reserves and prevents a Gallic breakout. This leads to
the surrender of Vercingetorix.
Aulus Hirtius added Book VIII as a way of keeping the narrative unity of
Caesar’s life intact—he notes that he can now add a part to Caesar’s
work with the added benefit of Caesar being dead. The whole of Gaul is
subdued by Caesar’s labor, no doubt because the rising of Vercingetorix
had involved nearly the whole of Gaul, and the tribes were exhausted
from the perpetual turmoil that engulfed Gaul over the last decade.
Nonetheless, Caesar takes no chances and proceeds to march against
the tribes best organized to mount resistance to Roman occupation, the
Bituriges. After driving them from their homeland, Caesar offers his, by
now familiar, clement friendship to the Bituriges. They, along with many
other minor tribes in the area, promptly accept. The only major
challenge left comes from the famed Bellovaci, who had not taken part
in Vercingetorix’s general rising because they wished to defeat the
Roman on their own. After a prolonged campaign in which the Bellovaci
commander kept Caesar guessing at his intentions and used guerilla-
style tactics rather than a pitched battle, Caesar learns from an
interrogation where the Bellovaci commander would be, and has him
ambushed. Caesar’s lieutenants are meanwhile doing their own part in
mopping up the last of Gallic resistance, with his most trusted
subordinate Labienus punishing the Treveri for their role in the general
rising. The final episode Hirtius relates to us regarding the pacification of
Gaul is the obstinate village of Uxellodunum, a holdout against Roman
authority. The numbers within the village are not dangerous, but rather
what the resistance signifies—that Gaul had not fully accepted the
reality of Roman imperium. After Caesar cuts off the water supply, the
village capitulates. Caesar marks the conclusion of his Gallic campaigns
by an act of uncharacteristic cruelty. Unlike his normal practice of selling
captives into slavery, he sets them free after cutting off the hands of all
the villagers who had borne arms against him, to signify that they were
free men who could never bear arms against Rome again. Judging Gaul
to be sufficiently pacified, Caesar makes his way to the Rubicon and the
future civil war.
Themes
And indeed Gaul was pacified, accepting Roman rule from then on with
only the rare revolt. It is worth pointing out that the Gauls were not
ruled like a colonized people, distinct from the ruling class. Roman
citizenship was extended to Gauls, and in a surprisingly short amount of
time, men of Gallic descent were holding positions of political authority
within the Roman Empire. The Romans, at least the later Romans, were
not terribly concerned about origins or ethnicity as criteria for
participating in politics. Accepting Roman law and having the capacity
for excellence was enough. In this respect the Roman conquest of Gaul
was considerably more humane than previous conquests where the
population was simply annihilated or reduced to the status of perpetual
slaves. This is not to say everything Gallic was preserved. Human
sacrifice was abolished, the practice of head hunting was suppressed,
and in general the more barbaric parts of Gallic life was suppressed. This
included the druids, who were apparently quite attached to the practice
of human sacrifice, which had no place in the Roman Empire. In this
respect, although Caesar was envious of Alexander’s youthful conquests,
one could argue that Julius Caesar was more successful in creating a
blend between Roman and Gaul than Alexander was in creating a blend
between Greek and Persian.
Despite the civilizing effects of Rome, and the relatively humane mode
of conquest practiced by the Romans, we should not think that there
was no cruelty. Indeed, one of the notable omissions in Caesar’s writing
is the immense suffering that the Gauls endured during his campaigns.
He does note, however, that the strategy of Vercingetorix deprived most
of the Gauls of the necessary supports to get through the winter; many
Gauls died. Later writers suggested that one third of Gaul’s population
was killed or died during Caesars’ campaign, and another third was sold
into slavery. Part of the reason Gaul was pacified was because the tribes
lost a vicious war of attrition, and war was no longer an option for them.
The cruelty of ancient warfare and conquest took its toll on the Gauls as
every other people at that time.
This serves as a healthy reminder of what war and politics were like
before the advent of medieval Europe and the beginnings of the classical
international legal order. This order was only possible, of course, due to
the work of Caesar and the rise of Christianity. And indeed, Caesar sees
his work as extending civilization (humanitas) and offering the benefits
of civilization to the Gauls from the Atlantic Coast to the Rhine. None of
it would have been possible without the leadership, vision, and labor of
Caesar.
The Gauls seemed to have acquiesced to that vision partly because they
were exhausted, but also because Caesar worked to develop personal
relationships with the Gauls and persuaded them to accept Roman rule.
The Gallic wars took a decade to complete, and that decade was full of
Caesar’s unremitting work. The conquest of a territory like Gaul is
something not easily accomplished, and demands someone who is both
stubborn and a bit restless. Caesar had both characteristics, although
his spare prose conceals the immense amount of work he is
undertaking. Indeed, he wrote a theoretical work of grammar in the
midst of conquering Gaul. He was not the sort to rest content with what
he had been given, but rather a true man of action. Although we might
think that the most important acts took place on the battlefield, he and
Hirtius both imply that what was far more important was Caesar’s
unceasing courting of various Gallic chieftains and petty princes,
creating an alliance network that became the basis of political
integration between Rome and Gaul.
Another reason for Caesar’s success was the combination of military and
political control he exercised when conquering Gaul. There is little
evidence of him ever taking orders from Rome, regarding either
strategic or diplomatic questions. This unity of strategic-diplomatic
conduct allowed Caesar to shape events in Gaul according to his vision
and will. There was no political struggle over what should happen during
the conquest. When he went to eject the migrating Helvetii, and
subsequently the Germans under Ariovistus, he could cement Roman
control over the area by protecting allies against Belgians and Germans.
Indeed, when one reads De bello Gallico, Caesar’s actions can come
across as almost random due to the speed with which he makes
decisions and then acts on those decisions. The reader is forced to catch
up with Caesar’s thoughts and deeds.
The unity of strategic-diplomatic conduct and decision-making in Caesar
allowed him to pick and choose allies, defend those allies against
aggressors, and then incorporate those allies into his new Romanized
Gaul. He was far more vicious toward Gallic enemies, such as the
Helvetii and the Germans, than to the Gauls themselves. He treated
Roman allies generously, especially the Aedui. As the Aedui ruled over
many minor tribes, Roman beneficence was felt across Gaul and no
doubt prepared the way for Gallic incorporation into Rome. He also
intervened in domestic politics, favoring some leaders over others to
advance his and Rome’s interests.
Beyond Caesar’s deft diplomatic touch, he also had a strong connection
with his men. This was not something unique about Caesar—nearly all
great war leaders were able to accomplish great deeds because of
friendship and trust between the leader and the men he led. But this
kind of connection allows for armies to become more like private
associations, acting for the sake of the political community only
nominally. Although legionaries received a steady wage, it was not a
good wage. The reluctance of the Senate to rectify this fairly obvious
injustice led to generals offering small fortunes to their soldiers through
conquest, and much tighter bonds between military leaders and their
soldiers than between soldiers and the civil leaders. Once Caesar proved
his strategic skills to his soldiers, they could be confident in his ability to
provide for them. The remarkable defense at Alesia is a testament to
the trust Caesar’s soldiers put in their general.
The unity of political and military power possessed by Caesar meant that
strategy was always perfectly subordinated to diplomatic considerations
and political aims. It is also this unity that, perhaps ironically, has been
the object lesson in the importance of keeping civil and military
authority distinct, and more importantly, the subordination of military
authority to civil authority. The unity of authority found in Caesar was
inextricably linked with his ability to seize power in Rome itself and set
the stage for the de facto destruction of the Roman regime and the
institution of tyrannical government. Of course, Rome had laws against
bringing armies near its territory for precisely these reasons, but the
personal connection between Caesar and his men, or indeed most
Roman generals at that time and the soldiers they commanded, made it
difficult for civilian leadership to control effectively its military men.
The fear of men like Caesar has shaped many of our political institutions
and makes it unlikely that we will ever see a man match Caesar’s
accomplishments. The unity of strategy and diplomacy makes for the
most effective foreign policy possible, but such effective foreign policy is
also the very thing most Western polities see as supremely dangerous.
Reception of De bello Gallico
Most modern readers and commentators of Caesar’s writing emphasize
the political angle of Caesar’s writing. Although there is some
disagreement about the intended audience, everyone agrees that the
primary purpose of De bello Gallico was to cement Caesar’s political
situation back in Rome. If this was the goal, then Caesar was a failure.
He was branded an outlaw and relied on force to cement his rule, hardly
suggesting that De bello Gallico was successful in persuading the Senate
or the plebeians of Caesar’s virtues. If anything, it probably achieved
the opposite. But whether or not modern commentators are correct in
their assessments of Caesars’ ulterior purposes, their various theses do
not tell us more about De bello Gallico than the words on the page.
Caesar’s contemporaries did not make much of political objectives
underlying the commentaries, or at least did not say much about it.
Aulus Hirtius indicates that the purpose of the commentaries was to
provide historians with material, although he doubts that any historian
would be superior to Caesar. Cicero thought highly of Caesar’s literary
ability, even though he was quire publically opposed to Caesar
politically, an assessment shared by many teachers of the Latin
language. Both these assessments indicate that Caesar’s
contemporaries thought that the commentaries were a possession for all
time, a work of perennial worth rather than something for the masses to
chew upon.
The influence of Caesar through history provides evidence that his
contemporaries were more correct than later commentators. Great
political and military men, at least those who were liberally educated,
saw Caesar as the gold standard of leadership and strategy. The list of
the particular men influenced by Caesar would be far too long and would
simply be a repetition of the great political and strategic minds that
came out of the Romanized world. Napoleon Bonaparte and George
Patton show the variety, but also a certain similarity, that obtains in
men who admired and learned from Julius Caesar. It is fair to say with
Hirtius that De bello Gallico was ultimately written for men like Julius
Caesar, whenever and wherever they might be, rather than to serve an
immediate political purpose. Caesar’s soul was too capacious and his
vision too wide-ranging for such parochialism. He meant to assure his
place beside Alexander and to teach those who came after him,
guaranteeing that he did not rule only Gaul and Rome, but Western
history.

The Art of War by Machiavelli (1521)

Christopher Lynch, translator, University of Chicago Press, 2005.
“A Prince should have no other object, nor any other thought, nor take
anything else as his art but the art of war and discipline, for that is the
only art which is of concern to one who commands.” Niccolò Machiavelli,
The Prince, Chapter XIV
In The Art of War, the only one of his major writings published during
his lifetime, Machiavelli sets out to consider that topic from the
standpoint of the superintending military commander. The Art of War is
divided into a preface and seven books (chapters), presented as a series
of dialogues that take place in the garden of Cosimo Rucellai, a friend of
Machiavelli, who had died two years before the book was published.
Cosimo and his guests, including a silent Machiavelli, respectfully
question a visitor, Fabrizio Colonna, who is treated as a military
authority. Fabrizio discusses how an army should be raised, trained,
organized, deployed and employed. His model is the Roman Legion of
the Republic, which he argues should be adapted to the contemporary
situation of Renaissance Florence.
At first glance, The Art of War, as a practical
military treatise, is dated, with its discussion of
medieval-style fortifications, the use of pikesmen
and the hollow square, and the like. As with all of
Machiavelli’s writings, we should not take the
obvious for granted, for instance, by simply
identifying Machiavelli’s views with those of
Fabrizio. (For a careful study of Machiavelli’s
deeper purposes, including the relationship of The
Art of Warwith The Prince and The Discourses, one
should consult Harvey Mansfield’s Machiavelli’s
Virtue and the commentaries by William B. Allen, Hadley Arkes, and
Carnes Lord in Angelo Codevilla’s translation of The Prince.) In terms of
its status as a classic of strategy and diplomacy, we follow Felix Gilbert,
the distinguished historian, who argued that "[modern] military thought
has proceeded ever since on the foundations Machiavelli laid." Frederick
the Great—the author of Anti-Machiavel—regarded it as one of as his
favorite books. Napoleon and Clausewitz likewise cited its influence of
their thinking.
For Machiavelli, as Gilbert explains, war is natural and necessary; it
establishes which countries will survive and expand or be annihilated.
War, therefore, must end in a decision. A battle is the best method of
reaching a quick decision, since it places the defeated country at the
mercy of the victor. Because of the central importance of the battle, its
issue should not be left to mere chance, but must be prepared so that,
as far as possible, victory is assured. The efficient preparation for battle
is the only criterion for the composition of an army. This necessitates a
reexamination of the traditional methods of military organization.
Political institutions, in their spirit as well as their form, must be shaped
in accordance with military needs. An inner connection exists between
technical military detail and the general purpose of war, and between
military institutions and political organization. By forming a military
organization in accordance with the laws which reason prescribed for it,
it should be possible to reduce further the influence of chance. “Even if
the term strategy did not exist then,” Gilbert writes, “this was the
beginning of strategical thinking.”
Addendum: At the risk of reducing Machiavelli’s thought on strategy and
diplomacy to a series of aphorisms, we can note some themes in The Art
of War and across his writings:
Men, and polities, should either be caressed or crushed. They can
avenge slight injuries, but not those that are very severe. Hence, any
injury done to a man or polity must be such that there is no need to fear
his revenge.
A ruler should act early and deal not only with existing troubles, but
with troubles that are likely to develop. He should anticipate and acquire
the means to overcome them. When the first signs of troubles develop,
the medicine will be too late, because the malady will already have
become incurable. The Romans never allowed troubles to develop in
order to avoid fighting a war, for they knew that wars cannot really be
avoided but merely postponed to the advantage of others.
As a general rule, anyone who enables another to become powerful
brings on his own ruin.
A conqueror, after seizing power, must decide about all the injuries he
needs to commit, and do them all at once; so as not to have to inflict
punishments every day. Thus he will be able, by his apparent later
restraint, to reassure men and win them over by benefitting them.
Destroying cities is the only certain way of holding them. Anyone who
becomes a master of a city that is accustomed to a free way of life, and
does not destroy it, may expect to be destroyed by it himself—the
citizens will always able to appeal to the spirit of freedom in rebellion.
A principality that does not have its own army cannot be secure; rather,
it must rely completely on luck or the favor of others, because it lacks
the strength to defend itself in difficult times.
Factions can be tolerated, even encouraged, in peacetime, when they
can be used to divide the people; but not in wartime.
A new ruler may decide to encourage the growth of enemies, so that he
will be able to vanquish them, and thus rise higher.
If a ruler is more afraid of his own subjects than of foreigners, he should
build fortresses; but a ruler who is more afraid of foreigners than of his
own subjects should not build them. The best fortress a ruler can have
is not to be hated by the people; if the people rise up there will never be
any lack of foreign powers to help them.
A ruler is highly regarded if he is either a true ally or an outright enemy,
that is, if he unhesitatingly supports one ruler against another. This
policy is always better than remaining neutral, since if two powerful
nearby rulers near come to blows, either the eventual victor will become
a threat, or he will not. In either situation, it will always be wiser to
intervene in favor of one side and fight strongly. The victor does not
want unreliable allies who did not help him when he was hard pressed;
and the loser will not show any favor.
A ruler should never ally with a ruler who is more powerful. If that ruler
is victorious, you will be at his mercy.
In warfare as in politics, it is better to be impetuous than cautious.
Anyone who rules a foreign county should take the initiative in becoming
a protector of the neighboring minor powers and contrive to weaken
those who are powerful within those countries themselves.
Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince (1532)
Credit to Zachary Bennett, University of Texas at Austin

I. New Modes and Orders

Few, if any, works of political philosophy have been more important for
grand strategy and diplomacy than The Prince. Written by the Florentine
philosopher and statesman, Niccolò Machiavelli (1469-1527), The
Prince, along with Machiavelli’s other major work, Discourses on Livy,
brought about a transformation in political theory and political practice.
Indeed, in composing The Prince and Discourses, Machiavelli founded
modern political philosophy, which is also to say he intended to
overthrow classical and medieval political philosophy.
(Title page, 1550 edition of Principe)
Fully intending to have such a revolutionary
effect, Machiavelli announces in the preface to
Book I of the Discourses that he has discovered
“new modes and orders” and taken “a path as yet
untrodden by anyone” (emphasis added)
(5).[1] In Chapter XV of The Prince, he indicates
that his novelty consists specifically in going
“directly to the effectual truth of the thing
[rather] than to the imagination of it”
(61).[2] Unlike the classics who focus their
attention on an admittedly unattainable best
regime, or their Christian successors who set
their sights on the otherworldly city of God,
Machiavelli, in going directly to the effectual truth, concerns himself with
politics as it is actually practiced in the world, in this world.
Of course Machiavelli’s classical and medieval predecessors would
quarrel with the suggestion that their procedure obscures political life as
it is experienced by human beings. But Machiavelli promises not merely
to better understand but also to better affect politics. Indeed, he
suggests that it is this latter, practical intention that has led him to
break with the tradition when he observes, “it is so far from how one
lives to how one should live that he who lets go of what is done for what
should be done learns his ruin rather than his preservation” (61). To this
charge of failing to give the best practical advice to political men, the
classical and medieval political philosophers are more open, perhaps
even by their own admission. Without going so far as to claim that the
classics and medievals would have regarded Machiavelli’s practical
guidance as superior to their own, we can safely observe that affecting
politics was less important for them than it was for Machiavelli or any
subsequent political philosopher.
To be concerned with the effectual truth is not simply to be concerned
with the real as opposed to the ideal but also to be concerned with
affecting the real with changing reality. Here we see the paradoxical
combination of realism, on the one hand, and hopefulness, on the other
hand, at the core of Machiavelli’s thought and of modern political
philosophy more generally. For our purposes, it suffices to observe,
without saying anything yet about the content of his strategic guidance,
that Machiavelli gives far greater weight to imparting good strategic
guidance to statesmen than any of the political philosophers who
preceded him.[3]

II. The Literary Character of The Prince

The literary form of The Prince suggests, at first glance, that its author’s
ambitions are less grand than we have just contended. Strictly
speaking, The Prince is a long letter written and dedicated to Lorenzo
de’ Medici, the grandson of Lorenzo the Magnificent and the ruler of
Florence, containing Machiavelli’s “knowledge of the actions of great
men learned…from long experience with modern things and a
continuous reading of ancient ones” (3). He gives the impression that
his intention, in discussing and giving “rules for the government of
princes,” amounts merely to assisting Lorenzo in achieving greatness
(4). Judged by this intention, The Prince must be counted as a failure.
For Lorenzo never really distinguished himself as much of a prince. But
Machiavelli’s decision to have The Prince published posthumously (1532)
reveals that neither aiding Lorenzo nor being rewarded for having done
so constitutes his only or even primary intention in writing it. The
Prince is an open letter, containing guidance for anyone who might read
it. As Machiavelli indicates in a letter to his friend Francesco Vettori, he
expects that this guidance will be “[welcome] especially to a new
prince,” that is, a prince who accedes to office not by an established
order of succession but rather by fortune or his own virtue. As we shall
see, encouraging the ambition of princes and would-be princes,
especially their ambition to win glory, and teaching them how to achieve
their ambition are two of Machiavelli’s major objectives in The Prince. By
opening The Prince with a dedicatory letter that in a certain way
obscures these objectives, Machiavelli subtly turns his intention into a
question and puts his readers on alert to the deceptive, ambiguous style
in which The Prince is composed.
 III. New Princes
That Machiavelli has especially new princes in mind can be seen in the
speed with which he turns from considering hereditary principalities to
new principalities in the opening chapters of The Prince. But before
considering the reasons behind Machiavelli’s interest in new princes, it is
important to note the significance of this dichotomy. After briefly
acknowledging the republican alternative to princely government—an
alternative that Machiavelli treats in the Discourses—he divides
principalities into hereditary principalities and new principalities and
then subdivides the latter into mixed principalities, regimes to which
hereditary princes add territory by conquest, and altogether new
principalities, regimes in which the prince rises to power without any
hereditary claim to rule. Thus Machiavelli replaces the question of
whether a regime promotes the common good with the question of how
a regime is acquired as the decisive consideration in political science.
Machiavelli is concerned far less with the ends of political power than
with the means to political power, than Aristotle and his successors had
been. It follows that new princes, who do not acquire political power by
default as hereditary princes do, are of particular interest to political
science. All of this suggests that the truth about politics comes to sight
most clearly in times of disorder and instability. Put differently, the
order and stability of hereditary principalities, far from being normal,
obscures the true character of political life.
In Chapters III through XI, Machiavelli discourses on how to acquire and
maintain new principalities. In addition to shedding light on the truth
about politics, Machiavelli here gives guidance on how to conquer and
hold territory and on how to seize and keep political power for oneself.
And he offers this advice to anyone who will read it, no matter his
motivation. Far from condemning coup or conquest, Machiavelli
observes, “truly it is a very natural and ordinary thing to desire to
acquire, and always, when men do it who can, they will be praised or
not blamed; but when they cannot and wish to do it anyway, here lie
the error and the blame” (14-15). Men cannot reasonably be
condemned for their acquisitiveness. For human nature is such that men
cannot help but be acquisitive. This fact is obscured in hereditary
principalities, in which the prince is sufficiently powerful that men cannot
act on their natural acquisitiveness, but vivid in new principalities.

IV. Teacher of Empire

It would be unreasonable, not to say unjust, to condemn princes in their
pursuit of power domestically or internationally. Accordingly,
Machiavelli, by contrast with his classical and medieval predecessors,
not only refrains from objecting to but actively encourages imperialism.
In Chapter III, he explains why Louis XII failed in his two attempts to
conquer Italy and, in so doing, gives princes a tutorial in empire-
building. (That this tutorial would be especially useful to other kings of
France with designs on Italy casts doubt on Machiavelli’s self-
presentation as an Italian patriot.) The basic challenge facing all
conquerors is twofold. The people one has conquered and seeks to rule
are offended by and therefore resist the rule of the conqueror. At the
same time, the inhabitants who supported the conqueror initially will
almost certainly have their hopes disappointed by the new regime and
are therefore likely to turn against the new prince. These challenges are
less grave when the conquered territory shares a language and customs
with the conquering principality. In such cases, it suffices to eliminate
the bloodline of the native prince without antagonizing the conquered
people by changing their taxes or laws. Before long, the conquered
territory will be absorbed into the conqueror’s state.
The challenge of conquering lands with alien languages and customs is
greater. In order to succeed, one needs “great fortune and great
industry” (9). But as is typical, Machiavelli does not counsel resignation
or moderation but rather offers five general guidelines for meeting the
challenge, the spirit of which is to assure that one is and remains the
most powerful force in the territory. First, one must prevent foreign
powers from getting involved. Second, one must either live in or, what
is even better, colonize the conquered territory. Third, one must put
down the powerful there. Fourth, one must ally with neighboring lesser
powers. And finally one must always look to the future and emerging
threats.
In Chapters IV and V, Machiavelli indicates that the challenge of
conquering and holding territories will vary according to the character of
the regimes in those territories. Empires, such as Persia and Turkey,
while difficult to acquire, are relatively easy to maintain. Once one has
eliminated the emperor, the people are easy to rule as they are
accustomed to submission. Kingdoms with intermediate aristocratic
powers, such as France, and republics, while easier to acquire than
empires, are more difficult to maintain, as the nobles in the former and
the people in the latter, are not so submissive. One must be much
harsher in such regimes than in empires, eliminating the aristocratic
bloodlines in the former and destroying the tradition of freedom and
dispersing the people in the latter.
Machiavelli does not insist upon any moral restrictions in maintaining
conquered territory. At the same time, he counsels against unnecessary
cruelty. Indeed, it is in this context that he offers the famous or
infamous dictum “that men should either be caressed or eliminated,
because they avenge themselves for slight offenses but cannot do so for
grave ones” (10). Thus, Machiavelli urges an imperialism that is as
harsh or as gentle toward one’s new subjects as well as to other
countries as is necessary in order to maintain one’s conquests. The key,
nay, the only consideration for the prince is the acquisition and
maintenance of power.

V. Machiavelli’s Virtue
In encouraging unrestricted imperialism, Machiavelli breaks with both
the classical and medieval prescriptions for foreign policy. Indeed, he
subtly points to his break with medieval Christianity in Chapter III in
observing that the pagan Romans adhered to the rules of conquest
better than his Christian contemporaries and blaming Louis XII’s failure
to conquer Italy in large part on his desire to keep faith and avoid war
with the pope. Machiavelli’s disagreement with the classics and
medievals is derivative of a more profound disagreement concerning the
ends of politics and of man, which we must consider in order to
understand the foundation of Machiavelli’s strategic guidance. The
classics and the medievals regard the acquisitiveness that Machiavelli
promotes as a moral vice. And inasmuch they hold that moral virtue is
essential to human happiness and that the promotion of moral virtue for
the sake of human happiness is the proper end of politics, they would
disapprove of Machiavelli’s liberation of acquisitiveness. The classics and
the medievals understand that the desire to acquire security, wealth,
power, and honor is deeply rooted in human nature, but think that
human beings long ultimately to transcend those goods. These goods
are to be counted as good insofar as they enable human beings to be
virtuous. While neither the classics nor the medievals think that moral
virtue is sufficient for human happiness—the former hold that moral
virtue points beyond itself to philosophy and the latter to piety—they
hold that, in political life, moral virtue is properly to be regarded as an
end in itself.
From this vantage point, imperialism appears dubious. While the classics
countenance harsh measures in foreign policy, including conquest of and
fomenting civil war in other cities, they do so not for the sake of empire
or glory but rather to preserve the city’s freedom and its way of life. As
Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus shows, imperialism is at odds with the
sort of morally serious, aristocratic republic favored by the classics. So,
while they would concur with Machiavelli’s insistence that a city’s foreign
policy be determined solely according to its own good, they conceive of
the city’s good in such a way as to favor, in principle, defensive
isolationism over imperialism. Yet to hold that politics at its peak is in
tension with imperialism is not to deny that cities must, under some
circumstances, follow an imperial course. The practical lesson of the
classics, then, is not always to avoid imperialism, but rather to
recognize that, when cities are compelled by necessity to become
empires, the possibilities of domestic political life will tend to diminish.
Machiavelli revises this lesson insofar as he insists that necessity almost
always dictates imperialism and insofar as he denies that this necessity
poses any kind of limit to our highest political aspirations. Machiavellian
imperialism is even more opposed to the medieval Christian outlook
according to which war is legitimate only for the sake of retribution for
injustice. Insofar as all men are to be regarded as God’s children and
therefore deserving of love, states are morally obliged to seek peace
with one another in most cases.
Machiavelli evidently doubts that human beings long to transcend the
mundane concerns of political life whether for the sake of moral virtue,
philosophy, or piety. Accordingly, he proposes a new conception of
virtue as the shrewd pursuit of security, wealth, power, and glory.
Winning glory becomes the peak of political life, if not human life
altogether. Far from being an end in itself, Machiavellian virtue is a
means to these goods. Whether a quality counts as a virtue depends
entirely on whether it yields success. This means that what the classics,
medievals, or the ordinary moral man for that matter would condemn as
a vice might, under certain circumstances, be a virtue. For example,
Machiavelli argues that well-used cruelty, that is, cruelty “done at a
stroke, out of the necessity to secure oneself, and…not persisted in
but…turned to as much utility for the subjects as one can,” is virtuous
(37-38). He goes so far as to contend that princes who are unafraid to
have a reputation for cruelty will, for the most part, be more merciful in
practice than those who are so afraid. For the former will not fear to
take the harsh steps necessary for establishing and maintaining order,
which is a good enjoyed not only by the prince but also by the people
(65-66).
This example points to the humane intention guiding Machiavelli’s
reconception of virtue. In counseling princes, he aims to benefit not only
or even primarily the ambitious few but also the people. According to
Machiavelli, a common good obtains between the prince and the people
in most cases. The people, unlike “the great” who desire to rule, desire
merely not to be oppressed. For this reason, Machiavelli advises princes
to build their power on the people rather than the great (38-42). The
prince can achieve his highest goal of winning glory by satisfying the
people’s desires for freedom and security. As his high praise for the
virtue of Severus, a Roman emperor who oppressed the people, shows,
Machiavelli’s cultivation of virtuous princes will not always redound to
the people’s good, it will, Machiavelli believes, generally yield more
humane results.
Thus, it is paradoxically in a spirit of humanity that Machiavelli criticizes
classical political philosophy and the Bible for obscuring the harsh
necessities of politics. This is what he is up to on the deepest level in the
two chapters (XIII and XIV) immediately preceding the one in which he
explicitly breaks with those traditions and presents his new conception
of virtue. In Chapter XIII, he argues for his famous and oft-repeated
maxim: Rely on your own arms. He identifies the tyrant Hiero of
Syracuse and David as exemplary followers of this maxim. But
Machiavelli conspicuously misrepresents the details and spirit of the
story of David’s defeat of Goliath in the Bible. He reports that David
chose to fight Goliath with his sling and knife and refrained from
accepting Saul’s arms, omitting the crucial point that David refused
Saul’s arms not because he relied on himself but because he relied on
God. In truth, then, Machiavelli is challenging the Biblical story. One
sees that he is also implicitly challenging the Biblical account of Moses’s
political success when one recalls that he compared Hiero to Moses in
Chapter VI (25). Like Hiero, Moses rose to and held onto power by
relying on himself and not refraining from the use of cruelty. The Bible,
Machiavelli suggests, falsifies political history in such a way as to
encourage reliance on divine providence, which, in Machiavelli’s view, is
not forthcoming, rather than on oneself.
In the next chapter, Machiavelli urges princes constantly to prepare for
war in thought and in action. He suggests that, to this end, they ought
to study classical histories. But he implicitly indicates that the Roman
general Scipio learned the wrong lessons from Xenophon’s Education of
Cyrus. He notes that Scipio conformed “in chastity, affability, humanity,
and liberality…to what had been written of Cyrus by Xenophon” (60).
Only later, in Chapter XVII, does Machiavelli reveal that these virtues
turned out to be vices for Scipio as his “excessive mercy” led his armies
to rebel against him (68). Just as the Bible does in the case of Moses,
Xenophon obscures the similarity between Cyrus and cruel tyrants such
as Hiero and thereby leads his princely readers to ruin. As Machiavelli
proceeds to argue in the next chapter, it is necessary to turn away from
the ideal in favor of the real, to go directly to “the effectual truth” (61).
Thus Machiavelli promises to be a better guide than classical or medieval
political philosophy.

VI. Foreign Policy and Domestic Policy

Machiavelli’s political science stands apart from the classical alternative
in its emphasis on foreign policy. As his admonition to prepare
constantly for war suggests, Machiavelli holds that the basic imperative
of security requires that princes focus primarily on external rather than
internal affairs. The classical emphasis on the latter presupposes highly
fortuitous circumstances in which the city is generally unthreatened. The
spirit of Machiavelli’s political science, with its call to master fortune,
militates against princes taking any such circumstances for granted.
What is more, Machiavelli calls into question the sharp distinction
between domestic policy and foreign policy. For one thing, domestic
politics is not so different in character from international relations.
Individuals, just like states, find themselves in fierce competition for
scarce goods—for security, wealth, power, and glory. To this extent, one
learns the truth about domestic politics from studying international
relations. For another thing, Machiavelli insists that good foreign policy
is good domestic policy. Imperial acquisition, for example, allows princes
to be liberal and, what is more important, thereby gain a reputation for
liberality without excessively taxing their own peoples (64). Thus a
policy of imperialism goes along with or even stems from the domestic
strategy of building one’s power on the people. Here we run into a limit
of the humanity of Machiavelli’s political science. While he holds out the
possibility of a common good between an ambitious prince and his own
people, he does not anticipate such a good arising among states, with
the exception of ultimately transitory alliances. The implication of
Machiavelli’s counsel constantly to prepare for war makes clear that the
hope or pursuit of lasting peace among nations is foolhardy. Man’s
acquisitive nature is such as to make war inevitable.
Not only does Machiavelli refrain from discouraging war, he also refrains
from insisting upon any moral limitations on the conduct of war. He
encourages princes to be as aggressive and harsh in managing foreign
affairs as is necessary not only for the good of their states but also for
their own individual good. The only limit comes from prudence. Let us
not, however, allow our understandable and decent moral abhorrence to
blind us to the way in which Machiavellian prudence can serve to limit
the brutality of international relations. In removing moral considerations
from the conduct of foreign policy, Machiavelli leaves no room for wars
of retribution. His insistence that princes hew closely to their own
interests has the effect of discouraging fruitless moral crusades or fits of
vengeance. Here again we see a humane intention in Machiavelli’s
amoral, not to say immoral, foreign policy outlook.

VII. A Machiavellian World Order

Machiavelli’s encouragement of imperialism in The Prince and his
apparently whole-hearted praise of Rome in the Discourses may give the
false impression that he hopes for a new world order headed by a new
Roman empire. But, with respect to the Discourses, Machiavelli
ultimately indicates that Rome was too successful for its own or
anyone’s good. The Roman republic’s imperial triumph led to the loss of
freedom and virtue at home as well as abroad. Given this, Machiavelli
suggests that his introduction of new modes and orders will bring about
many Romes contending against one another for dominion. Indeed, in
making his guidance available to all the ambitious who will read it,
Machiavelli points us toward a highly dynamic world full of principalities
and republics competing against one another for security, wealth,
power, and glory. For these are the goods that man truly longs for. And
it is in such competition that man truly flourishes.

VIII. Machiavelli’s Realism

We would be remiss to conclude this essay without saying a word about
Machiavelli’s place in the “realist” school of international relations
theorists. Machiavelli is rightly regarded as the founder of modern
realism. The early modern political philosophers, from Hobbes, Spinoza,
and Locke to Montesquieu, all follow Machiavelli’s call to turn from the
ideal to the real in Chapter XV of The Prince, seeking a lower but, for
that reason, more solid foundation for politics, internally and externally.
The paradox of their realism consists in their hopefulness about what
could be achieved by such a reconceived political theory. This
distinguishes them from the great classical realist Thucydides who
evinces no such ambition to change political life. Even though
Thucydides, like Machiavelli and his successors, looks to actual political
life and the speeches and deeds of actual statesman rather than an
unattainable best regime, he shares the spirit of resignation to the limits
of political life animating the classical idealists. Thucydides’ teaching
casts doubt on the realism of attempting to turn men away from the
ideal. His portrait of Athens vacillating between harsh Machiavellianism
and guilt-ridden piety and moralism suggests that the love of justice is
deeply rooted in human nature and that it would therefore be unrealistic
and unwise to seek to excise morality from politics entirely.
At the same time, Machiavelli’s realism is closer to Thucydides’ than that
of his immediate successors and, certainly, contemporary realism. For
one thing, he is under no illusion that a world in which nations shrewdly
pursue their interests will ever be at peace. This is partially because
Machiavelli, unlike realists narrowly focused on material interests, gives
full weight to the motivating force of honor and glory in international
relations. And, of course, these goods will always be scarce and
therefore always serve as a cause of violent conflict. Whereas this led
Hobbes and his successors to attempt to turn men away from the love
of honor and glory, Machiavelli, who would regard this effort as futile
and perhaps even degrading, urges men to pursue that love as their
highest love. What is more, Machiavelli recognizes that moral
considerations can have some weight in the conduct of foreign affairs
even as he tries to lessen that weight. If moral virtue has no hold on
men’s hearts, then it would be superfluous to combat morality with an
alternative conception of virtue. This may be the most important respect
in which Machiavelli differs from the realist social scientists of today. His
realism still has a guiding vision of human flourishing, albeit an amoral
one, which would in many quarters today be dismissed as normative
and unscientific. Of course, one could argue that the conception of
science underlying this dismissal is the culmination of the revolution in
philosophy instigated by Machiavelli himself.
Alberico Gentili, De Jure Belli Libri Tres
(1588-1599)
Credit to Carolina Kenny, Department of Defense and Strategic Studies,
Missouri State University
Alberico Gentili (1552-1608) was an Italian jurist, practicing lawyer and
professor of law at Oxford University, who is consistently mentioned as
a key figure at the very origins of modern international law. Just a few
years before Hugo Grotius, Gentili took substantial steps in the
development of a secular jurisprudence.[1] Yet, his standing as a
“pioneer” of the modern concepts of international law has been
overshadowed by the preeminence of Grotius, the Dutch jurist generally
regarded as the father of international law. According to Theodor Meron,
Gentili was indeed “an original, enlightened . . . and eloquent writer who
has not been given as much credit as his
works clearly deserve.”[2]
The reason for Gentili’s disregard is due to
the fact that until the end of the
19th century it was held that the modern
law of nations only emerged in the
17th century. The Peace Treaties of
Westphalia (1648) were commonly
ascribed as having laid down the
foundations of the modern states system
and its law.[3]And whereas the writings of
Grotius were discussed by a multitude of
scholars and translated into many
different languages, the works of Gentili
were virtually forgotten for three
centuries. It was not until 1874, when
British Professor Thomas Holland delivered
his inaugural lecture at Oxford University on Gentili, that interest in his
work began to revive. Indeed, Gentili’s place in the history of
international law owes much to Holland’s inaugural lecture and his
scholarly edition of Gentili’s De Jure Belli Libri Tres in 1877.
Alberico Gentili was born in 1552, at San Ginesio, Italy. He studied law
at the University of Perugia and became a judge at Ascoli. However,
having embraced Protestantism, he was harassed bythe Inquisition, and
obliged to leave his native country. He was welcomed in England in
1580, in the middle of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, when all Europe was in
turmoil. In 1581, he received the degree of Doctor of Civil Law at Oxford
University. In 1587, he was appointed Regius Professor of Civil Law at
Oxford and later he became a member of Gray's Inn, a Law firm in
London, dedicated mainly to maritime cases.[4] In 1605, he became
counsel for the King of Spain and represented the Spanish Embassy in
London.
Gentili was, above all, a voluminous writer, and his works include a
selection of legal, political and moral themes. However, the books of
most direct significance for international law are three: De
Legationibus (1585), concerned with the conduct of ambassadors, De
Jure Belli Libri Tres (1588-89) written during English debates on issues
of war prompted by the Spanish Armada, and Hispanicae Advocationis, a
collection of legal opinions from his practice at Gray’s Inn, published in
1613 posthumously by his brother.
Before examining Gentili’s De Jure Belli work, it is important to briefly
comment on the two other books mentioned above. A famous case gave
life to his first book De Legationibus (On Embassies). In this book,
Gentili presentssuccessfully the argument that the Spanish Ambassador
should be expelled rather than punished for plotting against Queen
Elizabeth. The circumstances in which he came to take up the work are
indeed important. Yet most significant is the fact that this was his first
important excursion into the field of international law.
In 1580, a Jesuit mission was sent to England to organize a Catholic
movement against Queen Elizabeth. However, spies of the Queen had
realized the coming danger, and just before the conspiracy for the
assassination of Elizabeth could be carried out, compromising
documents were discovered at the house of Francis Throckmorton, one
of the active participants in the plot. Thus, all the plans of the
conspirators were laid bare, including the role of Bernardino de
Mendoza, the Spanish Ambassador at the court of Queen Elizabeth. An
inquiry to Gentili was made to establish whether Mendoza could be
sentenced to death in England. The pressure on Gentili must have been
great to justify the punishment of the man who had violated the
principles of hospitality in supporting the plot. However, he replied that
no other action could be taken against Mendoza than dismissal from
England. Out of his reply he developed his book On Embassies which
contributed to the development of the concept of diplomatic immunity,
“producing the first coherent study on diplomatic law.”[5]
While later working at Gray’s Inn, Gentili represented, with the approval
of King James, the interests of Spain in cases heard by the English Court
of Admiralty. He acted in this capacity from 1605 up to his death in
1608. His appointment to this post testifies to the high regard in which
he was held as a jurist and to the reputation which his writings on
international law had brought him at the time. The arguments which he
made in support of Spanish claims, and the opinions which he wrote on
other matters of international law and the law of the sea, were
published posthumously at his request in the Advocatio Hispanica. This
book is unique because, up until then, jurists developed works on
general subjects or commentaries on particular laws or fictional legal
cases. In his book Gentili presented the actual application of the
principles of international law to concrete cases.
Gentili’s De iuri Belli libri tres (On the Law of War)[6] is composed of
three volumes. The first volume focuses on the law relating to the right
to go to war, or the ius ad bellum. The second volume examines the law
governing the conduct of war, or the ius in bello. And the third volume
explores the ius post bellum, the laws governing the conclusion of war
and restoration of peace.
As Peter Haggenmacher argues, Gentili’s contribution to the law of war
is the most renowned aspect of his work and remains important
today.[7] He is the first writer to generalize some of the arguments
which the Spanish theologian Francisco de Vitoria in particular had
identified. As Anthony Padgen notes, Vitoria's arguments had been
intended to be applicable to all nations everywhere. However, the
specific conditions with which Vitoria was primarily concerned were
narrowly defined by the circumstances of the Spanish discovery of the
Americas.[8]
Gentili constantly borrowed concepts from Roman law and applied the
old learning to new questions posed by modern international
affairs.[9] His method contributed to shaping his arguments in a refined
and analytical way.[10] Yet, Gentili’s work is described as lacking a solid
framework and his books can be characterized as “a collection of main
questions, unified within a topical distribution and not dependent on a
single principle.”[11] Gentili was a great law practitioner but he did not
adopt an abstract theoretical perspective.[12] Moreover, his writing
style may be considered obscure and characterized by
ambiguity.[13] According to Andreas Wagner, in “…his elaborate style,
Gentili used irony and sarcasm, rhetorical questions, and all sorts of
other devices amply.”[14] Professor John C. Rolfe of the University of
Pennsylvania was the translator of Gentili’s De iuri Belli and his
translation reproduced, in idiomatic English, the idiomatic characteristics
of the original in Latin. Rolfe added a few notes and an index of the
authorities cited, together with a full general index of the subject
matters. However, in a number of instances Gentili appeared to have
relied upon his memory, and in several cases he stated that the books
were not accessible to him.
What is important to recognize when examining De iuri Belli is that,
whereas earlier scholars had addressed various international issues
depending almost exclusively on the positions of the Roman Catholic
Church, Gentili looked at international relations from a different
perspective, namely, general principles independent of the authority of
the Church. Thus, Gentili’s work reflects the secularization process of
legal and political theory that was taking place in early modern
Europe.[15]
Gentili rejected the idea that religion might have offered a just cause for
war. He pointed out that war was not a religious phenomenon but a
social one, and he noted that “since the laws of religion do not properly
exist between man and man, therefore no man’s rights are violated by a
difference in religion.”[16] Indeed, he was an advocate of complete
religious liberty. One of Gentili’s most famous sentences was that of
“[s]ilete theologi in munere alieno”[17] translated as “[t]heologians,
mind your own business.” The motto was directed against the group of
Spanish theologians, among them Vitoria, who had written on the law of
war and the legal basis of the Spanish conquest of the Americas. The
standing of the school paralleled the growing prominence of Spain in the
world, whose hegemony was fiercely opposed by the court of Queen
Elizabeth in the England, where Gentili had found a home.[18]
The Italian jurist used civil law principles to develop a system alternative
to the scholastic doctrine.[19] According to Pärtel Piirimäe, Gentili
translated the humanist political philosophy, namely Machiavellism,
Tacitism and reason of state, into legal terms.[20] Gentili stated that “as
far as I am concerned, the subjects of others do not seem to me to be
outside of that kinship of nature and the society formed by the whole
world.”[21] His point of departure was the concept of gentes understood
as “peoples” or “nations.” For Gentili gentes were bound as jus gentium.
Gentili conceived the jus gentium in the sense of law between nations
(jus inter gentes) governing the international community (societas
gentium).
According to Gentili, the international community, also called the “global
commonwealth,”[22] included all of the states of the world. Moreover,
he considered that only states, as opposed to private individuals, were
the subjects of this branch of law, and as David Kennedy notes this new
focus on states “marked the beginning of the end of primitive legal
scholarship.”[23] In De Jure Belli, Gentili stated that “all this universe,
which you see, in which things divine and human are included, is one,
and we are members of a great body…Now you have heard, that the
whole world is one body, that all men are members of that body, that
the world is their home . . . .”[24]
However, he did not develop a concept of the state as a legal subject
(neither did he develop a concept of the “international” as in inter-state
relations). According to Andreas Wagner, for Gentili sovereign states in
their plurality were the pinnacle of the legal order and “his model of a
globally valid ius gentium then fluctuated between being equivalent to
private law, depending on individual acceptance by states and being
natural law, appearing in a certain sense as a form rather of morality
than of law.”[25] In his conception then “nations were always entitled to
wage war.”[26] He suggested that “…war seems to be natural if you
study nature… it is natural that men should disagree; and the result is
war.”[27]
In the first volume of De Jure Belli, Gentili accepted that war could be
just on both sides.[28] Vitoria had already conceded that, while a war
could not be just on both sides objectively, for reasons of invincible
ignorance and good faith, both parties might effectively be justified in
fighting,[29] but only Gentili treated both parties as legally just
enemies. For Gentili the necessity that made war just was one that
called for the defense of the realm pre-emptively if that seemed
necessary.[30]Consequently, he extended the concept of legitimate self-
defense to cover even pre-emptive aggression.
Gentili’s doctrine of defensive war, and the right to go to war pre-
emptively, constituted a breaking point, as previous theories about just
war had been developed mainly by theologians. According to the theory
of just war developed up until then only an injury could give rise to a
just war.[31] Yet, for Gentili, pre-emptive action was permitted as it
concerned the safety of the state: “No one ought to wait to be struck,
unless he is a fool” and “a defense is just which anticipates dangers that
are already meditated and prepared, and also those which are not
meditated, but are probable and possible.”[32] In addition and closely
related to the concept of pre-emptive action, Gentili also elaborated the
concept of metus iustus or just fear, that is to say “the fear of a greater
evil, a fear which might properly be felt even by a man of great
courage.”[33]
In De iuri Belli, punishment was moved out of focus and self-defense
became the dominant motive in formulating causes of war. Indeed, as
Partel Piirimäe points out, Gentili “. . . decoupled the notion of just war
from the concept of punishment and described all just wars as defensive
in character.”[34] Moreover, he was convinced that one had to assist
one’s allies against an unjust attack, even if this has not been expressly
stipulated because “good neighborhood imposes a duty of
intervention.”[35]
In the second volume, Gentili’s main arguments were directed towards
the importance of proportionate action in the conduct of war. He noted
that when war had begun, it should be conducted in a sportsmanlike
manner and he advocated the "plain, simple and magnanimous conduct
of war.” He condemned the use of poisoned weapons, poisoning wells,
the devastation of the enemy's country and the destruction of public
buildings. He argued that performing such acts would constitute the act
of one who was mad and delirious. He explained that “to lay waste the
crops, burn farmhouses and commit other outrages of that kind is a
mark of extreme hatred" and only permissible as retaliation in extreme
cases. He believed that “reprisals should be strictly proportionate to the
damage inflicted by the enemy,” and that acts of violence should be
avoided with regard to women and children.[36] He also wrote that
prisoners of war should be treated humanely.[37]
In the third volume, Gentili focused on the body of law regulating the
restoration of peace.[38] He devoted this volume to the law of victory
and the law of peace, with chapter titles such as "Of the Vengeance of
the Victor," "On Exacting Tribute and Lands from the Vanquished," "On
Ensuring Peace for the Future," and "Whether it is Right to Make a
Treaty with Men of a Different Religion." For the ius post bellum, which
Gentili was the first to discuss extensively,[39] this meant that the
terms of peace no longer relied on some objectively just state that had
to be restored, but rather on the authority of the victor, whose title was
constituted by his very victory, or on an agreement between the
belligerents.[40]
It is important to note that Gentili conceived the three different stages
of ius ad bellum, ius in bello and ius post bellum, not as separate, but as
closely intertwined components of the law of war. Gentili argued that
both in the ius ad bellum and the ius in bello, the parties should refrain
from conduct that could prevent the restoration of peace.[41]
Unfortunately for Gentili, his De iuri Belli was veiled by the publication of
Hugo Grotius’ On The Laws of War and Peace in 1625. Many scholars
contend that Grotius reflected on and to an extent reshaped Gentili’s
work. Petter Haggennmacher argues that “whatever other sources
Grotius may have used, some of them no less important, little doubt is
left as to Gentili’s central place.”[42] His conclusion is drawn from
comparing Gentili’s De Jure Belli and Grotius’ work, a process which
reveals the latter’s indebtedness to Gentili for methodology, structure,
and argumentative patterns.[43] Scholars have noticed that even a
superficial comparison of the two works shows that the third book of De
Jure Belli ac Pacis Libri Tres by Grotius runs practically parallel with the
second and third books of De Jure Belli by Gentili.[44] Moreover, as
Benedict Kingsbury notes, “the key features of the idea of an
international society which is central to Grotius are all present in
Gentili’s work, and Grotius adds little to Gentili’s account.”[45] Yet, in
the prolegomena to his book, Grotius stated that “knowing that others
can derive profit from Gentili’s painstaking, as I acknowledge that I
have, I leave it to his readers to pass judgement on the shortcomings of
his work as regards to the method of exposition, arrangement of the
matter, delimitation of inquiries, and distinctions between the various
kinds of law.”[46] Still, the indebtedness of Hugo Grotius to Gentili is a
matter of much debate. One could argue that Gentili planted the seed
and Grotius watered the plant, patiently tended to it and saw it
flourished.
There is also an element of controversy in Gentili’s ideas due to some
contradictions within his writings. While some scholars argue that he
supported imperialist expansion,[47]other scholars and academics have
an opposing view, highlighting that Gentili criticized hegemonic attempts
and stating that he advocated pre-emptive action against Spain due to
its expansionist policies, therefore favoring a balance of power.[48]
Beyond the debate and controversy, it is important to highlight two
significant contributions of Gentili’s De iuri Belli. Firstly, the most
important innovation in Gentili’s approach to the law of war was its
opposition to the theological approaches that had discussed war and
international relations in terms of a just, unitary global
order.[49]Indeed, his work contributed to the emancipation of early
international law from its theological foundations and paved the way for
subsequent developments. Secondly, Gentili’s work contributed
significantly to the amalgamation of the law of war. Indeed, he
enunciated the law of war in the three separate and yet connected parts
of ius ad bellum, ius in bello, and ius post bellum. He justified pre-
emptive wars but emphasized the importance of moderation in the
conduct of war. And finally, he emphasized a balanced position between
a justification of punishment after war and a realization of the pragmatic
need of avoiding the incitement of further violence.
Hugo Grotius, The Law of War and Peace
(1625)
Credit to Carolina Kenny, Department of Defense and Strategic Studies,
Missouri State University
Hugo Grotius was a central figure in the development of political and
legal theory, especially the law of nations. The theme of war and its
effect was Grotius’s chief concern and inspiration in De Jure Belli ac
Pacis (hereinafter The Law of War and Peace.) As Stephen Neff declares
in his introduction to Grotius’ work, “Hugo Grotius’s The Law of War and
Peace could be described as a stately circumnavigation of the juridical
world.”[1]
Writing in the early 17th century, when much of Europe was in turmoil,
Grotius sought to identify principles of law that might offer a peaceful
basis for resolving and preventing wars. His three-volume book, first
published in 1625 and dedicated to Grotius' patron at the time, Louis
XIII, is regarded as the foundation of modern international
law.[2] In The Law of War and Peace, Grotius developed a system of
principles of natural law, which are held to be binding on all people and
nations regardless of local customs.
Hugo Grotius was born in Delft, Netherlands in
1583. At the time, the Dutch war of
independence from Spain was taking place.
Grotius’ father was a staunch Protestant who
held various posts in the city
government.[3] Hugo was a child prodigy
matched by few in the historical record. Indeed,
in the 1920s, he even received the posthumous
honor of tying for second place in a
retrospective assessment of the IQs of three
hundred noted geniuses in world history.[4] At
the age of eleven, he enrolled in the Law
Faculty at the University of Leiden, although his actual studies were in
the liberal arts. His first exposure to public service came in 1598, at age
fifteen, when he formed part of a Dutch diplomatic mission to King
Henry IV of France. The journey to France was important for Grotius’
future. He registered at the University of Orleans for doctorate in law
and the year he spent there was the only period of formal law study in
his life. Returning to the Netherlands, he had a precocious career in
Dutch law, politics and intellectual life. He was arrested in 1618 in a
politico-religious dispute. After fleeing from prison in 1621 he spent
most of the rest of his career in Paris.
Grotius’ many works discuss issues of the most diverse nature, ranging
from history to literature. However, the writings that have transcended
his time relate to his legal thinking and his contributions to law. Around
1604, the Dutch East India Company[5]asked Grotius for a brief
explanation why they should be able to trade with territories claimed by
the Portuguese. Grotius made the case that everyone had the right to
use an ocean, irrespective of whom explored it. The Dutch East India
Company decided against releasing the brief, titled De Jure
Praedae, and consequently it was never published in its entirety. One of
its key sections soon acquired universal renown under the title of Mare
Liberum (The Free Sea), originally published anonymously in 1609.
It is important to mention briefly some of the ideas on the freedom of
international navigation and trade developed in Mare
Liberum, [6] because many of these ideas will further be advanced by
Grotius in The Law of War and Peace. At the heart of his account resides
the right of a state to trade with another, and with this, a claim for the
legitimate use of violence to defend this right. It is essential to note
that Mare Liberum is set within the context of the Dutch wars of
independence and Dutch attempts at commercial expansion against
Portugal. Here, Grotius attempts to prove false Portuguese juridical
claims over the sea. At the time, Portuguese claims rested on two legal
grounds: Papal decree and a treaty with Spain.[7] Grotius initiates his
work by setting out a fundamental rule of the law of nations. He
declares that “it is lawful for any nation to go to any other and to trade
with it.”[8]
To some extent, Grotius’s justification for this claim builds upon the
natural law theory of his predecessor, Francisco de Vitoria.[9] Grotius
cites Vitoria and an Old Testament source of authority as basis for the
right to travel across the earth and the right to just war when this is
denied.[10] However, Grotius’ position on free trade differs from that of
Vitoria. Grotius reconciles particular aspects of sixteenth century
scholastic and humanist theories of property, while developing an
original position,[11] especially relying on the notion of self-
preservation,[12] in which the right of property and the right to defend
it by violence is attached. Moreover, in Mare Liberum, as David Armitage
notes, Grotius moves towards what he will depict in his theory in The
Law of War and Peace. First, the argument that the freedom of the seas
derives not only from nature but also from custom, and therefore from
consent (an anticipation of his later theory of property in The Law of
War and Peace, Book II. 2. 2); and, second, that the right to trade or
navigation is legitimate not by virtue of it being a norm of objective
justice, but because it was a moral faculty over a thing (an anticipation
of his theory of rights in The Law of War and Peace BookI. 1. 4).[13]
In Mare Liberum, Grotius also in a sense frees nature from its
dependence on Divinity. Although the idea of God runs throughout
Grotius’ work, God does not play a crucial role. Indeed, the concept of
God is reduced merely to the figure of "Creator.” God, for Grotius, is
essentially one who has inscribed his principles in nature and has
completely left it to its own inertia and foundational rules. Grotius says
that God intervenes in human affairs indirectly through two judges who
he has rooted on earth, conscience and public opinion.”[14]
Grotius began working on The Law of War and Peace in 1623. He took
the title from a phrase in Cicero’s Oratio pro Balbo. He expanded on the
ideas and structure he had developed in De Jure Praedae. He was able
to work rapidly and finished the text in a year. The book appeared in
Paris in June 1625. It immediately incited controversy, especially among
Catholics, who were shocked because Grotius did not refer to Popes by
their Roman Catholic titles. The book was placed on the Papal Index in
March 1626, and Roman Catholics were forbidden to read it.[15]
In The Law of War and Peace, Grotius’ ambition can be found in its title.
His aim is not to establish whether there can be rules that govern war
and peace, but to define what those rules are. In doing so he creates a
system of law that could offer rights to both belligerents in war. Previous
scholars and jurists on the laws of war had argued that either each
belligerent could have an equal right to make war on the other[16], or
that there was only one just belligerent.[17] In The Law of War and
Peace, Grotius takes the middle ground and advances an entirely new
legal approach. He argues that, although sovereigns could not have
bilateral rights, their subordinates could, so that belligerents in the field
of battle could be both lawful and just. This is put forward as a custom
of war, found in jus gentium. Thus, Grotius develops a theory which
claims that states have implicitly agreed that, regardless of the objective
justice of their claims, soldiers can be recognized as having mutual and
legitimate rights against each other in war.[18]
Grotius’ work consists of an introduction and three books, totaling more
than 900 pages in translation. The introduction or Prolegomena holds
the highest interest for scholars, for it is here that Grotius articulates
and defends the philosophical foundations of his thought. Book One
defines the concept of war, argues for the legitimacy of war, and
identifies who may legitimately wage war. Book Two deals with the
causes of war and enumerates three just causes for war: self-defense,
reparation of injury and punishment. Finally, Book Three is dedicated
mainly to the rightful conduct of belligerents in war, and it is where
Grotius effectively argues that all belligerents are bound by the rules
that govern the conduct of war once it has begun, whether their cause is
just or not.
Grotius' conception of human nature, as defined in
the Prolegomena, suggests that man is perfectible, but not perfect.
According to Richard Tuck, Grotius holds the view that, “the natural
society of men is one in which individuals pursue their own interests up
to the point at which such a pursuit actually deprives another of
something which they possess...”[19] Thus, it is at the beginning of The
Law of War and Peace that Grotius refers to the existence of a natural
appetite for society, which is visibly not one of bare self-interest.
Rather, Grotius compares this to the natural, unselfish attitude of
compassion and care demonstrated by animals for their young or
towards others of their species. He contends that: “Now amongst things
particular to man, is his desire for society, that is, a certain inclination to
live with those of his own kind, not in any manner whatever, but
peaceably, and in a community, regulated according to the best of his
understanding; which disposition the Stoics termed oikeiosis. Therefore
the saying, that every creature is led by nature to seek its own private
advantage, expressed thus universally, must not be granted.” Later, the
Swiss legal theorist Emer de Vattel would note that “man is by nature
sociable: society is natural for him, even necessary, if he is to pass his
life happily. This is why the judicious Grotius has taken this sociability of
man for the foundation of natural law.”[20]
In Book One, Grotius begins by asking whether it is ever lawful to wage
war. If the initial inquiry reveals the possibility of a lawful war, the issue
becomes that of determining which circumstances exist to distinguish
between lawful and unlawful warfare. He argues that war is not only
compatible with but sometimes compelled by all three major kinds of
law: natural law, the law of nations and divine law. Grotius, like Alberico
Gentili and Francisco de Vitoria before him, argues that there are certain
circumstances, supported by the natural precepts of the law, which
enable a nation to wage a war. In support of his position, he presents a
number of conceptual, historical and theological arguments. Indeed,
Grotius states that “in the first principles of nature there is nothing
opposed to war; rather, they all favor it. For as the end of war is the
preservation of our limbs, and the retention or acquisition of things
useful to life, it accords well with those first principles. And to use force,
if necessary, for the purpose, is no way contrary to the first principles of
nature, since all animals are endowed by nature with strength, in order
to protect and defend themselves…”[21]
As a way to clarify what these distinctive circumstances are, Grotius
proceeds to define what is, in his view, lawful. He refers back to the
principles of natural law and from there he sets the parameters of
lawfulness. Indeed, a very large portion of The Law of War and
Peace, some 40 per cent, comprises an extended treatment of natural
law. However, the discussion of natural law in the main body of The Law
of War and Peace appears almost by stealth.
Going forward, Grotius develops a simple but broad formula: everything
that is just is also lawful. However, Grotius does not define what lawful
is. Instead he simply states that something is lawful when it is simply
not unlawful, when something is not “unjust.” He then defines “unjust”
as contrary to natural reason, that is, the opposite of the rational nature
of society expressed by the self-preservation instinct. Grotius notes
that: “As the law of war is the title we give to this treatise, our first
inquiry, as I have already stated, is whether any war can be lawful, and,
in the next place, what is lawful in war. Law here signifies nothing but
what is just, and that more in a negative than in a positive sense; so
that a lawful thing is what is not unjust. Now anything is unjust which is
opposed to the nature of a rational society.”[22]
Far from believing that war is a circumstance outside the realm of
morality and law, Grotius takes it to be an instrument of
right.[23] Indeed, he says that “where judicial settlement fails, war
begins.”[24] Since Grotius understands that the recourse to war is
legally valid, in so far as it aims to punish, repair, amend or compensate
injuries caused by an unjust act, it follows, then, that war is not banned
by the natural law. Rather, natural law supports it, since unjust acts are
ultimately transgressions of natural law provisions.
Some scholars have argued that what sets Grotius' examination of jus
ad bellum apart from his predecessors is “his detailed and systematic
elaboration of the “just causes of war.”[25] Considering that any act
contrary to natural law (any unjust act) may constitute a “casus
belli,”[26] Grotius begins to extract from this abstract principle specific
guidelines. He exposes in Book Two various reasons, in light of his own
legal system, which would permit waging a "just war." He contends that
"God wills that should we protect ourselves, retain our hold on the
necessities of life, obtain that which is our due, punish transgressors,
and at the same time defend the state ...Therefore, some wars are
just.”[27] Wars may be justly undertaken in response either to “wrongs
not yet committed, or to wrongs already done.”
It is important to note that Grotius omits to mention religion as a just
cause of war. And this fact is not an accident. Indeed, in one chapter
of The Law of War and Peace, which specifically focuses on the "illegal
reasons for going to war," Grotius makes explicit reference to the
subject of religion and makes it clear that the message of Jesus was to
reveal his word and extend his "kingdom" "not by coercion but by
persuasion.”[28]
Because Grotius makes the violation of natural law as the core “casus
belli,” he leaves the window open to endless possibilities for reparations.
The scope of his proposal is wide-ranging. For example, a state not
directly involved in any confrontation may embark on a bellum
justum to restore natural law violated by another state. Whereas Grotius
defends the right of non-intervention, and does not hesitate to affirm
that an individual is always subject to the jurisdiction and the possibility
of punishment by his state, he admits, however, that when that same
state commits humanitarian violations, another state is allowed to
intervene in defense of the victims. As Theodor Meron notes, although
Grotius “… believed that, subject to some significant exceptions, even in
the case of ‘extreme necessity’ subjects might not rebel against their
ruler, Grotius still maintained the lawfulness of intervention by one state
on behalf of gravely persecuted citizens of another. He was aware of the
ever-present potential for abuse but insisted that occasional abuses did
not render the right of intervention invalid.”[29] In this regard, Grotius
considers that persecution, slaughter, and any general human
humiliation, are not only crimes perpetrated against a particular man or
a group of men, but are a violation of natural law and therefore an
offense against all humanity.
Grotius’ humanist conception of the legal system reflects the influence of
Gentili (who held a similar thesis[30]); but also mark Grotius as a
forerunner of modern international law concepts (for example,
recognizing the universal jurisdiction of war crimes and crimes against
humanity).
Once war has begun, it must also be fought justly for it to be just. While
Grotius outlines the general rule that "in war things which are necessary
to attain the end in view are permissible,"[31] it should be noted that
what Grotius means by "the end in view" is the restoration of natural
law violated by a state or, what is the same for Grotius, the service to
what is morally right. This general premise, quite vague conceptually,
begins to be progressively restricted by Grotius as he defines what is for
him “right.” For Grotius, if war cannot always be avoided, at least the
killing and destruction must be limited. He believes that “it is folly, and
worse than folly, wantonly to hurt another…War is a matter of gravest
importance, because so many calamities usually follow in its train, even
upon the head of the innocent. So, where counsels conflict we ought to
incline toward peace…It is often a duty, which we owe to our country
and ourselves, to forbear having recourse to arms… [the] conquered
should be treated with clemency, in order that the interests of each may
become the interests of both.”
In Book Three, Grotius considers the permissibility of a large number of
actions. The range and amount of detail in this discussion is captivating.
One distinctive feature is his analysis of ruses, deceit and falsehood, as
he not only discriminates between those three means of conveying false
impressions, but also distinguishes discrepancies within each of
them.[32] The practical purpose of Book Three is evident. The priority
for Grotius seems to be clarifying what exactly is and is not permitted in
war. Thus, Grotius holds that war is justifiable when, and only when, it
serves right. Since the conditions for service to right are numerous, he
must devote significant effort identifying and illuminating them.[33]
Grotius contends that while an armed conflict is taking place the
application of civil laws should be interrupted and, instead, certain rules
should go into effect which, according to natural law, will moderate war.
Thus, it is necessary, before the beginning of any confrontation, to
explicitly declare war to the opponent. Moreover, for a war to be lawful
it must be declared by a legitimate and sovereign authority. In this
regard, Grotius says: “It is evident, that no war is considered to be
lawful, regular and formal except that which is began and carried on by
the sovereign power of each country.”[34] During war, Grotius argues,
there exists a right to kill enemies, as long as these enemies are not
women, children, prisoners, or other innocent civilians. He advocates the
right to take prisoners but not to execute them.[35] He argues that “it
had long being a maxim, universally received among the powers of
Christendom, that prisoners of war cannot be slaves…” He recognizes
the possibility of taking the enemy’s possessions for the purpose of
financing the war, or as a means to compensate the damages inflicted
by the other party to the conflict. He advises limiting what might be
seized from an adversary, however. He states that “the law of nature
indeed authorizes our making such acquisitions in a just war, as may be
deemed an equivalent for a debt, which cannot otherwise be obtained,
or as may inflict a loss upon the aggressor, provided it be within the
bounds of reasonable punishment.” In the same way, he insists that
retaliation “must be directly enforced upon the person of the delinquent
himself.” In addition, Grotius emphasizes that all actions performed
during warfare and until its conclusion, should be proportional. For it is
understood that the means used to remedy the injury caused, should
never exceed what is necessary. Thus, the killing of hostages or
prisoners is an action condemned by Grotius.
The Law of War and Peace covers all the main questions that are
relevant for the laws of war, even in our present time. While all these
questions had been raised earlier by various jurists and scholars, Grotius
expanded them and proposed that the laws of war were supported by
natural law. Using old sources, Grotius opened new possibilities of
thinking and acting for his contemporaries that were not visible earlier,
or at least not in the same way. And his fame and influenced eventually
outshined that of Vitoria, Gentili and other earlier scholars who greatly
contributed to Grotius’ ideas.
Hugo Grotius has been regarded by scholars not only as the father of
international law but also as the source of the tradition of “international
society” and “solidarism” for example.[36] In addition, The Law of War
and Peace is considered the first general comprehensive modern work
grounded on reason and natural law. Indeed, there is a long line of
scholars who comfortably classify Grotius as the founder of the modern
natural law tradition. As Michael Donclan notes, “his book is devoted to
putting once again at unprecedented length the traditional case for
saying that there is a law common to all men, the natural law ... the
deepest layer of Grotius' thought ... is the natural law.”[37] Grotius'
concept of natural law had a strong impact on the philosophical and
theological debates and political developments of the 17th and 18th
centuries. Among those he influenced were Samuel Pufendorf and John
Locke, and via these thinkers Grotius’ ideas became part of the cultural
background of the Glorious Revolution in England and the American
Revolution.[38]
However, critics of Grotius compare his work with the work of his
predecessors to dispute against Grotius’ originality. For example, W.
Knight argues that The Law of War and Peace is really “no more than a
restatement of principles which had already for generations been
commonplaces of the schools, and particularly of the neo-scholastics of
Spain.”[39] Similarly, Stephen Neffs argues that Grotius was not the
Isaac Newton or the Galileo Galilei of international law, but that “his
instincts were firmly in the past, in the rationalist tradition of natural law
extended back to Aquinas.”[40] Other scholars, such as Peter
Haggenmaker, argue that The Law of War and Peace cannot be seen as
the precursor of the system of international law that developed
subsequently, and that it is instead a much more scientifically rigid and
limited work whose sole aim was to set out a general theory of the laws
of war.[41]
As seen above, Grotius’ primary goal was to counter the two established
philosophies of war and peace at the time, thus developing a new
system in their place. He claimed that the alternative philosophies of
war and peace were both excessive and absolute in the extent and limits
they sought to place upon war. A secondary goal of his work was to
introduce a concept of “moderation” into the practice of warfare. His call
for the application of this virtue formed several chapter headings of
Book Threeof The Law of War and Peace.
Grotius succeeded in developing, and insisting upon, the idea of justice
among nations. With that purpose in mind, Grotius aimed to support the
resolution of persistent international conflicts and to provide the legal
and moral arguments for wars becoming less frequent and less
atrocious. Indeed, Grotius advanced principles to help expand the
prospects for peace. As historian John Neville Figgis noted, Hugo Grotius
and his successors succeeded in placing some boundaries to the
unlimited predominance of “reason of state.”[42]
Stephen Neff recalls in his book the anecdote of Swedish King Gustavus
Adolphus carrying a copy of the 1625 edition of Hugo Grotius’s The Law
of War and Peace with him on military campaigns. Between 1550 and
1815, Neff notes, the subtle movement toward abandoning the just war
doctrines and accepting the practical result that, given the ambiguity of
who was acting “justly,” both sides would be regarded as having equal
rights to “exercise the normal prerogatives of just belligerents.”[43] This
indeed is evidence of Grotius’ impact on state practice. The Law of War
and Peacegreatly influenced the norms and practices of international
conduct.
Kingsbury and Roberts argue that the greatest direct contribution of The
Law of War and Peace is “the systematic reassembling of practice and
authorities on the traditional but fundamental subject of the jus belli,
organized for the first time around a body of principles rooted in the law
of nature.”[44] Grotius believed that only a rational approach to the
realities of international politics could settle the serious conflicts that
plagued the various nations in seventeenth-century Europe. Grotius '
work rested on the assumption that natural law was intrinsically simple
and evident, that anyone who properly used reason could recognize and
obey it. Grotius stated: “This maintenance of the social order…is the
source of law properly so called…Since over other animals man has the
advantage of possessing not only a strong bent toward social life, of
which we have spoken, but also a power of discrimination which enables
him to decide what things are agreeable or harmful.” [45] Once he
defined the broad outlines of natural law, Grotius attempted to
harmonize natural law and positive law. And by doing so, the Dutch
jurist was able to develop a general normative framework, valid for all
nations, a positive law of nations, the future modern international law.
Thomas Hobbes, On the Citizen (1642)
Credit to Zachary Bennett, University of Texas at Austin

I. Hobbes, Machiavelli, and the Foundation of Modern Realism

Niccolò Machiavelli makes the decisive first move in the foundation of
modern realism, but it is the English philosopher Thomas Hobbes (1588-
1679) who gives that outlook its theoretical foundation, the state of
nature; its basic framework for understanding international
relations, the doctrine of state sovereignty; and its animating
concern, the promotion of peaceful order among states. In certain
respects, Hobbes merely elaborates on Machiavelli’s insights. The state
of nature, for example, is arguably a systematic unpacking of
Machiavelli’s contention that man is naturally acquisitive. But, in other
respects, Hobbes challenges Machiavelli. Most notably, he attacks the
love of glory and makes peace the highest goal of political life. In this
essay, we aim to elucidate how Hobbes’s modification of Machiavelli
shapes modern realism.
It is worth noting at the outset that Hobbes’s contribution to
international relations theory is, for all its significance, rather indirect.
Hobbes sets out to give an account of the origin and preservation
of internal political order. His practical intention is to foster peace,
primarily within and only secondarily among nations. Yet Hobbes invites
us to draw lessons about international relations from his political theory
when he identifies the state that countries find themselves in as the
state of nature. The way to Hobbes’s theory of international relations is
therefore largely inferential in character. For this reason, this essay
necessarily involves some examination of Hobbes’s account of domestic
political life. Part of determining the lessons about international relations
contained in that account will also involve recognizing the limits of the
comparison of domestic politics and international relations, limits that
Hobbes himself recognizes.

II. On the Citizen

(Frontispiece of De Cive)
In studying Hobbes’s political thought, it is typical
to turn to his most famous
work, Leviathan (1651). Here we turn instead to
an earlier work, On the Citizen(1642), published
originally in Latin as De Cive. On the
Citizen constitutes the political part of Hobbes’s three-part series on “the
first Elements [of philosophy],” which also includes On Body, concerning
metaphysics and physics, and On Man, concerning the human “faculties
and passions” (Preface to the Readers, 18).[1] On the Citizen, Hobbes
explains, “sets out men’s duties, first as men, then as citizens and lastly
as Christians” (Preface to Readers, 1). The work is organized into three
parts: “Liberty,” concerning man’s emergence out of the state of nature
via adherence to the laws of nature; “Government,” concerning the
origin, forms, and degeneration of
commonwealths as well as the doctrine of sovereignty; and
“Religion,” concerning the Kingdom of God. In both On the
Citizen and Leviathan, Hobbes presents man’s natural condition as a
state of war in which life is “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short”
(XIII.9);[2] elaborates a new doctrine of natural law rooted in the
imperative of self-preservation; defends absolute monarchy as the best
regime; and, on the basis of a heterodox exegesis, argues—in our view,
disingenuously—that his political theory is consistent with the Bible.
While there are meaningful differences between Leviathan and On the
Citizen, especially, but not only, in terms of presentation, those
differences are not important for the purposes of this introductory
essay. Hobbes’s teaching on international relations and grand strategy
does not differ appreciably from one to the other. Given this, we turn
to On the Citizen because it opens with some of Hobbes’s most
important statements on war and peace.

III. Hobbes’s Critique of Roman Imperialism

The difference between the spirit of Machiavellian realism and Hobbesian
realism is immediately apparent in On the Citizen, the epistle dedicatory
of which begins with a critique of the Roman republic. Hobbes accuses
the Roman people of hypocrisy for condemning kings as “predatory
animals” when they were no less predatory in their conduct of foreign
policy (Epistle Dedicatory, 1). Now, Hobbes is more concerned here to
defend kingship than he is to critique imperialism. Indeed, he observes
that “violence and fraud” are necessary devices in foreign policy. He
even calls them “the virtues of war” (Epistle Dedicatory, 2). In this
respect, there is no disagreement between Hobbes and Machiavelli.
Their difference lies in the qualification Hobbes attaches to his defense
of violence and fraud in international relations. He writes, “between
commonwealths, the wickedness of bad men compels the good too to
have recourse, for their own protection, to the virtues of war, which are
violence and fraud, i.e., to the predatory nature of beasts.” “[N]atural
right,” he continues, “does not accept that anything that arises from the
need for self-preservation is a vice” (Epistle Dedicatory, 2). This, of
course, implies that the use of violence and fraud for non-
defensive purposes is a vice. To the extent that Rome’s foreign policy
was essentially aggressive, Hobbes is here excusing the violence and
fraud to which not Rome, but its neighbors, resorted. Hobbes notably
does not excuse, let alone encourage, the use of violence and fraud for
the sake of glory. Here, then, we begin to see that Hobbes’s outlook on
international relations is not quite as devoid of moral distinctions as
Machiavelli’s is. What is more, the greatest evil in the new Hobbesian
moral framework is, as we shall see, precisely the love of glory that
Machiavelli fosters.

IV. Peace through Enlightenment

One of the major practical objectives of Hobbes’s political philosophy is
the promotion of peace, mainly within but also among nations. He
describes himself in the preface to On the Citizen as “one who has a
passion for peace” (Preface to the Readers, 24). Hobbes indicates that
he initially intended to write this work only after completing On
Body and On Man, but was moved, in the years preceding the English
civil war (1642-1646) when his “country…was already seething with
questions of the right of Government and of the due obedience of
citizens,” to turn at once to political theory (Preface to the Readers, 19).
The English civil war was one of several religious conflicts that were
plaguing Europe in the wake of the Protestant Reformation. Hobbes
hoped that a sound political theory could bring an end to these wars.
In the epistle dedicatory, Hobbes makes the bold prediction that, if
moral philosophers were to replicate the success of geometers,
specifically,
if the patterns of human action were known with the same certainty as
the relations of magnitude in figures, ambition and greed, whose power
rests on the false opinions of the common people about right and wrong,
would be disarmed, and the human race would enjoy such secure peace
that (apart from conflicts over space as the population grew) it seems
unlikely that it would ever have to fight again. (6)
Hobbes here expresses some of the fundamental premises of the
Enlightenment, namely, that one of the primary causes of war is the
exploitation of popular ignorance and that the way to peace therefore
lies in enlightening the public. By contrast with Machiavelli, who seeks to
improve political life by appealing to and fostering the ambition and
greed of princes and would-be princes, Hobbes does so by teaching the
people to be dubious of such men. As we see here, Hobbes’s ambition,
extending even to the near abolition of war, is arguably even greater
than Machiavelli’s.
The limit of all prior moral philosophy stems, according to Hobbes, from
its failure to begin teaching from “a suitable starting point” (Epistle
Dedicatory, 8). Hobbes claims to have found this starting point in “two
absolutely certain postulates of human nature, one, the postulate of
human greed by which each man insists upon his own private use of
common property; the other, the postulate of natural reason, by which
each man strives to avoid violent death as the supreme evil in nature”
(Epistle Dedicatory, 10). On the basis of these postulates, Hobbes
promises to demonstrate “the necessity of agreements and of keeping
faith, and thence the Elements of moral virtue and civil duties” (Epistle
Dedicatory, 10). In order to follow Hobbes’s argument, we must now
turn to his account of the state of nature.

V. State of Nature
Hobbes begins Chapter I of On the Citizen with an emphatic denial of
Aristotle’s thesis that man is by nature a political animal. He insists that
human beings are essentially self-interested individuals moved by two
fundamental passions, the love of “advantage” or physical pleasure and
the love of “glory” (I.2). In the absence of government, that is, in the
apolitical condition in which men naturally find themselves, these
passions necessarily lead men into “a war of every man against every
man” (I.12). To begin, the condition of scarcity is such that the pursuit
of advantage ends in violent competition. Making matters worse, some
men are not content merely to have their physical needs met but, vainly
believing themselves to be superior to others, demand dominion over
and honor from others. The threat posed by these “aggressive” men
compels even the “modest man” to will harm unto others lest he lose his
“property and liberty” (I.4). Here Hobbes seems to echo the Athenian
thesis from Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War, a work which
he translated (1629) and admired greatly, namely, that war is caused
by the compelling power of honor, fear, and advantage. Yet, by contrast
with the Athenians, Hobbes suggests that honor, unlike fear and
advantage, is not compelling. While he blames the vainglorious for their
aggression, he excuses the harm done by the modest in self-defense.
Asserting that man is compelled to pursue what appears good to him
and to avoid what appears bad to him and that death is the worst thing
for man, Hobbes claims that man cannot help but do and, therefore, has
a natural right to do whatever he thinks is necessary to preserve
himself. In effect, then, “[n]ature has given each man a right to all
things” (I.10). Yet because all men cannot have all things, no one
actually enjoys this right in the state of nature. To insist on this right is
effectively to declare war upon all men and in doing so to endanger
one’s life, liberty, and property.
The way out of this vicious circle begins with the recognition that war is
utterly inimical to one’s good. The great obstacle to recognizing this is
the opinion that one is so superior to others in strength and wit that one
can achieve dominion over others. Hobbes does not go so far as to deny
that such dominion can be achieved for a time. He actually argues that
the victor, merely by dint of his greater power, can justifiably command
the vanquished, that the latter are obliged to obey the former precisely
because they cannot do otherwise (I.14). Nevertheless, he warns that
pursuing dominion by violent conquest is dangerous and imprudent on
the grounds that no one is so superior as to be invulnerable. All men are
equally capable of killing and being killed (I.3). Hobbes stakes out this
egalitarian position in part because he regards it as true, but also
because he thinks that, as a practical matter, the achievement of peace
requires deflating the pride of the aggressive, vainglorious men who are
the first to take up and the last to lay down arms. Broadly speaking, the
state of nature teaching is intended not only as an account of human life
in the absence of government but also as a reminder of our vulnerability
and therewith an inducement to seek our preservation through peaceful
association.

VI. Laws of Nature

As we have seen, Hobbes’s account of human nature challenges the
Aristotelian and Thomistic, or Scholastic, account of human nature which
holds that man has a strong positive inclination toward communal life.
On the basis of his new account, Hobbes alters the traditional doctrine of
natural law, retaining the language of the “laws of nature” but revising
their meaning. According to Thomas Aquinas and his Scholastic
followers, the natural law is a set of rules of moral conduct written on
our hearts by God, which we come to know through our consciences and
which lead us to flourish. According to Hobbes, by contrast, natural law
is “the Dictate of right reason about what should be done or not done
for the longest possible preservation of life and limb” (II.1). In this
definition, Hobbes excises God as the promulgator, the conscience as
the source, and human flourishing as the end from the natural law. He
tips his hand when he concludes his discussion of the laws of nature
in Leviathan with the observation that they are not really laws (XV.41).
While Hobbes elsewhere attempts to assimilate to his doctrine some of
the elements of traditional natural law, he alters their traditional
meaning. To follow Hobbesian natural law is nothing more than
prudently to pursue one’s preservation. Natural law is but a guide for
exercising the natural right to self-preservation. Self-preservation is by
no means absent from the ends of Thomas Aquinas’s doctrine of natural
law, but it is subordinate to higher ends and must sometimes be
sacrificed for them. Hobbes’s removal of those higher ends from the
doctrine of natural law constitutes his most important break with the
Thomistic tradition.
On the basis of his analysis of the state of nature, Hobbes concludes
that the fundamental law of nature is “to seek peace when it can be
had; when it cannot, to look for aid in war” (II.2). The other twenty-one
natural laws derive from this one and “are instructions on the means of
securing peace or self-defence” (II.2). The first and most important
natural law derived from the fundamental law of nature is that “the right
of all men to all things must not be held on to; certain rights must be
transferred or abandoned” (II.3). Since, as we have noted, claiming the
right to all things necessarily ends in war, the fundamental law of nature
to seek peace when it can be had dictates that individuals relinquish that
right. Once this step has been taken, making and keeping contracts
becomes the heart of morality. Indeed, the second natural law is to
“Stand by your agreements” (III.1). In discussing this law, Hobbes goes
so far as to claim that one can do wrong only to those with whom one
has contracted, i.e., that justice obtains only where there are positive
contractual agreements among men. Quite contrary to the Aristotelian
and Thomistic traditions, Hobbes holds that justice arises artificially out
of human conventions.
To be clear, this constitutes no argument against keeping the contracts
that one has made. Hobbes is emphatic that one is morally obligated to
keep one’s promises. But, as one sees more clearly in the parallel
discussion in Leviathan (XV.4-9), the ground of this duty is prudential.
One is obligated to keep one’s agreements because one cannot break
them without endangering oneself either in the short or long term, that
is, where there is a coercive power established to enforce agreements.
Where there is not, such as in the state of nature, one’s obligation
ceases as soon as one has any suspicion that the other party will not
uphold his end of the bargain (V.1). For Hobbes, again by contrast with
Thomas Aquinas, the natural law is not categorical but conditional.
Hobbes does not count on the rationality of keeping contracts to
withstand the force of those passions that deter men from doing so.
Those passions must be counteracted by a more intense passion,
namely, the fear of violent death (V.3). For this reason, the pacific
moral outlook embodied in Hobbes’s new doctrine of natural law is
insufficient for establishing peace. A commonwealth with a properly
constituted sovereign power is also necessary.
 VII. From State of Nature to Commonwealth
The possibility of putting Hobbes’s contractual morality into practice
depends upon an original contract forming a “commonwealth” or a “civil
person,” in the form of a man or an assembly of men, to which each
contracting party agrees to submit. Insofar as all of the citizens
voluntarily submit to the civil person, their wills are united in his will—
the civil person is their representative. This civil person is distinguished
by “sovereign authority,” by which he can command all of the “force and
power” of all of the citizens (V.6-11).
Sovereignty entails absolute power, meaning that all powers of
government—executive, war-making, judicial, legislative, appointive,
and religious—reside in the designated civil person (VI.-11). The
sovereign is exempt from the laws, which, after all, are of his making
and unmaking, and immune from prosecution, which, after all, is his
bailiwick (VI.12, 14). Per their agreement, the citizens owe absolute
obedience to the sovereign, retaining no rights against him other than
the inalienable right to preserve oneself (Hobbes concedes that even
justly condemned criminals may justly resist execution) (VI.13, 15).
Sovereignty is not only absolute but perpetual, meaning that a
commonwealth may not be dissolved under any condition (VI.20).
Hobbes’s denial of the legitimacy of revolution rests on the obligation of
citizens to keep their agreement with one another to submit
unconditionally and perpetually to the sovereign, which, in turn, rests on
the conviction that suffering under any ruler pales in comparison to
suffering in the war that would inevitably follow from the overthrow of
any ruler. This conviction leads Hobbes to reject the traditional
Aristotelian distinction between regimes that promote the common good
and those that do not (VII.1-4). If the common good amounts merely to
the preservation of peace, then all regimes promote the common good
and are therefore to be regarded as legitimate. While Hobbes favors
monarchy over aristocracy and democracy, the basic dichotomy of his
political theory, commonwealth versus anarchy, means that the
differences among these regimes are of secondary importance (X).

VIII. Sovereign Duties and the Ends of Politics

Hobbes’s insistence on the absolute character of sovereign authority
does not keep him from ascribing duties to the sovereign. The
sovereign, Hobbes argues, is bound by natural law to promote the
safety of the people even though he is not answerable to the people
(XIII.2). And, as far as public safety permits, he is bound to promote
the “acquisition of wealth” and to protect the “enjoyment of innocent
liberty” (XIII.6). Hobbes pointedly excludes from the sovereign’s
concerns the health of the soul in this life or its fate in the next (XIII.5-
6).
It is worth noting, in this connection, Hobbes’s contention in Chapter I
that “[i]ntellectual dissension…inevitably causes the worst conflicts,” and
that “the bitterest wars are those between different sects of the same
religion and different factions in the same country, when they clash over
doctrines of public policy” (I.5). Hobbes tellingly defends this claim with
the observation that to disagree with a man is necessarily to accuse him
of error and, in doing so, to offend him. This argument implies that the
true cause of the intensity of intellectual conflict is the love of glory and,
thereby, diminishes the significance of piety or the love of justice as
motives in such conflicts. Taken together with his basic account of
human motivation, Hobbes’s discussion here suggests that these may be
nothing more than pretexts for the pursuit of glory. One can wonder
whether Hobbes and his realist successors do not underestimate the
earnestness of combatants in intellectual conflicts, whether they do not
take seriously enough the arguments that such combatants make and
are not too quick to reduce those arguments to rationalizations of selfish
actors seeking glory or some material good. If there is some merit to
this criticism, then Hobbes and his followers might also be accused of
overlooking some powerful obstacles to peace.
Hobbes’s attempt to weaken the bellicose love of glory entails the
exclusion from political life of those matters over which human beings
disagree most vehemently. This means reorienting politics away from
the promotion of human happiness in this life and the next through the
cultivation of virtue. There will never be peace as long as political life is
concerned with the best way of life, for, as Hobbes asserts in Leviathan,
the good is subjective and therefore relative (VI.7). In addition to being
fraught with dissension and conflict, political life that aims toward the
best way of life is futile. For human beings not only differ in their
pleasures; there is no greatest good of which the attainment would
result in contentment “as is spoken of in the books of the old moral
philosophers” (Leviathan XI.1).
Rather than founding politics on the pursuit of some illusory summum
bonum, as the classical and medieval political philosophers do, Hobbes
founds politics on the avoidance of the summum malum, violent death.
While there may be no greatest good or perfection common to men,
violent death is the worst of all evils for all men. Hence all men can
agree upon the need for safety, construed broadly, not as mere
preservation, but as comfortable preservation (XIII.4). The limited
character of the aims of Hobbesian politics means that, in spite of the
Hobbesian principle of absolutism, individuals will, in practice, enjoy a
great deal of freedom. In this way, Hobbes begins to lay the foundation
for liberalism. One sees the liberal Hobbes in this statement about the
limits of politics: “Sovereigns can do no more for the citizens’ happiness
than to enable them to enjoy the possessions their industry has won
them, safe from foreign and civil war” (XIII.6)

IX. A Hobbesian Foreign Policy

The fundamental duty to provide for the safety of the commonwealth
means that, in Hobbes’s political theory, as in Machiavelli’s, foreign
policy takes on greater importance than it had in classical political
theory. Also like Machiavelli, Hobbes draws insights into domestic
politics from international relations. Individuals in the state of nature
relate to one another as commonwealths do to other commonwealths.
In both cases, there is no common power that can enforce agreements
and guarantee peace. At best, in international relations, there are long
pauses to war among commonwealths. But, insofar as there remains a
will to harm one another even when they are not actively fighting, there
can never be a total escape from the state of nature.
Given this, it is necessary that the sovereign constantly anticipate
threats, maintain defenses, and prepare for war. As Hobbes puts it, the
sovereign must be “Forewarned” and “Forearmed” (XIII.7). In order to
be forewarned, the sovereign must make use of intelligence agents or
spies (XIII.7). And in order to be forearmed, he must maintain an army,
a navy, armaments, fortifications, and sufficient funds for war (XIII.8).
Hobbes follows Machiavelli in refraining from delineating any moral
restrictions on the conduct of defensive foreign policy. Recall his praise
of “violence and fraud” as “the virtues of war” (Epistle Dedicatory, 2).
Commonwealths, like individual human beings, possess a natural right
to take whatever measures they deem necessary to their preservation
(Leviathan XXX.30). There is no prohibition on preemptive war. On the
contrary, the spirit of Hobbes’s strategic guidance strongly favors
preemption. The sovereign ought as much as possible to anticipate and
deter threats. To this end, he is allowed not only to make war for a time
but also to conquer other commonwealths. It is worth considering in this
connection Hobbes’s account of the “natural commonwealth” or
“commonwealth by acquisition,” which serves in part as a justification of
conquest. This sort of commonwealth, by contrast with the
“commonwealth by design,” which, as we have noted, originates in a
social contract aiming at peace and mutual security, arises when men
who are captured or defeated in war agree to serve and obey the victor
in order to preserve themselves (VIII.1). That they make this
agreement under duress in no way diminishes their obligation. For the
same fear of violent death that gives rise to commonwealths by
acquisition gives rise to commonwealths by design. Here we see how the
right to do all in the state of nature implies a right to imperialism.
Insofar as commonwealths are in a state of nature with one another,
they enjoy the right to, among other things, conquer and rule over other
commonwealths whenever they regard this as necessary for their
preservation. Hobbes tellingly refrains from acknowledging any patriotic
or freedom-loving concern that would lead individuals to resist imperial
domination. For in his view, these concerns are impediments to
calculating rationally about how best to preserve ourselves. They are
manifestations of the love of glory that stands in the way of peace and
security. The only rational ground for obeying another is that he
provides protection. Insofar as a foreign king can sometimes do this just
as well or even better than one’s own king or countrymen, there is no
good reason not to submit to him.
Hobbes’s justification of preemptive warfare, conquest, and all manner
of defensive measures sets him at odds with the medieval Christian
theorists of international relations who generally hold that some
injustice must be committed in order for war to be legitimate. Just war
for the medieval Christians tends to have a punitive character. Hobbes
objects that the right to do all things in the state of nature all but
obliterates justice and injustice in international relations. Even if one
could distinguish justice from injustice in international relations, the
concern to carry out retributive punishment is at best a distraction from
and at worst a hindrance to the sovereign’s proper concern to assure the
safety of his commonwealth. Indeed, in his explanation of the sixth law
of nature, according to which one ought, in carrying out punishments,
“to consider future good, not past evil,” Hobbes criticizes retribution as
“simply triumphing and glorying to no purpose” (III.11). And insofar as
this triumphing and glorying at the expense of the vanquished offends
the vanquished, retribution, far from bringing an end to conflict,
prolongs it. In this light, the Christian just war doctrine appears inimical
to peace. Hobbes is guided by the counterintuitive thought that a world
in which commonwealths, in their relations with one another, concern
themselves only with their own security will be safer, more peaceful,
and more humane than a world in which they concern themselves with
rectifying injustices. Thus, as with Machiavelli, realism and humanity go
together for Hobbes.
While Hobbes’s intransigent concern with safety leads him to
countenance all manner of defensive measures in foreign policy, it also
leads him, as we saw in his critique of Roman imperialism, to criticize
aggressive foreign policy. His criticism of aggressive men, by contrast
with modest men, in the state of nature applies to commonwealths bent
on domination for the sake of glory rather than defense. So whereas
Hobbes does not oppose defensive imperialism, he does oppose
aggressive imperialism. Certainly, the foolhardy pursuit of glory does
not justify imperialism. Hobbes also criticizes efforts to acquire wealth
through conquest. Such efforts succeed only rarely. In most cases, they
result in losses rather than gains. The surer road to wealth, in Hobbes’s
view, lies in extracting the natural resources of one’s own country, in
promoting the arts and sciences relevant to production and commerce,
and in fostering industriousness in one’s people (XIII.14). The
Machiavellian prince who pursues empire for the sake of glory and
wealth would, according to Hobbes, be recklessly risking the safety of
his commonwealth. Thus, Hobbes modifies modern realism in such a
way as to reintroduce the distinction between defense and aggression,
between acquisition for the sake of security and acquisition for the sake
of glory and wealth. While Hobbes sometimes casts these limits in moral
language, they are ultimately rooted in an amoral judgment about the
best way to secure and enrich one’s commonwealth, in enlightened self-
interest.

X. A Hobbesian World Order

The analogy that Hobbes draws between the state of nature and
international relations might seem to point in the direction of world
peace through a world commonwealth. Yet Hobbes does not anticipate,
let alone encourage, such a new world order. One major reason for this
is that, in terms of the experience of individual human beings, the state
of nature that obtains in international relations is far less dangerous and
miserable than the one that obtains prior to the establishment of
government. In Leviathan, Hobbes indicates that the existence of a
state of war among commonwealths is not an unmitigated evil for
individuals since they prosper in meeting their commonwealths’ defense
needs (XIII.12). The sovereign authorities in commonwealths arguably
have even greater reason to resist the establishment of a world
commonwealth than their subjects do, for the absolute, indivisible
character of sovereignty would dictate their destruction were a world
sovereign to be established. Of course, if one sovereign were to conquer
the rest, then such considerations would be moot. How Hobbes would
judge such a conquering world sovereign is not entirely clear. He would
look askance at such conquest if it were motivated by the love of glory.
But if it were essential to national self-preservation, then he could not
disapprove. And, regardless of the conqueror’s motives, Hobbes would
encourage obedience on the part of individuals to the new sovereign.
Nevertheless, that Hobbes does not seem to contemplate such a
scenario suggests that it would be at least highly unlikely in his view.
We can safely affirm, then, what is taken to be his most important
contribution to modern realism, namely, the treatment of the realm of
international relations as necessarily and perpetually anarchic.
The absence of any world commonwealth with coercive power means
that international agreements cannot be counted on to secure peace.
For, as with individuals in the state of nature, as soon as a
commonwealth fears that its treaty partners will not honor the
agreement, it can justifiably abrogate the agreement. Yet, even as
Hobbes does not expect commonwealths to escape the state of nature,
he does, as we have seen, predict that enlightenment will make that
state of nature extremely peaceful, so peaceful as to become almost
unrecognizable. The hope for peace that Hobbes expresses at the
beginning of On the Citizen suggests that he anticipates that his
teaching will largely cure peoples and their rulers of the vainglory that
leads them to war, often under religious, moral, or patriotic pretexts. A
world full of commonwealths guided by a sober concern for security and
prosperity will, Hobbes expects, be a far more peaceful one.
Montesquieu, The Spirit of the Laws (1748)
Credit to Zachary Bennett, University of Texas at Austin
I. Montesquieu’s Liberal Realism
Liberalism, the dominant but far from unchallenged political theory in
our post-Cold War world, originated as a modification of Thomas
Hobbes’s political theory. The early liberals, such as John Locke, Baruch
Spinoza, and Montesquieu, affirmed the Hobbesian principle that
government originates in a social contract devised by naturally apolitical
human beings driven by the fear of death to unite under a common
authority guaranteeing the security of all. But they broke with Hobbes in
holding that the security that men seek is to be found in regimes of
limited rather than absolute government. Thus, the liberals attached far
greater significance to freedom, understood as a right of non-
interference by the state, than Hobbes had done, but without denying
any of his basic premises.
The early liberal outlook on international relations is similarly a
modification of Hobbes’s outlook on international relations. To this
extent, they, unlike the later liberal idealist Immanuel Kant, belong in
the realist tradition. Among the liberal realists, none devoted more
attention to international relations and foreign policy than the French
philosopher and lawyer Charles-Louis de Secondat, Baron de la Brède et
de Montesquieu (1689-1755). This is the case in large part because
Montesquieu was peculiarly concerned with the conditions for and limits
to freedom imposed by climate, terrain, and mores, which differ from
nation to nation. Montesquieu posited that some of the conditions for
freedom could be secured and some of the limits to freedom overcome
by the profusion of commerce. In addition to fostering freedom,
commerce would, in Montesquieu’s view, make nations more peaceable.
Montesquieu is indeed the classic source of the thesis that the
promotion of international trade will result in international peace. Given
all of this, and given the importance in contemporary world affairs of the
question of whether or how liberal regimes ought to promote freedom in
radically different parts of the world, Montesquieu is of particular
interest today.
In addition to elucidating Montesquieu’s account of the liberalizing and
pacifying effects of commerce, this essay will examine Montesquieu’s
reflections on the practical foreign policy implications of the right of
national self-preservation. Of particular importance in this connection
are his accounts of the variation in foreign policy according to regime
type, the value of confederation, and the role and limits of conquest.
Examining these reflections, along with Montesquieu’s praise of England
as the best regime, will help us to determine the character of a
Montesquieuian foreign policy.
II. Montesquieu’s Best Regime
Montesquieu’s magnum opus, The Spirit of the
Laws (1748) is a long and complex book that we
neither can nor need to treat comprehensively
here. Nevertheless, a few words should be said
about the general character and organization of
the work. Montesquieu's professed aim in The
Spirit of the Laws is to examine laws in the light of
their relations to the natures and principles of
governments; the terrains and climates of
countries; the degrees of liberty sustained by
constitutions; peoples' ways of life, religions,
inclinations, wealth, number, commerce, mores,
and manners; as well as in the light of the laws'
relations to one another (I.3).[1]Montesquieu’s interest in examining
these relations, which he terms “the spirit of the laws,” reflects his
attention to national diversity and the effect that diversity has on the
limits and possibilities of politics. In this respect, Montesquieu’s political
theory stands out as less doctrinaire and less abstract than Hobbes’s or
Locke’s.
In this same spirit, the state of nature doctrine that looms so large for
Hobbes and Locke plays a smaller part for Montesquieu. While
Montesquieu, like his predecessors, takes the state of nature as his
starting point and arrives at the same fundamental conclusion as they
do, namely, that the primary motive for human association is the fearful
pursuit of security (I.2), he quickly moves beyond that starting point. He
turns to an examination of what he understands to be the three basic
regime types—republics, in which the people as a whole (democracy) or
a part of the people (aristocracy) rule; monarchies, in which one rules in
accord with law; and despotisms, in which one rules lawlessly, at will—
and their respective animating principles—virtue, understood as a
dutiful, self-denying love of country and equality; honor; and fear.
Yet, even as the lesson of the state of nature seems to recede from
Montesquieu’s analysis, it leads to his ultimately critical, though not
altogether unadmiring, judgment on traditional republics. For, upon
examination, Montesquieu finds that, notwithstanding its nobility, the
virtue-animated politics of republics does not best meet the true goal of
politics, security, which comes to sight when one considers the state of
nature. Virtue fails to prevent the abuse of political power (XI.4). More
effective and less repressive is the open competition for power among
the ambitious that one finds in monarchies (III.7). The selfish rather
than virtuous pursuit of power by many individuals has the effect of
moderating the exercise of political power. Hence Montesquieu can
imply that, whereas republics are not naturally free, monarchies are
(XI.4).
The sort of regime that best provides for security is neither the
traditional republic nor the traditional monarchy but one in which the
constitution aims directly at “political liberty,” specifically, England
(XI.5). Much in the spirit of Hobbes, Montesquieu challenges the
republican conception of political liberty as the liberty to do as one
wishes, on the ground that the exercise of such liberty or independence
would have the effect of imperiling everyone’s liberty. The only secure
liberty is “the right to do everything the laws permit” (XI.3). We see the
close connection between liberty and security in the form that liberty
takes in the individual citizen. Political liberty, Montesquieu observes,
manifests itself in the citizen as a “tranquility of spirit which comes from
the opinion each one has of his security” (XI.5-6). The English
constitution promotes political liberty by separating the three powers of
the state, legislative, executive, and judicial, in such a way that the
state cannot oppress the people (XI.6). This separation of powers allows
England to enjoy the advantage of the competition for power among the
ambitious in monarchies without suffering from the irrational
preoccupation with “a false honor” that motivates that competition in
those regimes (III.7). Unrestrained by virtue and unconcerned with
honor, the English freely follow the natural inclination to seek power for
themselves. The structure of the English constitution channels this
acquisitiveness in such a way that it redounds to the liberty and security
of all. Thus, the English constitution realizes the true goal of politics
better than traditional republics or monarchies without having to distort
human nature in the way that those regimes do.
III. Obstacles to Liberty
After demonstrating the primacy of liberty, properly understood, as the
goal of politics, and the superiority of the English regime in securing that
goal (Books I-XIII), Montesquieu brings to light the obstacles to liberty
arising from the climate; terrain; and spirit, mores, and manners of
nations (Books XIV-XIX). Montesquieu’s conviction that the liberal
republicanism practiced in England is the superior form of politics does
not lead him to assume that it ought to be replicated throughout the
world. For, in his view, that form of politics presupposes climactic,
geographic, and historical conditions that do not obtain in much of the
world. Human beings are not so similar as to be able to lead the same
sort of political life. In emphasizing the extent to which human beings
and their political prospects are shaped by climate, geography, and
history, Montesquieu opens the door to historicism. But it should be
emphasized that he does not step through that door. Certainly, he does
not affirm the radical historicist claim of later thinkers that there is no
fixed human nature offering a standard for political judgment. So, while
Montesquieu emphasizes the diversity of nations far more than previous
philosophers had done, that emphasis does not entail a denial of political
principles that apply universally.
According to Montesquieu, cooler climates are more hospitable to
freedom than warmer climates because cold air contracts and
strengthens the body’s fibers, improves circulation, and thereby makes
men more vigorous, whereas hot air does the opposite. Consequently,
denizens of cooler climates tend to be confident, courageous, and
active, whereas denizens of warmer climates tend to be meek, cowardly,
and passive (XIV.2). Thus, the former tend to be more independent and
therefore more apt to establish and maintain a liberal polity. In hot
climates, the best that the legislator can do is to correct for his country’s
characteristic vices, by, for example, encouraging industriousness,
especially in agriculture (XIV.5-9). Yet in some of those countries,
despotism, even slavery, is inescapable (XV.7). The tendency toward
despotism in hot climates is only compounded by the polygamous family
arrangements that are common there (XVI.2). This experience of
domestic slavery makes men more favorably disposed to political
despotism.
The influence of terrain is greatest in temperate zones, where the
climate is not so extreme as to be politically decisive. Paradoxically,
good politics, that is, liberal politics, are more likely to emerge on poor
terrain. Montesquieu’s basic argument is twofold. First, the need to
provide for oneself in the absence of natural abundance brings forth the
vigorous qualities needed for liberty. Second, liberty is easier to
preserve in mountainous terrain because such terrain is easier to defend
and harder to attack than flatter land is. Out of these conditions
emerged the liberty of the ancient Germans. Yet these barbarians
tended toward an excessive pride and bellicosity, which threatened their
own security. In this respect, the ancient Germans are not simply a
model for Montesquieu. It is better when the vigor that emerges in such
terrain gets directed less to war and more to agriculture and commerce.
Finally, a nation’s political possibilities are shaped by its general spirit,
manners, and mores, its distinctive way of life, which emerges over the
course of history. The legislator must take care to follow the grain of
opinion in a country. Attempts to promote liberty in a country without
the proper spirit, manners, and mores will not only be ineffective but will
also produce a “tyranny…of opinion” in which people become insecure as
they see their way of life challenged (XIX.3, 14). Insofar as political
liberty depends upon an opinion of one’s security, such attempts will be
counterproductive. Montesquieu warns “that the mores and manners of
a despotic state must never be changed” as “nothing would be more
promptly followed by a revolution” (XIX.12). Since such states have no
laws, mores and manners are the only source of order. But this is an
extreme case. With respect to other regimes, Montesquieu teaches that
it is possible to change the general spirit of the nation in such a way as
to make it more conducive to liberty. His basic contention is that,
whereas the legislator ought not to seek to make a people virtuous, he
ought to foster the passions naturally found in human beings that are
conducive to industry and commerce, such as vanity and acquisitiveness
(XIX.9-10). Montesquieu makes quite clear that he is encouraging
legislators to foster moral vice (XIX.11). He concludes his reflections on
the general spirit, manners, and mores of nations in Book XIX with a
chapter on the way of life of England, where morally dubious passions
are unleashed and supportive of liberty. Commerce, which depends
upon and intensifies these passions, is central to the English way of life.
And it is through the spread of commerce that Montesquieu thinks that
the general spirit, manners, and mores of other nations can be made to
approximate those of England and thereby make liberty possible.
IV. Commerce
Commerce, according to Montesquieu, fosters a spirit of selfish
acquisition that is, while not unlawful, amoral, not to say immoral
(XX.2). For this reason, commercial peoples tend to be materialistic and
individualistic. The commercial spirit has the advantage of focusing the
mind on the one thing most needful for human beings, security. It also
accords with the spirit of ambitious competition that characterizes the
liberal republicanism Montesquieu admires in England. For these
reasons, the promotion of commerce stands out as a way for legislators
to overcome some of the obstacles to liberty arising from the general
spirit, mores, and manners of nations.
While Montesquieu views commerce as a means for overcoming
obstacles to freedom, he recognizes that there are obstacles to
commerce. It is not a panacea. In order for commerce to liberalize a
country, there have to be some liberties and some security in place
already. For this reason, commerce is not likely to thrive in despotisms,
except in those places in which foreign traders are able to take
advantage of the love of luxury typical of those regimes (XXII.14,
VII.4). Even in those exceptions, the spread of commerce and its
liberalizing effects will ultimately be determined by the despot. Given
this, Montesquieu’s hopes for commerce apply mainly to moderate
governments, to republics and monarchies, and to the relatively
temperate zones of the world that are conducive to such governments.
In addition to advancing liberty within nations, commerce, Montesquieu
hopes, will advance peace among nations. For, while the commercial
spirit is selfish, materialistic, and bereft of the nobility of traditional
republican virtue, it is not harsh, violent, or oppressive, especially in
international relations. “The natural effect of commerce is to lead to
peace,” Montesquieu contends (XX.2). For commerce gives rise to
mutual dependence among nations. Commercial peoples seek to trade
with rather than conquer other nations. And, in the course of doing
business with one another, commercial peoples become acquainted with
foreign ways and, thus, “[cured] of destructive prejudices” (XX.1). Part
of Montesquieu’s thought is the premise that animosity toward
foreigners is rooted prejudice, and the corollary that mutual
understanding, having corrected such prejudice, will produce concord.
He also thinks that nations doing business with one another are already
similar to one another and are bound to become more so. In the
decisive respect, in their dedication to the pursuit of wealth by trade,
commercial nations are the same. Differences among them are
secondary and, for that reason, unlikely to stand in the way of peaceful
commerce. Montesquieu thus displays remarkable confidence that
peoples wanting to make a buck need only to get to know one another
in order to get along.
V. Confederation
Montesquieu’s hope for peace through commerce is not so great as to
keep him from discussing war. In Books IX and X, the last two books in
Montesquieu’s analysis of the three traditional regimes, he examines the
differing foreign policies appropriate to these regimes. These books,
which concern “the laws in their relation with defensive force” and
“offensive force,” respectively, contain important reflections on
confederation and conquest. We shall take them up in turn.
Montesquieu begins Book IX by addressing himself to the core security
challenge facing republics, namely, that remaining small in size, a
requirement for the preservation of virtue, has the effect of making
republics susceptible to conquest (IX.1). Montesquieu readily identifies a
solution to this age-old problem, “the federal republic” or confederation,
“a kind of constitution that has all the internal advantages of republican
government and the external force of a monarchy” (IX.1). Individually
weak, republics become collectively strong by pooling their forces in the
service of a common foreign policy. Confederations guard not only
against external threats but also against internal threats insofar as
attempts at usurpation in one member state can be resisted by the
others. Montesquieu’s identification of Rome, along with the ancient
Greek cities, the barbarian defeaters of Rome, the Netherlands,
Switzerland, and Germany, as an exemplar of the advantages of
confederation suggests that these advantages are not merely defensive
in character.
All confederations are not created equal, however. It is better for the
member states all to be republican rather than for some to be
republican and others to be monarchical. For, given that “[t]he spirit of
monarchies is war and expansion” and “the spirit of republics is peace
and moderation,” mixed confederations will be internally divided unless
there is a single leader that rules the whole by force, in which case the
confederation as a whole will take on a rather more monarchical than
republican character (IX.2). Yet, in other ways, Montesquieu is perfectly
willing to sacrifice the equality and freedom of the individual member
states for the good of the whole. He favors confederations in which no
one member can form alliances without the consent of all the others, in
which power is distributed and taxes requisitioned in proportion to size,
and in which officials of the member states are elected by the common
council (IX.3). One wonders whether these arrangements would not
limit the self-government of the member states, especially the smaller
ones, in important ways. There may indeed be some tradeoff between
security and virtue. As we have seen in his preference for English
republicanism over traditional republicanism, Montesquieu sides
emphatically with security. In this connection, we are reminded that
Montesquieu’s vision of modern republicanism, shorn as it is of the
principle of virtue, does not entail small states. To this extent, the most
fundamental solution to the problem of security in republics offered by
Montesquieu’s political science is not so much confederation as it is the
abandonment of virtue in favor of commercial acquisitiveness.
Montesquieu concludes Book IX by reflecting on the manner in which
despotisms and monarchies defend themselves. They tend to be larger
than republics and, for that reason, do not need to turn to
confederations. In one of the many indications of the unattractiveness of
despotism in The Spirit of the Laws, Montesquieu observes that despots
create barriers to enemies by ravaging their own borderlands, “doing to
[themselves] all the ill that could be done by a cruel enemy” (IX.4).
Monarchs (who can, by contrast with despots, rely on armies) defend
their states by erecting armed strongholds on their frontiers (IX.5).
With a view to counteracting the general tendency of monarchies to
make war, as well as to criticizing Louis XIV’s ambition to found a
universal monarchy in Europe, Montesquieu warns that, beyond a
certain point, territorial expansion weakens rather than strengthens
states. States ought, Montesquieu argues, to limit their expansion such
that the army can rapidly get to any corner of the land in order to repel
invasion (IX.6-7). He criticizes as futile and dangerous Machiavellian
attempts to overcome internal division by way of external conquests,
warns against forsaking relative power in favor of absolute power, and
discourages princes from attacking weak neighbors (IX.8-10). Thus
Montesquieu seeks to discourage conquest. It should be noted that he
does so on entirely prudential grounds. All of this sets the stage for his
treatment of offensive warfare in Book X.
VI. War and Conquest
Montesquieu begins Book X by asserting that “[o]ffensive force is
regulated by the right of nations,” an idea which he originally introduced
in Book I (X.1). There, Montesquieu explained that “[t]he right of
nations is by nature founded on the principle that the various nations
should do to one another in times of peace the most good possible, and
in times of war the least ill possible, without harming their true
interests” (I.3). The true interest of the nations is self-preservation,
according to Montesquieu. “The object of war is victory; of victory,
conquest; of conquest, preservation” (I.3). Following Hobbes,
Montesquieu treats the nation's right to wage war in self-defense as
parallel to the individual's right to kill in self-defense. The underlying
principle is the same: One is compelled by necessity to defend oneself
and cannot therefore reasonably be blamed for doing so. Whenever one
feels threatened, one has the right to kill or to wage war. Preemptive
war is therefore justified. Nations will have greater occasion to exercise
this right than individuals, insofar as the latter have recourse to the law
for protection and are therefore less vulnerable to assault than are
nations (X.2).
While Montesquieu, following Machiavelli’s and Hobbes's break with the
Thomistic or Scholastic tradition, denies that nations face any moral
limitations in their pursuit of preservation, he insists that self-
preservation is the only just cause for war and conquest. And his
rendering of the principle of the right of nations, reproduced above,
suggests that, while nations are never required to sacrifice their own
safety, they do have a duty to do good to one another and to be
scrupulous in avoiding doing harm to one another. One can say, then,
that while Montesquieu basically follows Hobbes, he does more to
encourage a beneficent and pacific foreign policy than his predecessor.
He goes out of his way to attack Machiavelli, warning:
the right of war derives from necessity and from a strict justice. If those
who direct the conscience or the councils of princes do not hold to these,
all is lost; and, when that right is based on arbitrary principles of glory,
of propriety, of utility, tides of blood will inundate the earth. Above all,
let one not speak of the prince's glory; his glory is his arrogance; it is a
passion and not a legitimate right. (X.2)
Montesquieu encourages the un-Machiavellian thought that the prince is
better served by pursuing a "reputation for justice" than a "reputation
for power" (X.2).
In the spirit of this more benevolent realism, Montesquieu urges that
conquerors generally refrain from killing or enslaving the conquered on
the ground that, in most cases, neither is necessary for self-
preservation. Montesquieu, in contrast with the Thomistic or Scholastic
tradition, does not allow for punishment in a spirit of retribution. He
goes so far as to contend that the conqueror is obliged to allow the
conquered eventually to become ordinary subjects, once "all the parts of
the conquering state are bound to those of the conquered state by
custom, marriage, laws, associations, and a certain conformity of spirit"
(X.3). Montesquieu praises the "modern" practice of governing
conquered populations according to the conquering nation's own laws, in
contrast with the ancient Roman practice of exterminating them. For
this improvement, Montesquieu pays "homage...to our modern times, to
contemporary reasoning, to the religion of the present day, to our
philosophy, and to our mores" (X.3). Here we see an important criticism
of traditional republicanism in terms of foreign policy. The promotion of
commerce that Montesquieu goes on to effect in The Spirit of the
Laws will, in fostering gentle mores, presumably enhance this welcome
trend.
As Book X unfolds, we see that Montesquieu's encouragement of a more
benevolent realism does not involve simply arguing for limits on the
right of conquest. It gradually becomes apparent that he envisions
conquest, undertaken in the right spirit under the right circumstances,
as a potentially positive good. In Chapter 4, he observes that conquered
states tend to have been weakened and made ripe for conquest by
corruption. Insofar as these states are often despotic, the conqueror can
actually be a liberator not only from political oppression but also and
perhaps even more importantly from "harmful prejudices" (X.4).
Montesquieu criticizes the Spanish for failing to do this when they killed
the natives of Mexico. As the advantages of conquest for the conquered
come to the fore, strictures about the preservative character of just
conquest recede.
In the chapters that follow Montesquieu makes clear that only
monarchies are apt for carrying out benevolent conquests. Since
republics must be small, they cannot incorporate many foreigners into
their states. When they conquer populations to which they cannot or do
not extend their freedom, they tend to rule those populations more
despotically than monarchically. At the same time, they threaten their
own freedom by investing too much power in magistrates (X.6-7).
Monarchies are better suited to expansion, but, as in Book IX,
Montesquieu here warns against the dangers of excessive expansion
(X.9). He is less sanguine about the benefits to both conqueror and
conquered when monarchies conquer neighboring monarchies. In these
cases, the conquered populations are already civilized and therefore
stand to gain less from being conquered. It may be partially for this
reason that he argues that conquerors in these cases are best served by
allowing the conquered populations to maintain their laws and mores
(X.9, 11).
Montesquieu's model conqueror is Alexander the Great. He introduces
Alexander by way of contrast with his failed imitator, Charles XII of
Sweden. "Alexander's project," Montesquieu contends, "succeeded only
because it was sensible" (X.13). In setting his sights on Persia,
Alexander chose an eminently defeatable enemy. Persia was in a state
of decline relative to Greece; its natural fertility and the industry of its
people meant that it had the abundance to support conquerors; and its
arrogant kings made for reckless opponents. Alexander, who, "in the
rapidity of his actions, even in the heat of his passions, was led by a
vein of reason," combined boldness and wisdom (X.13). With a spirit
that Machiavelli would admire, Alexander, "[i]n the beginning of his
enterprise, that is, at a time when a defeat could have set him
back...left little to chance; when fortune set him above events, temerity
was sometimes one of his means" (X.14). Perhaps even more
impressive than his manner of acquiring territory was his manner of
preserving it. Montesquieu emphasizes that Alexander respected and
maintained the laws and mores of those he conquered, sometimes to
the point of leaving conquered rulers in power, albeit as his deputies.
Yet the ultimate outcome of this accommodation was, in the decisive
sense, to unite the Greeks and the Persians (X.14). Thus Alexander
liberated the barbarian Persians from their harmful prejudices by
stealth. Montesquieu's emphasis on Alexander's deference to Persian
religion and his observation that Alexander had no compunction about
using Jews as colonists shows how far his favored form of imperialism is
from pious or otherwise moralistic crusading. In Alexander, Montesquieu
sees a purveyor of enlightenment. This merit must outweigh any
reservations about his conquests being unnecessary for Greece's
preservation. At least Montesquieu expresses none.
Montesquieu's teaching on war and conquest, including his encomium to
Alexander, must be reconsidered in the light of the arguments in favor
of the English regime and of commerce that follow, which we have
already discussed. Those arguments show that, in the final analysis,
Montesquieu regards the profusion of international commerce, rather
than the benevolent conquest of an Alexander, as the best way to root
out political oppression and the prejudices upon which it depends.
England, he observes, is a commercial rather than a conquering nation
(XIX.27). Then again, Montesquieu sees in commerce the potential for a
new sort of benevolent conquest that will yield a freer, more peaceful
world.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, “Abstract” and
“Judgment” of Saint-Pierre’s Project for
Perpetual Peace in Europe (1761, 1782)
Credit to Zachary Bennett, University of Texas at Austin
I. Perpetual Peace and the Foundation of Modern
Idealism
Anticipating Immanuel Kant’s momentous break with
modern realism and foundation of modern idealism at
the end of the eighteenth century, a French clergyman,
the Abbé de Saint-Pierre (1658-1743), proposed a plan
for the nations of Europe to form a confederation with
a view to escaping the violent state of nature in which
they found themselves. Saint-Pierre’s multi-
volume Project for Perpetual Peace in Europe (1713,
1717) is of practical interest to us today as a forerunner to the European
Union and other such projects of international organization for the sake
of peace. And, in its attempt to overcome the state of nature in
international relations by establishing a sort of civil state among states,
it bears the characteristic mark of modern idealism. The modern
idealists accepted the modern realists’ characterization of the
international situation as a state of nature but denied that it must
forever remain so. In this way, they followed the progressive path that
their modern realist predecessors such as Hobbes and Montesquieu only
pointed to in their more hopeful moments.
II. On the Relation of Rousseau’s “Abstract” and
“Judgment”
There are more impressive and important
examples of modern idealism than Saint-
Pierre’s Project. But it bears the unique
distinction of having been abridged and judged
by the Swiss philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau
(1712-1778). It is Rousseau’s evaluation of
Saint-Pierre that concerns us here. That
evaluation is of interest partially as the main
repository of Rousseau’s thought on international
relations, at least among his published works,
and partially as a sympathetic critique of
European confederation. Rousseau approves of
Saint-Pierre’s goal and deeply admires the moral intention behind it. But
he regards the means of achieving it proposed by Saint-Pierre as naïve
and impractical. Rousseau indicates in his
autobiographical Confessions that he was asked to abridge Saint-
Pierre’s Project by a friend of the late Abbé who wished to bring honor
to his memory and in doing so flatter herself (IX.2.6).[1] Having agreed
to undertake the effort, Rousseau was quickly tempted to abandon it as
he found the Project “diffuse, confused, full of tedious passages,
unnecessary repetitions, little short-sighted or false ideas, among which
it was necessary to fish for some great, fine ones.” But a decent sense
of obligation to Saint-Pierre’s nephew, the Comte de Saint-Pierre, who
gave Rousseau the manuscripts kept him from succumbing to this
temptation.

In addition to producing a highly compressed version of the Project,

Rousseau, as he himself indicates in the Confessions, took the liberty of
“think[ing] for [himself] sometimes” and giving “such a form to [his]
work that very important truths would pass in it under the Abbé de St.
Pierre’s cloak even more happily than under [his] own” (IX.2.6). “There
is,” according to one English translator of the “Abstract,” “much more
Rousseau than Saint-Pierre in the whole performance.”[2] Nevertheless,
the “Abstract” is by no means a straightforward reflection of Rousseau’s
views. When he examined the manuscripts, Rousseau found that, by
contrast with Saint-Pierre’s intelligent “writings on morality,” his
“political works showed…only superficial views, projects that were useful
but impracticable because of the idea from which the author was never
able to depart that men were led by their enlightenment rather than by
their passions” (IX.6.1).[3] This discovery led Rousseau into a state of
“some perplexity about the form to give [the] work,” fearing that to “let
the author’s visions pass was not to do anything useful” but that “to
refute them rigorously was to do something dishonorable” (IX.6.2). He
settled on presenting their ideas separately, Saint-Pierre’s in the
“Abstract” and his own in the “Judgment.” In this context, he makes
clear that, in writing the “Abstract,” he sought “to enter into [Saint-
Pierre’s] intentions, to clarify them, to extend them, and to spare
nothing to make them valued at their full worth” (IX.6.2). So what we
find in the “Abstract” is the best possible case that Rousseau thinks can
be made for Saint-Pierre’s position.
Not only did Rousseau think it important to offer a strong defense of
Saint-Pierre’s Project, he also felt compelled to refrain from publishing
his critical “Judgment” of it “until after [the “Abstract”] had had its
effect” (IX.6.3). The “Abstract” was published in 1761 and the
“Judgment” was published posthumously in 1782. In the intervening
period, the “Abstract” was taken by many as reflective of not only Saint-
Pierre’s views but also of Rousseau’s. Rousseau seems to have found all
this rather amusing especially in the case of Voltaire, who publicly
mocked him for the utopianism of the plan. In the Confessions,
Rousseau gleefully anticipates the day when, should his “Judgment”
ever be published, his antagonist’s foolishness comes to light (XI, 457).
III. On the Intention of Rousseau
Rousseau’s genuine and considered views notwithstanding, one can
understand how Voltaire came under his misapprehension as soon as
one begins reading the “Abstract.” It opens with a flowery tribute to
Saint-Pierre: “Since no greater, finer, or more useful Plan has ever
occupied the human mind than the one of a perpetual and universal
Peace among all the peoples of Europe, no Author has ever better
deserved the attention of the Public than the one who proposes the
means for putting this Plan into execution” (27).[4] Saint-Pierre’s plan is
apt to inspire “enthusiasm” in “a sensitive and virtuous man,” Rousseau
gushes (27-28). Favorably receiving the plan is thus the mark of a
“healthy soul,” a designation that Rousseau also applies to Saint-Pierre
himself for his public-spiritedness (53).
Yet Rousseau immediately qualifies his praise when he contrasts this
noble enthusiasm with the “incredulity” with which “harsh and repellent
reason” greets the plan (28). (Witness Voltaire.) While he seems to be
encouraging the enthusiastic rather than the incredulous reaction, he is
at the same time making clear that the former is non-rational, not to
say irrational, and thus raising a question about it. Rousseau hopes to
evoke in his humane readers the delight that comes from imagining
“men uniting and loving each other” (28). But he allows his readers to
enjoy this warm sentiment for only a moment before dousing it with
cold water. Apologizing that he “could not deny these initial lines to the
feeling with which [he is] full,” Rousseau, as if having come to his
senses, exhorts himself and his readers to “try to reason coolly” (28).
Accordingly, the remainder of the “Abstract” lacks the glowing,
sentimental tone of these opening paragraphs. Rousseau proceeds
largely to summarize Saint-Pierre’s Plan and, apart from one explicit
exception, reserves his own, critical views for his “Judgment.”
From the outset, then, we perceive a paradox at the heart of the
Rousseau’s “Abstract” and “Judgment”—not at all an uncommon
experience for students of Rousseau. Rousseau seeks to foster the
humane spirit that guides Saint-Pierre’s project. At the same time, he
criticizes that project as naive and impractical, effectively deflating that
spirit of humanity. It suffices now simply to raise the question of
Rousseau’s intention. We shall return to it after considering his
rendering and assessment of Saint-Pierre’s plan in his “Abstract” and
“Judgment.”
 IV. Europe as State of War
Rousseau’s version of Saint-Pierre’s plan begins with a reflection on the
ambivalent situation in which men find themselves after having formed
civil states: While they have escaped the state of nature with their
fellow citizens, they have thereby given rise to a new state of nature
among the civil states that they have formed. In contrast to Hobbes,
who insists that the state of nature among nations is considerably more
tolerable than the state of nature among individuals, Saint-Pierre, or
rather Rousseau, insists that the former is “a thousand times more
terrible” (28). Not only is the warfare that accompanies this state
terrible, the preoccupation with external security that it requires
distracts from the goal of internal perfection. In this sense, the
formation of separate civil states without somehow uniting them is, for
Rousseau and Saint-Pierre alike, only a half-measure. This difference
partially explains why Rousseau so admires the goal of escaping from
the international state of nature whereas Hobbes contents himself with
the formation of separate commonwealths.
Saint-Pierre identifies international confederation as the solution to the
problem of international anarchy. In this way, he is even more hopeful
about what this institution can achieve than his contemporary theorist of
confederation, Montesquieu. Europe finds itself in an informal
confederation by accident. We should note here that, according to C.E.
Vaughan, the account of the European situation that follows is entirely
of Rousseau’s doing.[5] The accidental unity of modern Europe is
partially the legacy of the Roman Empire which once united Europe
formally and intentionally. Even more important than the “ancient image
of the Roman Empire” is Christianity (30-31). Along with these
commonalities, the geographic situation of Europe, the ties among its
sovereigns, the rivers that traverse it, the movement of its restless
inhabitants, its common literature, and its commercial interdependence
serve to unify the continent (31).
Nevertheless, Europe is wracked by acrimony and warfare. This is only
natural. For “every society without laws or Leaders, every union formed
or maintained by chance, must necessarily degenerate into quarrel and
dissension at the first change in circumstances that happens” (32). So
long as Europe lacks common laws or leaders, the closeness of the
states that compose it will serve only as a source of conflict. In the
absence of any enforceable public right, the continent is and will
continue to be governed by the force of its stronger members.
Overcoming this condition will require the establishment of a common
“compulsory force...which orders and concerts its Members’ movements,
in order to give the common interests and reciprocal engagements [of
European states] the solidity they cannot have by themselves” (33). As
Daniel Frey observes, Saint-Pierre, and, for that matter, Rousseau, is
not satisfied, with Cardinal Richelieu and others, that the balance of
power that emerged organically from interstate competition in Europe is
sufficient for real security or peace.[6]
Rousseau then sets out to demonstrate Saint-Pierre’s conviction that it
is impossible for any single state or alliance of two or three states to
conquer the continent even in the absence of a common coercive force.
The other states will always unite to resist such would-be conquerors
and they will always prevail in the end (33-34). Saint-Pierre’s intention
is to discourage us from placing our hopes for perpetual peace in an
aspirant or clique of co-aspirants to universal monarchy. This is one of
numerous instances in which Saint-Pierre, at least as he is presented by
Rousseau, speaks in high-minded disapproval of ambitious conquest. As
we shall see in his “Judgment,” Rousseau is going to advance the
counterargument that the only hope for perpetual peace lies in, if not
universal monarchy, some form of benevolent hegemony.
V. Toward a European Confederation
If a European confederation is to succeed, if its members are to be kept
“from separating from it at their will as soon as they believe they see
their particular interest contrary to the general interest,” it must be
“firm and durable” (36). To this end, it must have “a judicial Tribunal,
which can establish laws and rules that must oblige all the members”
and “a compulsory and coercive force to constrain each State to submit
to the common deliberations” (36). It is worth noting that, in the latter
respect, today’s European Union falls far short of Saint-Pierre’s proposal.
Rousseau presents five articles for constituting the confederation. First,
the sovereigns of the member states will agree to “a perpetual and
irrevocable alliance” and appoint plenipotentiaries to a diet that will
settle all the differences among them (37). Second, one vote will be
allocated to each member state except for the smallest which will have
one vote together, an arrangement for a rotating presidency will be
made, and a system of proportional requisitions for common expenses
will be devised. Third, the confederation will guarantee the respective
territories and forms of government of the member states. Member
states will accordingly be required to renounce any territorial claims
against the status quo. And the confederation will in practice be a
powerful force opposing revolution and republicanism. Fourth, failure to
execute the confederation’s judgments, preparation for war, negotiation
of treaties contrary to the confederation, armed resistance to the
confederation, and attacks on other member states will constitute
punishable breaches of the treaty. Finally, the member states will pledge
to take part in a common effort to subdue and punish any and all
violators of the treaty.
Rousseau proceeds to defend the efficacy of this proposal by arguing
that no partial league of member states will be able to upset the
confederation given that, as he has observed, it is already impossible for
one or a few states to conquer the continent and that the confederation
will obviate the motives that lead princes to war. Aggressive princes will
be thwarted by the confederation, rendering defensive warfare
unnecessary. And territorial disputes will have been settled at the
foundation of the confederation.
VI. Princely Motives
Even if it is the case that, as Saint-Pierre argues, it would be irrational
for princes to attempt conquest, dispute the treaty settlement, or
otherwise resist the confederacy, one can still wonder whether Saint-
Pierre’s proposal does indeed offer the prospect of perpetual peace. For
his argument rests upon the dubious premise that princes will be
rational, that they will never be driven to war in the false hope of
victory. It is with respect to this question, the motives of princes, that
Rousseau is most critical of Saint-Pierre. When Rousseau turns from
Saint-Pierre’s demonstration that the confederation would assure peace
to his account of why princes might agree to join the confederation in
the first place, he, for the first and only time in the “Abstract,” makes a
point of disagreeing with Saint-Pierre. Rousseau indicates that he “would
not dare respond” to the question of whether joining the confederation
is in the interest of princes “along with Saint-Pierre” to the effect that a
prince secures the greatest glory by advancing the common good (42).
Rousseau suggests that this response, which has met with “ridicule” in
“the chambers of Ministers,” presumes too much “virtue” on the part of
princes (42). While he explicitly refuses to join in that ridicule, Rousseau
takes a different approach to the question, considering only the interests
of princes, and conceiving of them rather more narrowly and rather less
nobly than Saint-Pierre had done.
Following this approach, Rousseau observes that, if it is impossible for
any prince to conquer the whole of Europe, the promise of at least
securing the territory they presently possess will be attractive to
princes; that attempts at conquest are foolhardy; that the confederation
will strengthen the sovereignty of princes; that the pooling of defenses
will result in fewer expenses and thus allow princes to foster commerce,
agriculture, and the arts internally; and that the continent will be better
defended against external enemies under the confederation. Finally, he
recapitulates all the disadvantages of the status quo. Anticipating
accusations of utopianism, he concludes the “Abstract” by insisting that
“we have not at all assumed men to be as they ought to be, good,
generous, disinterested, and loving of the public good out of humanity;
but as they are, unjust, greedy, and preferring their self-interest to
everything” (49). The establishment of a European confederation
depends only upon men clearly seeing where their self-interest lies and
having “enough courage to bring about their own happiness” (49).
Saint-Pierre or Saint-Pierre-as-modified-by-Rousseau concedes that this
eventuality may not come to pass, but clearly does not regard the hope
for it as utopian.
VII. Rousseau’s Judgment
In his “Judgment of the Plan for Perpetual Peace,” Rousseau affirms the
soundness of Saint-Pierre’s arguments that the confederation would
keep the peace in Europe and would serve the true interests of princes.
He goes so far as to claim that “the general and particular utility of this
plan” has been as well “demonstrated” as any “moral truth” (53). The
confederation would be so universally beneficial that to make it “real for
a single day would be enough to make it last forever” (53). Yet,
according to Rousseau, this condition will never be realized. Princes will,
in his estimation, never agree to the establishment of the confederation.
It turns out that even the view of princes as narrowly self-interested
that Rousseau offered as a more realistic alternative to Saint-Pierre’s
high-minded view is utopian. For princes cannot see their interests
clearly. Ambition and wisdom tend not to coincide. Rousseau here draws
on his conception of the passion “amour-propre,” or pride—a
fundamental dimension of his thought—explaining, “it is the great
punishment of the excess of amour-propre always to have recourse to
means that deceive it and the very ardor of the passions is almost
always what diverts them from their goal” (54). For this reason, it is
highly unlikely for princes to see that their true interests do lie in
forming and keeping a European confederation.
Rousseau begins his analysis of how princes will receive the idea of a
confederation by asserting that their “entire occupation…relates to only
two objects, extending their domination abroad and rendering it
absolute at home” (54). The confederation stands in the way of both of
these objects. With respect to the first object, Rousseau’s point is clear
enough. Yet, as far as the second object goes, one would think that
princes would find the confederation’s guarantee to maintain their
regimes attractive. Rousseau counterintuitively denies this on the basis
of the observation that the confederation’s guarantee against domestic
revolution will, in order to have any effect, require that the
confederation guarantee subjects “against the tyranny of the Princes”
(54). Princes will greet this requirement “to be just, not only with
Foreigners, but even with [their] own subjects” with “indignation” (54).
Princes are even less inclined to give up on conquest or despotism
because the two are mutually reinforcing. Enslaved people can easily be
exploited for campaigns and those campaigns offer pretexts for that
exploitation and for having large standing armies to suppress the
people. Finally, the sheer fact of being subjected to the confederacy’s
requirements and answerable to its tribunals, quite apart from the
content of those requirements or judgments of those tribunals, will be
insufferable for princes unaccustomed to obedience of any kind (55).
Princes, Rousseau argues, will not be compelled by the sound
arguments that Saint-Pierre makes about the imprudence of conquest.
In what is perhaps Rousseau’s most persuasive correction of Saint-
Pierre, he makes the simple observation that princes will often be
moved by vain hopes rooted in an overestimation of their strengths and
underestimation of their disadvantages. Ambitious princes are unlikely
moderately to accept the limits of their power. In a similar vein,
Rousseau argues that princes will not be persuaded by the commercial
advantages that would follow from a general peace on the ground that
princes reason circularly about the acquisition of wealth and power,
sacrificing wealth for the sake of power, which is sought in part for the
sake of wealth. Furthermore, these commercial benefits will amount to
little in the minds of princes insofar as they would be common. Princes
want relative power. In their eyes, there simply is not a common good
to be had with their peers.
Having presented all of these obstacles arising from the motives of
princes, Rousseau claims that ministers will be even more opposed to a
confederation insofar as their position and the advantages they draw
from that position depend upon war abroad and despotism at home.
Without the former, they would be unneeded for counsel. And, without
the latter, they would be unable so easily to exploit the people for their
own advantage. It is hard not to find these characterizations of princes
and ministers excessive. Indeed, Rousseau himself is about to give an
account of a prince and a minister, Henri IV and the Duc de Sully, which
would suggest that they are. But Rousseau’s third criticism of the plan,
namely, that its execution is contingent upon the highly fortuitous
circumstance of not only some but all of Europe’s princes having the
wisdom to recognize the plan’s advantages, is powerful. So even if
Rousseau goes too far in suggesting that all princes and ministers are
too stupid or too wicked to embrace the plan, he can still make the very
sound argument that there will almost always be too many stupid
princes and too many wicked ministers for circumstances to favor its
realization. In the light of all of this, Rousseau renders a harsh judgment
against Saint-Pierre. While, in one breath, he praises the plan as “very
wise,” in the next, he claims that its means of execution “make one feel
the author’s simplicity” (56). Later he underscores Saint-Pierre’s naïveté
by comparing him to “a child” (57).
Yet Rousseau is at pains to deny any suggestion that “the plan for the
Christian Republic” might be “chimerical” in principle (57). There are
alternative, practicable means by which the plan could be brought to
fruition. It comes as something of a surprise, given the blistering
treatment that princes and their ministers have received thus far, that,
in Rousseau’s telling, those means have already been devised and
nearly used with success by Henri IV of France and his minister Sully. At
the time of Henri’s reign (1589-1610), the House of Hapsburg, which
ruled the Holy Roman Empire and Spain, was losing the dominance over
Europe that it had achieved in the previous generation under Charles V.
Weakened, the Hapsburgs had become vulnerable to the many states
they had offended at their zenith. Exploiting their particular grievances,
fears, and hopes, Henri forged separate alliances with England, the
newly freed Dutch Republic, Sweden, various princes of Germany,
Savoy, and the Pope, with the ultimate objective of dismantling the
Hapsburgs’ holdings across Europe. Thus Henri appealed not only to the
“common interest of bringing down a prideful power that wanted to
dominate everywhere,” but also to “very avid, very tangible” particular
interests (59).
Henri evidently understood what Saint-Pierre did not, namely, that
princes are motivated primarily by a concern for their particular
interests rather than any common interest they might share. This
awareness that princes are loath to sacrifice relative power led Henri to
understand that he had to conceal his true objective in contracting these
alliances, namely, to succeed Charles V as “the foremost potentate of
Europe” (59). He recognized that he had to assure that his allies’
reasons for joining him were “not at all balanced by the fear of
substituting one Tyrant for the other” (59). So he agreed to abstain
from the Hapsburgs’ territories himself, instead dividing them among his
allies. Of course, he recognized that he did not need to possess those
territories himself in order to achieve his objective. He needed only to
knock off the Hapsburgs.
Rousseau strikingly refrains from criticizing Henri’s deception. On the
contrary, he speaks admiringly of the skill with which he kept his secrets
for so very long. Henri managed, Rousseau recounts, to share “the
whole extent of his plan” with no more than “a single confidant,” his
minister Sully (58). Rousseau praises Sully as “a minister with
integrity”—a commendation that, on the basis of his account so far,
might seem oxymoronic (58). Nevertheless, Rousseau, in a strange way,
reaffirms that most ministers are wicked when he attributes Henri’s
having such a minister to “a good fortune which heaven grants only to
the best of Kings” (58). In other words, finding such a minister of
integrity might depend upon an act of God.
But Rousseau’s discovery of divine providence supporting Henri only
further complicates his initial presentation of princes and their ministers
as wicked and stupid. One wonders what we are to make of Rousseau’s
suggestion that God assists not the purely righteous cleric, Saint-Pierre,
but the cleverly self-interested king, Henri. In any case, it is clear that
Rousseau’s account of Henri teaches that political effectiveness is far
more likely to be seen in a prudent prince pursuing his particular
interest than in any collection of princes high-mindedly pursuing their
common interest. Contrary to what one might be tempted to think
initially, this harsh corrective to Saint-Pierre’s idealism is not cynical. For
Rousseau’s characterization of the domestic preparations that Henri
made for the Christian Republic as beneficial for his people shows that,
again contrary to his earlier statements, princes, even princes seeking
to dominate their neighbors, need not be despotic. They may recognize
as Henri did that their interest does lie in governing their people justly.
VIII. Rousseau’s Teaching
The key to Rousseau’s teaching lies in the tension between the heroes of
the “Abstract” and the “Judgment,” Saint-Pierre and Henri IV. He
encourages us to admire the moral rectitude of Saint-Pierre only to
show that having a good will is insufficient for and may even stand in
the way of achieving the object of that will. If the virtuous souls who, as
such, are inclined to admire Saint-Pierre care about the attainment of
perpetual peace, then they will have to put their hopes in prudent but
self-interested princes, such as Henri. Yet Rousseau’s general
disparagement of princes and observation that ambition and wisdom
tend not to coincide suggests that such princes are not to be counted
on. So, while the example of Henri may show that a European
confederation is not quite chimerical, it suggests that it is highly
contingent.
Political life is unlikely therefore to live up to the high hopes of Saint-
Pierre or the virtuous souls attracted to his plan. Certainly those hopes
will not be realized in the high-minded fashion favored by the pure of
heart. Rousseau evidently wishes to underscore this. For he concludes
his “Judgment” with the ambivalent observation that, if a Henri and a
Sully were to appear again in Europe, the “means” they would
necessarily use establish perpetual peace would be “violent and
formidable to humanity” (60). The immediate situation would be so
horrendous that even Rousseau, who thinks so little of the status quo,
wonders whether the creation of a “European League” would cause more
harm all at once than it would prevent for centuries” (60). Given this,
the effect of Rousseau’s simultaneous encouragement of the spirit of
Saint-Pierre and disclosure of the inefficacy of that spirit in politics is to
provoke the pure of heart to turn away from political life in resignation
to the limits of that life. While this is presumably the primary effect that
Rousseau intends with his “Abstract” and “Judgment,” this does not
preclude him from delivering an altogether different message to an
altogether different sort of reader, specifically to one of the few
ambitious and wise or potentially wise political men who might learn
from Rousseau’s account of Henri IV.
A word should be said, in conclusion, about Rousseau’s place among the
various schools of international relations theory. Because he wrote so
little about international relations directly and because his one published
work on the subject is so ambiguous, his views defy simple
categorization. His approval of the goal of perpetual peace and
dissatisfaction with the continuation of the state of nature among
nations would suggest that he belongs among the modern idealists. Yet
he evinces none of the modern idealists’ confidence that this goal would
be achieved or dissatisfaction remedied. Here, as in other areas of his
thought, Rousseau offers much more of a diagnosis of the modern
condition than a cure for it.
Emmerich de Vattel, The Law of Nations
(1758)
Credit to Carolina Kenny, Department of Defense and Strategic Studies,
Missouri State University
One of the most influential early writers on the subject of the law of
nations was the Swiss jurist and philosopher, Emmerich de Vattel. His
most famous work, Droit des gens; ou, Principes de la loi naturelle
appliqués à la conduite et aux affaires des nations et des souverains (in
English, The Law of Nations or the Principles of Natural Law Applied to
the Conduct and to the Affairs of Nations and of Sovereigns) published
in 1758, established Vattel as a major authority on the
subject.[1] Although there is a continuing debate as to the “paternity” of
international law,[2] not even Vattel’s harshest critics deny his pivotal
role.[3] According to Vincent Cheltain, no other scholar has so deeply
influenced the development of international law than Vattel. He argues
that Vattel’s thought proved to be instrumental for conceptualizing
international law as a law between states and centered
on states.[4]
Emmerich de Vattel was born in Couvet in Neuchatel,
Switzerland in 1714.[5] He studied humanities at the
University of Basel where he was exposed to the
writings of the German international jurist, Samuel
Pufendorf. Later, he pursued studies in theology and
metaphysics in Geneva and was a student of another
international law jurist, Jean-Jacques Burlamaque. He
was largely influenced in his philosophy by Gottfried Leibniz and
Christian Wolff and later attempted to integrate their ideas into the legal
and political system he envisioned.
Later, Vattel secured a diplomatic position in Berne and entered the
Saxon diplomatic service, where he acted as adviser and minister-
plenipotentiary. It was during this period of his life that he wrote and
published The Law of Nations. At the time of its publication, the Seven
Years War was taking place in Europe. The war began when Frederick
the Great invaded Augustus III’s Saxony (after the latter formed an
alliance with Maria Theresa of Austria against Prussia over the control of
the Province of Silesia).[6] Augustus III was impressed by The Laws of
Nations and, requiring competent diplomatic advisors, he appointed
Vattel to the Privy Council in 1759, and made him chief adviser of the
Government of Saxony on foreign affairs.[7]
Vattel's The Law of Nations was principally influenced by Wolff’s Jus
Gentium Methodo Scientifica Pertractum (The Law of Nations according
to the Scientific Method). Indeed, Vattel's work began by translating
Wolff's text from Latin, and adding his own thoughts. Vattel’s work was
also greatly influenced by Hugo Grotius.
Vattel’s work quickly became the most widely-referenced text of the law
of nations among diplomats and scholars. In an early 20th century
study on “the Authority of Vattel,” Charles Fenwick noted that “Vattel’s
treatise on the law of nations was quoted by judicial tribunals, in
speeches before legislative assemblies, and in the decrees and
correspondence of executive officials. It was the manual of the student,
the reference work of the statesman, and the text from which the
political philosopher drew inspiration. Publicists considered it sufficient
to cite the authority of Vattel to justify and give conclusiveness and
force to statements as to the proper conduct of a state in its
international relations.”[8] As Lapradelle stated, “of all the authors,
even the English, who have written on the law of nations, there is not
one who is more often nor more extensively cited than Vattel.”[9]
The Law of Nations had a particular impact on the American
revolutionaries of the late 18th Century and early
19th Century.[10] Vattel’s ideas were utilized to argue against the tax
burden which the British Crown levied on the American colonies. Early
American lawyers and jurists were exuberant Vattelophiles.[11] In 1775,
Benjamin Franklin received three copies of a new edition on behalf of
the Continental Congress and, in thanking his friend Charles Dumas for
sending them from the Netherlands, he remarked that they “came to us
in good season, when the circumstances of a rising State make it
necessary to frequently consult the law of nations” and that “[the book]
has been continually in the hands of the members of our Congress now
sitting.”[12]Vattel was quoted in the Constitutional Convention and in
various political tracts and judicial opinions in the early
Republic.[13] The positive legal reception of The Law of Nations in the
United States is demonstrated by the numerous quotations by the U.S.
Supreme Court.[14] The good reception that Vattel’s work received in
United States, however, stood in sharp contrast with the mixed
reception it received in Europe.[15]
Structure and Argument
The Laws of Nations is a two-volume work structured in three parts:
first, a Preface, in which the author explains motives and the guiding
principles behind the work, second, the Preliminaries, which provides a
general picture of the main ideas of the law of nations, and third,
the Four Books, which constitute the body of the work (Book Oneon the
nation in itself, Book Two on the nation and its relation with
others, Book Threeon war, and Book Four on peace and embassies).
Vattel’s ultimate aim was to produce a treatise on international law that
could provide practical guidance. The book was written specifically for
statesmen, as outlined in the Preface: “The law of nations is the law of
sovereigns. It is principally for them and for their ministers that it ought
to be written. All mankind are indeed interested in it; and, in a free
country, the study of its maxims is a proper employment for every
citizens: but it would be of little consequence to impart the knowledge of
it only to private individuals, who are not called to the councils of
nations, and who have no influence in directing the public
measures.”[16] As noted by Thevenaz, “Even the subtitle of his work
indicates that his goal is to apply the principles of natural law to the
conduct and affairs of nations and sovereigns. Thus, his domain is
essentially that of political ethics for statesmen.”[17] The scope of The
Law of Nations is actually much broader than its stated topic. It
addresses both international and internal affairs of states. Indeed,
in The Law of Nations, Vattel focuses on a wide variety of themes that
correspond to the domestic issues of governments. Vattel offers
practical guidance on many issues, including commerce,[18] the
cultivation of the soil,[19] money and exchange,[20]religion[21] and
public transportation and communication.[22]
The Swiss author’s ambition to produce a practical guide for statesmen
is evidenced in the accessibility of his writing style. Vattel wrote The
Law of Nations in French, the diplomatic language of the time, rather
than the customary Latin.[23] Vattel’s approachability led John Quincy
Adams to remark to a young friend interested in the study of foreign
affairs: “Vattel is the author most commonly resorted to in practical
diplomacy, and his work being written in a popular and easy style is
among those that you will find the least tedious in reading.”[24] (Critics,
however, have contended that The Law of Nations’ success is owed in
large part by the simplicity of its writing rather than its substance.[25])
According to Cheltain, “what facilitated and ensured the dissemination
and understanding of Vattel’s thoughts lies in his method of reasoning,
which is characterized by two features that largely appealed to
statesmen.”[26] Cheltain notes that the first feature of Vattel’s
reasoning is that it invokes common sense rather than scholarly
arguments. Indeed, according to Vattel, “it is sufficient for me to
persuade, and for this purpose to advance nothing as a principle, that
will not readily be admitted by every sensible man.”[27] Cheltain also
argues that the entire treatise is characterized by an appeal to prudence
and pragmatism.[28] Indeed, in The Law of Nations, Vattel regularly
insists on prudence as “a duty incumbent on all men”[29]and “a virtue
highly necessary in sovereigns.”[30] Likewise, Vattel advocates for a
pragmatic approach to law since “rights go hand in hand with necessity
and the exigency of the case, but never exceed them.”[31]
The second feature of Vattel’s reasoning, and perhaps even more
important than the first one, is the fact that, contrary to his
predecessors, Vattel appeals to recent history instead of biblical or
Greco-Roman eras in order to illuminate his views and persuade his
readers.[32] Indeed, Vattel explains in his Preface that, “it is principally
with a view of rendering my work palatable to those by whom it is the
most importance that it should be read and relished, that I have
sometimes joined examples to the maxims I advance: and in that idea I
have been confirmed by the approbation of one of those ministers who
are the enlightened friend of the human race, and who alone ought to
be admitted into the councils of kings. But I have been sparing in the
use of such embellishments. Without ever aiming at a vain parade of
erudition, I only sought to afford an occasional relaxation to the reader’s
mind, or to render the doctrine more impressive by an example, and
sometimes to shew that the practice of nations is conformable to the
principles laid down. . . .”[33]
Cheltain argues that the concept of national sovereignty, which is at the
heart of Vattel’s The Law of Nations, was the most decisive factor in
Vattel’s influence in the United States and the overall impact of his
work.[34] In this regard, Stephane Beaulac notes that Vattel’s aim was
the externalization of power, which was transposed from the internal
plane to the international plane.[35] Indeed, the first indicator of an
intention to externalize the internal governing authority appears in Book
One, entitled “Of Nations Considered in Themselves.” Book One focuses
at length on “topics belonging not to international law, but to the
distinct science of political or constitutional law concerning the internal
government of particular States.”[36] In the Preliminaries of The Law of
Nations, Vattel proposes that “nations or states are bodies politic,
societies of men united together for the purpose of promoting their
mutual safety and advantage by the joint efforts of their combined
strength. Such a society has her affairs and her interests; she
deliberates and takes resolutions in common; thus becoming a moral
person, who possesses an understanding and a will peculiar to herself,
and is susceptible of obligations and rights.”[37]
The public body at the head of a society of men joining together to
pursue common goals must have the power to provide order and to
rule.[38] Vattel states that “this political authority is the
sovereignty” and “he or they who are invested with it are the
sovereign.”[39] Thus, “every nation that governs itself, under what form
soever, without dependence on any foreign power, is a sovereign state.
Its rights are naturally the same as those of any other State. Such are
the moral persons who live together in a natural society, subject to the
law of nations. To give a nation a right to make an immediate figure in
this grand society, it is sufficient that it be really sovereign and
independent, that is, that it governs itself by its own authority and
laws.”[40]
It is important to note the context in which Vattel is writing his
masterpiece. As Nussbaum states, “in the eighteenth century the
countries of Western civilization presented, in comparison with
conditions of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, a picture of
relative stability.”[41] Indeed, fanatic religious wars had given way to
more orderly and limited conflicts between rulers, fought by regular
military forces. In this regard, F.S. Ruddy states that “war had ceased to
be an instrument for enforcing morality as it was seen by Grotius, but
rather it had become an accepted tool of State practice in eighteenth
century Europe, for which the State’s interests rather than objective
notions of right and wrong were the criterion.”[42] The issue of how to
regulate this new European landscape through diplomatic and legal
means was still very much the question of the day, and it is at the heart
of Vattel’s work.
The idea of the moral person representing the people is developed in
Book Three, dealing with war. Vattel defines war as “that State in which
we prosecute our right by force.”[43] Vattel starts by drawing a
distinction between public war, “that which takes place between nations
or sovereigns, and which is carried on in the name of the public power,
and by its order” and, private war, between private individuals, the right
of which is considered extinguished by the social contract through which
the individuals transferred authority to provide order and rule to the
moral person of the State.[44]
In the Preface of The Law of Nations, draws out the consequences of the
principle of state sovereignty. Vattel argues that “each sovereign State
claims, and actually possesses an absolute independence on all the
others.”[45] In the Preliminaries, Vattel provides an analogy: “Nations
being free and independent of each other, in the same manner as men
are naturally free and independent, the second general law of their
society is, that each nation should be left in the peaceable enjoyment of
that liberty which she inherits from nature. The natural society of
nations cannot subsist, unless the natural rights of each be duly
respected.[46] At the end of chapter three of Book One, which deals
with the constitution of a nation, Vattel makes it clear that “no foreign
power has a right to interfere”[47] in the internal affairs of other states
(although he offered important qualifications to this general rule).
In Book Two, titled “Of a Nation Considered in Its Relation to
Others”[48] Vattel further develops his principle of state independence
and the general rule prohibiting interference in the internal affairs of a
nation. He states that “it is an evident consequence of the liberty and
independence of nations, that all have a right to be governed as they
think proper, and that no state has the smallest right to interfere in the
government of another. Of all the rights that can belong to a nation,
sovereignty is, doubtless, the most precious, and that which other
nations ought the most scrupulously to respect, if they would not do her
as injury.[49]
Vattel then takes us to the central purpose of his treatise, which is to lay
down the principles of the law of nations “to establish on a solid
foundation the obligations and rights of nations.”[50] (In the Preface,
Vattel recognizes Hobbes as the first, to his knowledge, “who gave a
distinct, though imperfect idea, of the law of nations.”[51]) Vattel
defines his idea of the law of nations in the following terms: “The Law of
Nations is the science which teaches the rights subsisting between
nations or states, and the obligations correspondent to those
rights.”[52] He further states that “the law of nations is the law of
sovereigns; free and independent states are moral persons, whose
rights and obligations we are to establish in this
treatise.”[53] Consequently, the law of nations is a law which applies to
nations and to them solely. In this regard, as Remec states, “Vattel’s
main achievement was in outlining the sovereign state as the subject of
the law of nations,”[54] and indeed, “the sole subject of the law of
nations.”[55]
According to Fenwick, since the law of nature is the basis of Vattel's
theory of the state, it forms the basis of his system of international
law.[56] For Vattel, the law of nature is applicable to nations just like it
is applicable to human beings. He explains that “nations, or sovereign
States, are to be considered as so many free persons living together in
the state of nature.”[57] Vattel calls it the “necessary law of nations”
and contends that it is “necessary because nations are absolutely bound
to observe it.”[58] Consequently, in order to determine what the rules
of international law are, it is merely necessary to apply the law of nature
in a proper and scientific way to the affairs and the conduct of nations or
of sovereigns.[59] Fenwick notes that for Vattel “these rules differ from
those prescribed by the law of nature to individual men on certain
points, owing to the fact that the application of the law of nature to
states must be modified somewhat by the peculiar corporate personality
which they possess.”[60]
This necessary law of nations moves alongside the positive law of
nations, comprising the voluntary, the conventional and the customary
laws of nations, which “all proceed from the will of nations; the
voluntary from their presumed consent, the conventional from an
express consent, and the customary from tacit consent.”[61] Vattel
explains that the voluntary law of nations is fundamentally based on
natural law, like the necessary law of nations.[62] However, since there
is no supreme authority capable of deciding, in cases in which there is a
dispute as to the application of the natural law, it follows that, in so far
as nations are concerned, some relaxation in the application of the law
of nature is necessary. Consequently, Vattel argues that alongside the
necessary law of nations there exists the voluntary law of nations, which
consists in the adjustments that must be admitted in the rigorous
application of the law of nature by reason of the fact that there is no
recognized interpreter of it.
Vattel explains that "it is for each nation to be the judge of what its
conscience demands of it, or what it can or cannot do, or what it is
convenient or inconvenient for it to do; and, accordingly, each nation
must consider and decide whether it can perform a certain duty towards
another without failing in its duty towards itself." However, this right
does not hold where a nation is under an obligation to another. Vattel
holds that there are two classes of obligations, those which are binding
in foro interno, and those which are binding in foro externo; and as
Vattel notes only the latter give rise to corresponding rights on the part
of other parties. These rights are perfect when they carry with them the
auxiliary right of constraint; otherwise, they are imperfect and are
dependent upon voluntary fulfilment by the other party. For Vattel, “it is
the principle that, in those matters where all imperfect rights and
obligations are involved force cannot be used to constrain a free state,
which gives rise to the rules constituting the voluntary law of nations;
and since all nations must recognize that the rules of the voluntary law
are essential to the society of nations as it actually exists, it is presumed
that nations have given their consent to them.”[63]
Fenwick notes that Vattel fails to answer the question of what
determines whether or not a given right carries with it the auxiliary right
of constraint and is, therefore, a perfect right.[64] Fenwick concludes
that for Vattel, the voluntary law of nations remains to the end a
deductive and theoretical system.[65] Moreover, Vattel explains that in
addition to the voluntary law of nations there exists the conventional
law, which is the result of the treaties or accords into which nations may
enter. However, because treaties only bind those who are parties to
them, the conventional law of nations is not a universal law but a droit
particulier (a particular law). Finally, there are also certain rules
observed by nations and characterized by their long usage which
constitute the customary law of nations.[66] Vattel notes that the
details of this law do not belong “to a systematic treatise on the law of
nations." In so far as these customs are useful and reasonable, they are
binding upon nations which have given their implied consent to them;
but if they contain anything which is unjust or unlawful, they are of no
force, since nothing can oblige a nation to violate the natural law.[67]
In classifying the different types of laws of nations, Vattel follows the
ideas put forward by Wolff.[68] However, he distances himself from his
teacher when he repudiates Wolff’s derivation of the voluntary law of
nation.[69] In this regard, Wolff had developed the idea of a civitas
maxima, understood as an overarching authority instituted by nature
itself in which all nations of the world would be members. It is that
universal civil society which is presumed to have accepted the voluntary
law of nations and thus legitimized it.[70] Vattel rejects this idea
of civitas maxima and argues that “This idea does not satisfy me; nor do
I think the fiction of such a republic either admissible in itself, or capable
of affording sufficiently solid grounds on which to build the rules of the
universal law of nations, which shall necessarily claim the obedient
acquiescence of sovereign States.”[71] His idea on state independence
did not allow Vattel to accept an authority above the nation. F.C. Ruddy
observes: “Instead of a civitas maxima Vattel acknowledged that each
state was independent of every other state, to be regarded as a free
individual living in a state of nature, and recognizing no laws other than
nature’s and God’s.”[72]
Vattel’s The Law of Nations proposes that there exists a society of
nations among which there is an agreement to accept the voluntary law
of nations as a rule of law to regulate their relations.[73] As P.P. Remec
states, “Vattel was of course aware that there is no actual proof for such
an agreement among nations. But since the very existence of the
society of mankind postulates such an agreement, Vattel maintains that
this consent must be presumed as given voluntarily.” Thus, by
attempting to explain the basis for the voluntary law of nations, Vattel
relies on the fiction of a presumed consent among the members of the
society of nations instead of relying upon the fiction of the civitas
maxima.[74]
Vattel paid particular attention to issues involving neutrality and neutral
rights. Vattel defines the requirements of neutrality broadly. He
explains that neutral states have to avoid partiality toward or against
singular belligerents, and that neutral states cannot undertake to aid
one side or another unless there is a prior obligation.
According to Vattel, the structure of the law of nations made neutral
rights essential to the survival of international society. For Vattel, it is
the commercial interests of states that, in the absence of a civitas
maxima, support the maintenance of the international order. Thus, the
role of neutral states, according to Vattel, is to sustain international
trade in the face of interstate conflict. Consequently, Vattel maintains
that neutral trade cannot be sacrificed to the interests of belligerents
and notes that “it is certain, as they have no part in my quarrel, they
are under no obligation to renounce their commerce for the sake of
avoiding to supply my enemy with the means of carrying on the war
against me.”’[75] Indeed, Vattel insists, in contrast to the view that a
state that endeavored to aid a belligerent through trade could no longer
be considered neutral, that commerce between a belligerent and a
neutral power is legitimate if it results from a prior obligation or even
from mere custom.
Vattel’s arguments about the innocent passage of troops through a
neutral territory are fundamental for understanding his conception of
neutrality – and an example of the apparent inconsistencies and
ambiguities of thought, which his critics have pointed out. He begins by
declaring that innocent passage is an obligation “due to all nations with
whom a state is at peace” and “this duty extends to troops as well as to
individuals.”[76] However, this principle is then subordinated to a
condition which challenges his first premise. He states: “But it rests with
the sovereign of the country to judge whether the passage be innocent;
and it is very difficult for that of an army to be entirely so.”[77] And he
adds that since “…the passage of troops, and especially that of a whole
army, is by no means a matter of indifference, he who desires to march
his troops through a neutral country, must apply for the sovereign’s
permission.”[78] Thus, innocent passage is no longer an obligation but a
discretionary power of the neutral state. Vattel argues that “if the
neutral sovereign has good reasons for refusing a passage, he is not
obliged to grant it, the passage in that case being no longer innocent. In
all doubtful cases, we must submit to the judgment of the proprietor [. .
.], and must acquiesce in his refusal, even though we think it
unjust.”[79]
However, Vattel advances two exceptions to this right to refuse passage.
First, if the refusal of the neutral state is manifestly unjust, one can
force the passage.[80] But Vattel raises an objection to his own
exception: “[I]f he who requires the passage is to be the judge of its
innocence, he will admit none of the reasons brought against it; and
thus a door is opened to continual quarrels and hostilities. The
tranquility, therefore, and the common safety of nations, require that
each should be mistress of her own territory, and at liberty to refuse
every foreign army an entrance, when she has not departed from her
natural liberties in that respect, by treaties.”[81] Then, Vattel forgets his
own objection and moves to conclude that “if, on such an occasion, a
passage be forced, he who forces it will not be so much blamed as the
nation that has indiscreetly subjected herself to this violence.”[82]
Vattel’s second exception relies on an “urgent and absolute
necessity.”[83] However, even in such circumstances, one should first
request a passage.[84] Once this condition has been met, the passage
can be forced. The consequences he draws are plainspoken for “extreme
necessity may even authorize the temporary seizure of a neutral town [.
. .] with a view to cover ourselves from the enemy.”[85] This conclusion
appears to be at odds his previous developments on the innocent nature
of such passage. After several paragraphs written in the same vein,
Vattel concludes that “finally, as we are not bound to grant even an
innocent passage except for just causes, we may refuse it to him who
requires it for a war that is evidently unjust,—as, for instance, to invade
a country without any reason, or even colourable pretext.[86]
Impact and Criticism
Vattel’s treatment of neutrality evidences again the pivotal role he
attributes to the state. Indeed, the central role of the state also explains
the recurring ambiguity that runs through Vattel’s work. The ambiguity
appears to stem from his ambition to reconcile power and justice or to
“unite the maxims of sound policy with those of justice and equity.”[87]
As La Pradelle observes, “the main reason for his authority does not lie
within the originality of his thought, but rather within the reasonable
character of the solutions that he offers.”[88] The unprecedented
success of Vattel’s workduring the 18th century and beyond, especially
in the United States, is clear evidence of the immense impact Vattel had
in the development of international law. Koskenniemi notes, “it was a
‘realistic’ book, especially useful for diplomats and practitioners, not
least because it seemed to offer such compelling rhetoric for the
justification of most varied kinds of state action.”[89]
Most criticism about Vattel revolves around the idea that Vattel’s
success derives from the many ambiguities and contradictions found in
his work. In this regard, Lauterpacht, for example, states that Vattel
showed an “elegant manner of evasion.”[90] Furthermore, whereas
Nussbaum, referred to “the striking ambiguity of his formulas and […]
the inconsistency of many of his conclusions,”[91] White notes that, “it
is part of his charm (and no doubt of his lasting influence) that he
contains inconsistent arguments that can be used to support
contradictory policies.”[92]
Vattel’s legacy is significant. As P.F. Butler suggests, Vattel
“…recognized the major components of political life that were identified
in eighteenth-century Europe: the sovereign, the individual, the
transnational moral order, and property. He also dealt with these
components in a way that settled their relative moral significance.
Acceptance of the general thrust of his arguments contributed to the
maintenance of the balance of power system.”[93] Moreover, the link of
the words “sovereignty” and “independence” found in Vattel’s work has
been maintained into the present time by a large number of
international lawyers. Indeed as A. Hurrell states, “…it is Vattel’s
emphasis on the absolute independence of states that was the most
significant characteristic of his writing.”[94]
But perhaps most importantly is the fact that Vattel’s vision of
international law has been dominant ever since the publication of his
masterpiece and has persisted into the present. Vattel’s model has been
challenged by international lawyers calling for a new international legal
order that relates better to contemporary reality. However, as Vattel
envisioned it, the world is, in legal terms, still fundamentally a society of
sovereign, independent states.
Jeremy Bentham, Principles of
International Law (1786-1789/1843)
Credit to Carolina Kenny, Department of Defense and Strategic Studies,
Missouri State University
It was Jeremy Bentham who first coined the word international in a book
published in 1789.[1] The term appeared for the first time aligned with
the word jurisprudence. [2]International jurisprudence was put forward
by Bentham to replace the term ius gentium or law of nations, what he
deemed to be a misnomer: “The word international, it must be
acknowledged, is a new one; though, it is hoped, sufficiently analogous
and intelligible. It is calculated to express, in a more significant way, the
branch of law which goes under the name of the law of nations: an
appellation so uncharacteristic that, were it not for the force of custom,
it would seem rather to refer to internal jurisprudence.”[3]
Bentham fathered the term international law which was eventually to
replace the older phrase law of nations. Bentham explains in his text
why he preferred to invent a new word. In discussing how jurisprudence
may be classified, he suggests that it can be divided in terms of "the
political quality of the persons whose conduct is the subject of the law"
and he argues that "these (the persons) may ... be considered either as
members of the same state, or as members of different states; in the
first case, the law may be referred to the head of internal, in the second
case, to that of international jurisprudence".[4] The older phrase law of
nations, according to Bentham, refers to a certain discursive space only
through the force of custom, or convention. However, he believed that a
more appropriate designation should go beyond mere convention.
According to Bentham, the phrase law of nations is a sign relying on the
mediation of convention. Without the convention, "the force of custom,"
the phrase law of nations might be understood as one designating the
domestic, municipal law of diverse nations. On the other hand, Bentham
explains, that international is a term that stands in no need of the
mediation of custom and convention. To put it more simply, Bentham
proposed to replace the concept of the law of nations with that of
the law between nations.

Background
Jeremy Bentham, jurist and political reformer, is the philosopher whose
name is most closely associated with the foundation of the utilitarian
tradition.[5] He was born in 1748 in London and was the son of an
attorney, Jeremiah Bentham. He attended Queen’s College, Oxford and
later the Court of King’s Bench, Westminster Hall as part of his
preparation for a law career. He returned briefly to Oxford in 1763 to
attend the lectures of William Blackstone, which were published in four
celebrated volumes as Commentaries on the Laws of England (1765–
69). Bentham was not impressed by Blackstone and detected fallacies in
Blackstone’s natural law reasoning. In 1769, Bentham was called to the
Bar, but his legal career was brief. That year he discovered the utility
principle and related ideas in the writings of Hume, Helvétius and
Beccaria and chose instead a career dedicated to analytic jurisprudence,
law, social and political reform. He started his career as a legal theorist
in 1776 when he published anonymously A Fragment on Government.
This is an offshoot of a larger critique of Blackstone that was not
published until the twentieth century, titled A Comment on the
Commentaries.
Bentham’s career spanned almost seventy years, from the Seven Years’
War to the early 1830s, a period characterized by revolutions.[6] In
1776, Bentham co-authored the official British government response to
the American Declaration of Independence, anonymously, with his friend
the lawyer John Lind.[7] It was during the American war that Bentham
introduced utility as the fundamental principle of his political theory and,
as David Armitage notes, it was also then that he first attempted to
create a Universal Jurisprudence.[8] In addition, Fragment on
Government was promoted by Bentham himself as the product of a
global moment in British and human history because it was published
just after James Cook’s return from his second voyage around the world
in 1775.[9]
In the first page of Fragment on Government, Bentham notes that “ours
is a busy age; in which knowledge is rapidly advancing towards
perfection. In the natural world, in particular, everything teems with
discovery and with improvement. The most distant and recondite
regions of the earth traversed and explored ... are striking evidences,
were all others wanting, of this pleasing truth”[10] It is in Fragment on
Government that he first proposes his axiom: “it is the greatest
happiness of the greatest number that is the measure of right and
wrong.”[11]
In An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation, Bentham
introduces his basic postulates on utility and the utility
principle.[12] Worth mentioning is the role the Genevan exile Étienne
Dumont (1759–1829), would play in making Bentham’s name and
philosophy known in continental Europe and elsewhere through the
publication of a number of translations and redactions of his early
writings.[13] The most important of these were the three volumes
of Traités de législation civil et pénale in 1802, assembled from early
manuscript drafts. The first two volumes on civil and penal law were
later re-translated into English by the American utilitarian Richard
Hildreth and published as The Theory of Legislation in 1840. They
remained at the center of utilitarian studies in the English-speaking
world through to the middle of the twentieth century.[14] Bentham's
work was translated into Spanish and widely read throughout Spanish
America; it was adopted as a basic text for study at University level in
Buenos Aires and Santiago, for example. Bentham's other works would
enjoy similar admiration and his ideas were constantly cited and
debated in the republics of Spanish America.[15]
In 1786–87, while visiting Russia, he wrote A Defence of Usury, his first
text on economic affairs, in which he rejected Adam Smith’s defense of
a legal maximum for interest rates. The book later received its widest
audience in the United States, where it was reprinted on many occasions
and frequently cited in the debates over the usury laws.[16] It was in
Russia that Bentham developed the ideas that were published
in Panopticon or The Inspection House. [17] Here, taking into account
the inefficiency and inhumane conditions in Britain’s penal regime,
Bentham advanced the idea of the panopticon penitentiary as a
substitute penal system.
Principles of International Law
Bentham’s writings have presented unique challenges for scholars,
because the dates of publication were often far removed from the time
of writing. Many essays were published posthumously, and some others
have yet to appear in authoritative editions. Bentham’s work on
international law represents only a small fraction of his voluminous
written production.
As noted above, Bentham first publicly treated the law of nations in
his Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation,[18] in which
he coined the term International. Later, in his Comment on the
Commentaries,[19] which he preferred not to make the public but which
informed his other works on the topic, he developed further his critique
of the traditional notion of the law of nations.[20]
In the second half of the 1780s, Bentham drafted a series of proposals
under the general headings of “Law Inter National 1786” and
“Pacification and Emancipation.”[21] These remained incomplete and in
manuscript form until edited and published as four essays in 1843,
under the title Principles of International Law, in the second volume of
John Bowring's edition of Bentham's collected works.[22] The essays are
therefore a bit sketchy and reflect the editor’s choice about what to
include or omit.
The four essays deal with international matters, but it is the
first, Objects of International Law and the fourth essay, A Plan for an
Universal and Perpetual Peace, which identifies most clearly Bentham's
aims for international law.[23] According to M.W. Janis, “Bentham's
basic technique in the essays was to apply his utilitarian methods to
international law, much as he had applied utilitarianism to municipal
law.”[24]
Objects of International Law begins with the following explanation: "If a
citizen of the world had to prepare an universal international code, what
would he propose to himself as his object? It would be the common and
equal utility of all nations: this would be his inclination and his
duty."[25] Bentham initially questions whether a particular legislator,
being a citizen of one nation, could at the same time be trusted to
develop laws for the whole world. He attempts to resolve the dilemma
by arguing in favor of surrendering national self-interest: "But ought the
sovereign of a state to sacrifice the interests of his subjects for the
advantage of foreigners? Why not?-provided it be in a case, if there be
such a one, in which it would have been praiseworthy in his subjects to
make the sacrifice themselves."[26] His point of departure is the
utilitarian principle of the “greatest happiness for the greatest number.”
He explains it as follows:
[H]e [the legislator] would follow the same route which he would follow
with regard to international laws. He would set himself to prevent
positive international offences - to encourage the practice of positively
useful actions.
He would regard as a positive crime every proceeding-every
arrangement, by which the given nations should do more evil to foreign
nations taken together, whose interests might be affected, than it
should do good to itself.
In the same manner, he would regard as a negative offence every
determination, by which the given nation should refuse to render
positive services to a foreign nation, when the rendering of them would
produce more good to the last-mentioned nation, than it would produce
evil to itself.[27]
As David Armitage notes, “Bentham’s international legal writings applied
the principle of utility not only to the relations between sovereigns
assovereigns but also to the relations of sovereigns with the rest of
humanity taken as an aggregate.”[28] Indeed, Bentham argues that the
extension of the greatest happiness principle to include all nations is
essential if the legislator’s duty to promote the welfare of his own people
is not to be prosecuted at the expense of the well-being of all others.
Bentham states that “expressed in the most general manner, the end
that a disinterested legislator upon international law would propose to
himself, would therefore be the greatest happiness of all nations taken
together. The resulting international code would have as its ‘substantive’
laws the laws of peace, while the laws of war ‘would be the adjective
laws of the same code.”[29]

Bentham views war as "a species of procedure by which one nation

endeavors to enforce its rights at the expense of another
nation."[30] His work concludes with proposals to prevent war, namely
the codification of unwritten laws which are considered as established by
custom.[31] For Bentham, wars could be prevented by dealing more
methodically with the various causes of a conflict, by elaborating new
international rules where no such rules exist, and by making unwritten
customs explicit. Moreover, Bentham saw internal and international law
as equally suitable for reform along utilitarian lines, even as he firmly
separated the two realms. As Armitage contends, “in that separation he
was of course definitively distancing himself from the natural
jurisprudential conflation of the law of nations with the law of nature
which he so frequently denounced in all his legal and political
writings.”[32]
Even if the ideas presented by Bentham seem at times incomplete, it is
evident that Bentham believes firmly in the idea that better international
laws could reduce the chances of war. Moreover, he expects that better
laws will be written. In Janis’s view, “it may be that in his own mind
Bentham was better able to reconcile his skepticism about the old law of
nations with his optimism about the new international law by believing
that the law of nations was too much founded on the vague unwritten
rules of customary law.”[33]
The central theme of his Plan for a Universal and Perpetual Peace essay
is that, in order to establish world peace, nations should sacrifice
national self-interest. He addresses proposals to all nations, especially to
England and France, which include giving up of colonies, establishing
free trade, reducing the navies to what is necessary to protect against
pirates and the mutual reduction of the size of armies.[34]
Nevertheless, according to Bentham, even if these reforms were to be
adopted, there could still be conflicts among nations because
"[w]herever there is any difference of opinion between the negotiators
of two nations, war is to be the consequence."[35]Thus, he suggests
that to prevent disputes nations should agree to establish an
international court of arbitration or, in his own words, "a common court
of judicature." Bentham envisions this court as “a Congress or Diet”
composed of representatives of each country.
As envisioned by Bentham, the international court would work by
establishing gradual responses. The first response would be the mere
reporting of the Court’s opinion. The second response would be the
circulation of the opinion in each nation so as to stimulate a favorable
public reaction. The third response would be “putting the refractory
state under the ban of Europe.” And fourth, as last resort, participating
states would contribute and deploy armed contingents "for enforcing the
decrees of the court."[36]
In a manuscript written during the 1820’s, following on this theme,
Bentham proposed a legislative alliance among “all civilized nations,”
each to be represented by an envoy at a congress with both judicial and
legislative authority.[37] In this regard, Bentham was critical of
Emmerich de Vattel, the last of the great modern writers on the law of
nations. Bentham regarded Vattel’s formulation as an inadequate
foundation for a new international order. He argued that only an
international order “grounded on the greatest happiness principle, ...
would, if the plan and execution be more moral and intellectual than
Vattels, possess a probability of superseding it, and being referred to in
preference.”[38]
The context of Bentham’s position rested on the contemporary
resurgence of interest in Vattel’s work, evidenced in new editions and
translations of Vattel throughout Europe. Bentham reportedly remarked
in 1827 or 1828 that “Vattel’s propositions are most old-womanish and
tautological. They come to this: Law is nature—Nature is law. He builds
upon a cloud. When he means anything, it is from a vague perception of
the principle of utility; but more frequently no meaning can be found.
Many of his dicta amount to this: It is not just to do that which is
unjust.”[39] Nevertheless, Bentham’s plan for a code of International
Law never came to completion.
Bentham’s Contribution
Bentham’s philosophical foundations are based on a calculative view of
human nature. Human beings and by extension states are rational
calculators who aimed to maximize the quantum of happiness. This
happiness is a function of the balance between that which man is
governed in his nature by the twin masters of pleasure and
pain.[40]Principles of International Law reflects Bentham’s chief
aspiration: the necessity for law reform.[41] As Janis argues, “it should
be no surprise that Bentham brought his reformatory zeal, albeit briefly,
to international, as well as to municipal law. Realist and idealist-
Bentham displayed both the skepticism and the romanticism that still
invests the discipline he named.”[42]
Bentham believed in the need of a positive code of international law to
replace the idea of the “law of nations.” At the heart of this codification
is a belief-system. Bentham assumed that if people could only be made
to understand the rules, and as error was removed from perception,
universal rules could then be drafted and followed. Bentham thought
that the same principle could be applied to the law on a global scale.
Bentham perceived the inadequacies of existing codes of law as they
related to the international realm and advanced his critique of the idea
of the “law of nations,” which led him to embrace a distinctly different
view of “international law.”
A number of scholars argue that Bentham’s essays indicate that he was
certainly concerned with international relations; however, he does not
appear to delve at all profoundly into international law itself.[43] In this
regard, H.B. Jacobini argues that while the four essays “present an
interesting commentary on international relations, they contain little of
note concerning the nature of international law.”[44] However, as
mentioned above, before Bentham coined the term, international law
had not even received a proper distinctive name. In this regard, one of
his most significant legacies to the international law field is his
nomenclature.
Bentham was called during his lifetime “legislator of the
world”.[45] Although his efforts to codify international law failed in his
own time, the impact of codification of law cannot be underestimated.
Indeed, for Bentham, if the world could be codified by international law
then uncertainty could be banished. With uncertainty gone, security and
ultimately peace would surely prevail. For Bentham, codification meant
replicating European civilization through legal codes to the rest of the
world.[46] This in short was Bentham’s ideal.
It can be argued that Jeremy Bentham for his part was a visionary.
International legal theorists and historians cannot deny the fact that the
codification and institutionalization of many forms of international law
took time but indeed took place. Examples of this can be seen from the
Geneva Conventions to the World Trade Organization and the
International Court of Justice. And despite all of their imperfections,
were they not in existence, the world, in search of peace and security,
would probably create them again.
Immanuel Kant, Perpetual Peace: A
Philosophic Sketch (1795)
Credit to Zachary Bennett, University of Texas at Austin
Kant and the Birth of Modern Idealism
The classic source of modern idealism in international relations theory is
Immanuel Kant’s 1795 essay “Perpetual Peace: A Philosophic Sketch.”
There, the German philosopher (1724-1804) takes up the question of
whether perpetual peace is the preserve of men in their graves.
Answering in the negative, Kant delineates the conditions necessary for
the establishment of perpetual peace among nations, argues that
statesmen are morally obligated to seek those conditions, and assures
us that those conditions will eventually obtain. He envisions the world
slowly progressing toward a federation of independent republics at
peace with one another.
In important ways, Kant’s “Perpetual Peace” constitutes a fundamental
break with the tradition of modern realism begun by Machiavelli and
Hobbes. Most important is Kant’s insistence that morality must guide
foreign policy. Yet Kant does not return to pre-modern idealism. On the
contrary, he follows and even radicalizes Hobbes’s characterization of
the status quo as a state of nature. Insofar as his advocacy of a
worldwide federation of states is animated by an aversion to this
condition, one can say that Kant’s idealistic position emerges
dialectically out of Hobbes’s realistic position. Indeed, Kant follows a
path that emerges out of Hobbes’s thought, namely, escaping the state
of nature among nations by means of a social contract. Furthermore,
Kant’s prediction that perpetual peace can and will be realized is only a
more intense expression of the hopefulness for human progress that
marks modern thought from the beginning. Kant’s emphasis on the
good that philosophers, if permitted to express themselves freely in
public, can do betrays far greater confidence in the good of
enlightenment than the pre-modern idealists ever had.
Preliminary Articles of a Perpetual Peace
Kant lays out six articles of perpetual peace, which together constitute
the First Section of the essay. He proceeds, in the Second Section, to
identify three definitive articles of perpetual peace. These articles are
followed by a series of supplements and appendices. The distinction
Kant draws between preliminary and definitive articles of perpetual
peace makes clear from the outset that he regards the achievement of
perpetual peace as a long, gradual process. As their name suggests, the
preliminary articles are necessary but insufficient first steps toward that
goal.
As Kant explains in his more systematic account of international
relations in The Metaphysics of Morals, states, in their external relations
with one another, exist in “a state of nature…hence in a condition of
constant war” (53). Because there is no common legal authority to
which it might appeal in this condition, a state, if it “believes that it has
been injured by another state,” “is entitled to resort to violence” (56).
Kant insists that even though no state can do injustice to another in this
condition given that it is “devoid of right,” the condition is “in the
highest degree unjust in itself.” Neighboring states are therefore “bound
to abandon such a condition” in favor of “a federation of peoples in
accordance with the idea of an original social contract, so that states will
protect one another against external aggression while refraining from
interference in one another’s internal disagreements” (54). The six
preliminary articles of perpetual peace aim at producing the conditions
under which such a federation can be formed. Adhering to them is the
first thing that states must do in fulfilling the duty to abandon the state
of nature.
The six preliminary articles are as follows.
1. No conclusion of peace shall be considered valid as such if it
was made with a secret reservation of the material for a future
war.
2. No independently existing state, whether it be large or small,
may be acquired by another state by inheritance, exchange,
purchase or gift.
3. Standing armies will gradually be abolished altogether.
4. No national debt shall be contracted in connection with the
external affairs of the state.
5. No state shall forcibly interfere in the constitution and
government of another state.
6. No state at war with another shall permit such acts of hostility
as would make mutual confidence impossible during a future
time of peace. Such acts would include the employment of
assassins or poisoners, breach of agreements, the instigation of
treason within the enemy state.
The first article seems to be a mere point of semantics. Since peace is
by definition perpetual, whenever any party to an agreement ending
hostilities makes a secret reservation of material for a future war, peace
has not really been concluded. But this article actually gets at the heart
of Kantian morality. As Kant explains in the second appendix to
“Perpetual Peace,” “the transcendental formula of public right” consists
in the proposition that “[a]ll actions affecting the rights of other human
beings are wrong if their maxim is not compatible with their being made
public” (126). This criterion of publicity derives from the more
fundamental criterion of universality. As Kant writes in the Groundwork
of the Metaphysic of Morals, the fundamental moral duty, or the
categorical imperative, is to “[a]ct as if the maxim of your action were
to become through your will a universal law of nature” (89). To make a
secret reservation of the material for a future war in concluding a peace
treaty would be to violate this duty. The secrecy of the action indicates
that the actor could not will that all other states act similarly. The
imperative of publicity and, more fundamentally, of universality shows
that the Kantian statesmen cannot be concerned exclusively with the
particular interest of his country. His pursuit of national interest must be
regulated by the categorical imperative. The remaining articles are
further examples of this.
Articles 2-5 are all aimed at obviating or mitigating the causes of war.
Kant’s explanation of the second article, like the first, has a somewhat
academic character. States are societies of men and, by definition, are
not possessions to be transferred among princes. The practical
significance of this point, however, is that the proprietary view that
rulers take of their states causes conflict and, what is more, runs afoul
of the rights of their subjects, who, in the characteristic formula of
Kantian morality, ought to be regarded not as mere means but as ends
in themselves (94).
The prohibition on standing armies contemplated by Article 3 similarly
aims not only at diminishing the likelihood of war but also at protecting
“the rights of man in one’s own person” (95). With respect to the
former, Kant views the accumulation of relative power of any kind,
whether military, financial, or diplomatic, as an incitement to one’s
neighbors. In the state of nature, it amounts to a threat that triggers
“the right of anticipatory attack” (56). With respect to protecting the
rights of man, Kant distinguishes citizens’ voluntarily undergoing
periodic military training to secure themselves and their country from
“the hiring of men to kill or to be killed,” which he likens to using men
“as mere machines and instruments” (95). A “citizen,” he explains,
“must always be regarded as a co-legislative member of the state (i.e.,
not just as a means, but also an end in himself), and he must therefore
give his free consent through his representatives not only to the waging
of war in general, but also to ever particular declaration of war” (55).
The fourth article is intended to combat a modern innovation, the credit
system, that Kant worries will do away with one of the age-old limits on
warfare, scarce resources. The fifth article’s prohibition on forcible
interference in the domestic politics of another state precludes a whole
category of warfare, one that, as we shall see, we might not expect Kant
to rule out. The internal lawlessness of a state, Kant reasons, does not
amount to an injury to other states. Those other states therefore have
no justification for interfering. Here we see the concept of autonomy, so
central to Kant’s understanding of the moral relations of human beings,
applied to states.
While Kant accepts that wars will go on for some time, he insists, in the
final preliminary article, that war be conducted in such a way that it
does not make future peace impossible. The premise of this article is
that, if peace is ever to be concluded between warring states, there
must be some modicum of trust between those states even when they
are at war with one another. For, should a peace treaty be concluded
between states that do not trust one another to keep their word, that
treaty will be a dead letter. Without mutual trust, each state will be
secretly preparing for a resumption of hostilities. According to the first
preliminary article, such an agreement does not even count as a
genuine peace treaty. The bleak outcome of this dynamic, Kant warns,
is “a war of extermination,” which would eliminate the possibility of
perpetual peace (96). Kant claims that “diabolical arts” such as “the
employment of assassins…or poisoners, breach of agreements, the
instigation of treason…within the enemy state” and even “the
employment of spies” “inevitably lead to such a war” and are therefore
prohibited (96-97). They all destroy the conditions of trust among
warring states and therewith the preconditions for perpetual peace.
Kant’s explanation of the sixth preliminary article surprisingly contains a
statement on punitive war. He argues that the very concept of punitive
warfare is incoherent on the grounds that “war is only a regrettable
expedient for asserting one’s rights by force within a state of nature,
where no court of justice is available to judge with legal authority” (96).
In the absence of such a court, “neither party can be declared an unjust
enemy, for this would presuppose a judge’s decision; only
the outcome of the conflict, as in the case of a so-called ‘judgment of
God’, can decide who is right” (96). While Kant does not make clear why
he includes this critique of retributive war in his explanation of Article 6,
the reason would seem to be that retributive war, like spying and the
other diabolical arts, eliminates the possibility of mutual trust among
warring states and gives rise to wars of extermination. Thus Kant
indicates that not only immoralism in warfare but also moralism in
warfare stands in the way of perpetual peace. In this respect, we find
Kant in the camp of Hobbes and the modern realists over and against
Thomas Aquinas and the Christian just war tradition. Kant’s idealism is
modern and not medieval insofar as it rules out the only form of warfare
that the medieval idealists approved of. This distinction sheds light on
Kant’s understanding of the place of morality in international relations.
He agrees with Hobbes that the state of war is amoral, but insists that
there is a moral obligation to escape this state. War, for Kant, can be
just in the sense that it is so limited as to hasten this escape but not in
the sense that it entails the just prosecution of a wrongdoer.
In some ways Kant’s preliminary articles of peace reflect a moderate
acceptance of the limits to achieving perpetual peace in the short term.
These articles do not outlaw war, they merely regulate it. The
designation “preliminary” indicates that adherence to these articles is
merely a first step toward that goal. What is more, Kant allows states
“subjective latitude” in following Articles 2-4. There are circumstances,
he admits, in which following these articles would hinder rather than
promote the goal. But he is at pains to make clear that this allowance
does not entail any compromise on the goal. “[A]ny delay,” he explains,
“is permitted only as a means of avoiding a premature implementation
which might frustrate the whole purpose of the article” (97). No end
other than the establishment of perpetual peace can justify deviation
from these articles.
Given this, one can only regard Kant’s position as entailing a radical
reorientation of the ends of foreign policy. It is a reorientation from
national ends to cosmopolitan ends. More fundamentally, it is, as Kant
makes clear in the first appendix, a moral reorientation, from
expediency to duty. Kant emphatically breaks with the Hobbesian
outlook underlying modern realism, in which morality is conceived as “a
general doctrine of expediency, i.e. a theory of the maxims by which
one might select the most useful means of furthering one’s own
advantage” (116). This is no morality at all, according to Kant. For the
core of morality is duty, the fulfillment of which involves subordinating
one’s own good to principle. Contra Hobbes, Kant insists that “all politics
must bend the knee before right” (125). Kant takes particular exception
to the “realistic” view that man cannot do what he ought to do, for
example, the “man will never want to do what is necessary in order to
attain the goal of eternal peace” (117). Our knowledge of human nature
is too limited, in Kant’s view, to make such a prediction. We do not have
sufficient grounds for abandoning the hope for perpetual peace or, in
turn, the dutiful pursuit of perpetual peace. The “realistic” view must be
combated not only because it is false but also because it is a self-
fulfilling prophecy. If people are convinced that perpetual peace is
impossible, then it will not come about.
Kant holds out as exemplary the “moral politician, i.e., someone who
conceives of the principles of political expediency in such a way that
they can co-exist with morality” while condemning the “political
moralist, i.e. one who fashions his morality to suit his own advantage as
a statesman” (118). The former makes it his “duty” to assure that “any
faults which could not have been prevented…in the political constitution
or in the relations between states…are corrected as soon as
possible…even if selfish interests have to be sacrificed” (118). As in his
description of the preliminary articles, Kant here concedes that the
moral politician need not correct these faults immediately. Indeed, he
ought not to do so unless or until it is certain that the can actually
succeed in correcting them. For instance, a revolution may ultimately be
required in order to correct the constitution of a state, but it ought not
to be undertaken until the state is prepared for such a correction.
Definitive Articles of a Perpetual Peace
In his three definitive articles of a perpetual peace, Kant lays out the
necessary and sufficient conditions for the achievement of perpetual
peace. The guiding premise is that “that state of peace must be formally
instituted, for a suspension of hostilities is not in itself a guarantee of
peace” (98). In this respect, Kant is simply applying Hobbes’s argument
to international relations. Unlike Hobbes, Kant thinks that it is necessary
and possible formally to institute a state of peace among nations just as
it is among men. He affirms that, in a state of nature, that is, in the
absence of a common authority, the mere existence of a state
permanently threatens every other state such that any of those others
may take “hostile action” against it even though that state may not have
“actively injured” them (98). The only way out of this dynamic is the
establishment of “some kind of civil constitution,” in the case of
international relations, “a constitution based on the international right of
states in their relationships with one another (ius gentium)” (98). The
“founding of such a union in the most comprehensive form possible”
becomes, in Kant’s theory, “the rightful basis of all political prudence”
(129). As we shall see, the character of this union, the extent to which it
resembles a state, is not entirely clear. Kant’s concern to establish
peace is counterbalanced by his concern to preserve the freedom of
states and of their inhabitants.
Perpetual peace depends not only upon establishing an international civil
constitution, which Kant takes up in the second definitive article, but
also upon establishing republican civil constitutions within each state.
This is the subject of the first definitive article, in which Kant articulates
what has come to be called “democratic peace theory.” According to
Kant “A republican constitution is founded upon three principles: firstly,
the principle of freedom for all members of society (as men); secondly,
the principle of the dependence of everyone upon a single common
legislation (as subjects); and thirdly, the principle of legal equality for
everyone (as citizens)” (99). This, in Kant’s view, is the only legitimate
constitution. The establishment of such constitutions in the nations of
the world also happens to serve the goal of perpetual peace. For, under
a republican constitution, popular consent is required for a state to go to
war and that consent is unlikely to be forthcoming given the various
sacrifices the people would be required to make in waging war. A major
cause of war over history, in Kant’s view, is that states’ going to war has
generally been determined by princes for whom war does not entail
much in the way of sacrifice.
This has been an extremely influential argument. But it almost always
travels under the misleading heading “democratic peace theory,” despite
the distinction Kant draws between republicanism and democracy.
According to Kant, states can be classified in terms of “the different
persons who exercise supreme authority”—one (autocracy), several
(aristocracy), or all (democracy)—or in terms of “the way in which the
nation is governed by its ruler, whoever that may be”—separated
legislature and executive (republic), or united legislature and executive
(despotism) (100-101). The separation of legislative and executive
powers requires a representative form of government, in Kant’s view.
And, in democracies, the people are ruled by themselves rather than by
representatives. Autocracies and aristocracies, while imperfect, are
more likely to partake of “the spirit of a representative system” and
have the potential to become republican “by gradual reforms” whereas
democracies can only become republican “by means of a violent
revolution” (101). Democratic despotism is, in Kant’s eyes, the worst
form of government. This is what “the so-called ‘republics’ of antiquity”
really were (102). Of course, these so-called republics of antiquity
tended toward bellicosity. Their example shows that popular consent
alone does not necessarily lessen the likelihood of war and may even
augment it. The character of the people and their representatives in
republics, perhaps especially modern republics in which private and
commercial life is elevated, must be more pacific than that of the
ancient assemblies.
Kant envisions republics, impelled by their natural inclination “to seek
perpetual peace,” to form a federation of states “securing the freedom
of each state in accordance with the idea of international right” (104).
Yet states need not passively wait for their neighbors to join such a
federation of their own accord. On the contrary, “[e]ach nation, for the
sake of its own security, can and ought to demand of the others that
they should enter along with it into a constitution, similar to a civil one,
within which the rights of each could be secured” (102). This, again, is
the logic of Hobbes’s state of nature. The primary obstacle to the
establishment of such an international federalism, Kant suggests, is the
pride that makes states, or their rulers, cling to their independence. To
combat this, Kant, appealing to their pride or shame, compares them to
the savages who “cling to their lawless freedom…the freedom of folly to
the freedom of reason” (103).
Another obstacle that Kant must overcome is the widespread impression
that the prevailing state of affairs among nations is not so dreadful, that
it is not entirely bereft of justice but rather ordered according to the
traditional ius gentium or right of nations. Kant disparages theorists of
the right of nations, singling out Grotius, Pufendorf, and Vattel in
particular, as “sorry comforters” whose writings are appealed to
whenever they can be used to justify war but never are effective in
keeping states from going to war (103). These theorists fail to
understand that the establishment of right among nations requires the
establishment of some common authority with the capacity to constrain
states to conform to right (103). For all his lamenting of the status quo,
Kant does see in the appeals to right made by states, however
disingenuous, a sign that “man possesses a greater moral capacity, still
dormant at present, to overcome eventually the evil principle within
him…and to hope that others will do likewise” (103). Here, we see a sign
of the progressive hope animating “Perpetual Peace.”
Kant’s extension of Hobbes’s argument to international relations would
seem to culminate in the establishment of a sovereign world state and
an annihilation of all existing states (or all but one). Yet Kant explicitly
distinguishes his call for a federation of states from a call for a sovereign
world state. States, insofar as “they already have a lawful internal
constitution,” Kant reasons, have a certain dignity that individuals in the
state of nature lack. They “have outgrown the coercive right of others to
subject them to a wider legal constitution in accordance with their
conception of right” (104). Hence it would be unjust to compel states to
give up their independent existence. The only just way for states to
fulfill the duty to pursue peace is to form a federation aimed, unlike a
mere “peace treaty,” at ending “all wars for good” and guaranteeing the
freedom of each of its members (104). Yet Kant goes on to suggest that
states voluntarily subsuming themselves under one world state is the
“only…rational way in which states coexisting with other states can
emerge from the lawless condition of pure warfare” (105). But states
will not voluntarily do this, perhaps because they are too proud. “[A]n
enduring and gradually expanding federation likely to prevent war” is
the best available alternative (105). It is suboptimal because it cannot
guarantee that “the current of man’s inclination to defy the law and
antagonize his fellows” will never burst “forth anew” (105). One can add
that there are a host of practical questions about how a federation of
states will effectively enforce the law that Kant insists is essential for
perpetual peace.
In the final definitive article of a perpetual peace, Kant argues that
states must treat foreigners hospitably, that is, not treat them “with
hostility, so long as [they behave] in a peaceable manner” (106). This
right to hospitality stems, according to Kant, from man’s “right to
communal possession of the earth’s surface” (106). By nature, no man
has any superior claim to any part of the earth. Over history, of course,
the earth has been divided into states. While Kant does not question the
legitimacy of national divisions, he does insist that individuals retain the
right to travel and establish themselves around the world as long as
they do so peacefully. Kant indicates that this article aims to promote
the cosmopolitanism needed for perpetual peace. “In this way,” he
writes, “continents distant from each other can enter into peaceful
mutual relations which may eventually be regulated by public laws, thus
bringing the human race nearer and nearer to a cosmopolitan
constitution” (106).
In seeking to foster this cosmopolitan spirit, Kant opposes the
imperialist policies of eighteenth-century Europe. Claiming territory
around the world as though it were uninhabited, Europeans fail to fulfill
the duty of peaceful travel that corresponds to the right of hospitality. In
identifying commerce as the cause of Europe’s imperial exploits, Kant
indicates a limit to Montesquieu’s hopeful predictions of the pacific
effects of international trade. Kant sees no good in this imperialism. Not
only is it unjust, it is also unprofitable and, given European pretensions
to piety, hypocritical (107).
On the Guarantee of a Perpetual Peace
Kant’s progressivism, which distinguishes him from previous theorists of
international relations, comes to sight most vividly in the first
supplement to “Perpetual Peace,” titled “On the Guarantee of a
Perpetual Peace” (108). There he assures us that “Perpetual peace
is guaranteed by no less an authority than the great
artist Nature herself” (108). (Kant speculates that divine providence
may guarantee perpetual peace, but refrains from speaking of it here on
the grounds that such speculation is outside the “bounds of possible
experience,” i.e., the realm of reason.) It turns out that our natural,
amoral or even immoral inclinations lead us toward perpetual peace in
spite of ourselves. Nature, Kant explains, has “taken care that human
beings are able to live in all the areas where they are settled…driven
them in all directions by means of war, so that they inhabit even the
most inhospitable regions…[a]nd…compelled them by the same means
to enter into more or less legal relationships” (109-10).
Kant argues that human beings have a deeply ingrained natural
inclination to bellicosity connected to their love of honor (111-12). While
this would seem to undermine any hope of establishing perpetual peace,
it actually sets off a dynamic that ends in the realization of precisely this
hope. Scattered across the globe, in large part as a result of war, “each
people would find itself confronted by another neighbouring people
pressing upon it, thus forcing it to form itself internally into a state in
order to encounter the other as an armed power” (112). The formation
of a state does not presuppose moral goodness on the part of the
citizens; it is sufficient to construct institutions that channel their
naturally selfish inclinations in such a way that “compel one another to
submit to coercive laws, thereby producing a condition of peace within
which the laws can be enforced” (113). Submission by all to law is an
essential dimension of republicanism, which, as previously noted, serves
the cause of perpetual peace. The establishment of such “a good
political constitution” is what makes it possible for the people “to attain
a good level of moral culture” (113).
Nature also promotes the realization of international right by
maintaining “the separate existence of many independent adjoining
states” (113). It does this by means of linguistic and religious
differences, which keep the nations from intermingling. Kant
acknowledges that these differences can cause war, but he claims that
they prevent a greater evil, namely, “an amalgamation of separate
nations under a single power which has overruled the rest and created a
universal monarchy” (113). Such a world state would necessarily be “a
soulless despotism,” which would, in turn, “lapse into anarchy” (113).
Here we see Kant’s concern for freedom qualifying his argument for
world government. Kant suggests that the enduring division of the world
into separate nations is not as inimical to peace as it might seem. He
blithely predicts that, “as culture grows and men gradually move
towards greater agreement over their principles,” the linguistic and
religious difference separating nations “lead to mutual understanding
and peace” (114). He also assures us that “peace is created and
guaranteed by an equilibrium of forces and a most vigorous rivalry”
(114). In other words, a balance of power can serve the cause of peace.
Even as nature separates states in these ways, it unifies them by way of
their natural inclination for material gain. “[T]he spirit of commerce,”
Kant claims, “sooner or later takes hold of every people, and it cannot
exist side by side with war” (114). Recognizing that commerce and the
gain that comes from it depends upon peace, states are driven by non-
moral motives to prevent the outbreak of war. Despite his awareness of
the dangers of commercial imperialism, Kant here echoes Montesquieu
in identifying the pacifying effects of commerce.
Kant’s aim here and throughout the essay is to show that there are
grounds for expecting that the goal perpetual peace, the object of our
moral duty, will be achieved, that it is “more than an empty chimera”
(114). He is concerned to provide encouragement to those who might
doubt the practicability of this goal and might, for that reason, be
discouraged from fulfilling their duty. Yet the argument that the
achievement of perpetual peace is inevitable, even providentially
ordained, raises questions about whether it is necessary for moral men
to pursue that goal. This, finally, is the paradox of “Perpetual Peace.”
This paradox presents in sharp relief the two poles of Kant’s idealism:
his subordination of expediency to duty in the conduct of foreign policy
and his expectation that right will ultimately prevail among nations.

The Geographical Pivot of History by

Halford J. Mackinder (1919)
In 1904, British geographer Halford J. Mackinder presented a landmark
paper, "The Geographical Pivot of History," to the Royal Geographic
Society of London. In this and subsequent writings, Mackinder argued
that changes in technology—especially the revolution in land
transportation brought about by the railroad, the internal combustion
engine, and the construction of a modern highway and road network—
had altered the relationship between sea and land power, bringing the
Columbian age of dominant sea power to a close. In this new, tightly
connected global system, land power would hold the advantage. The
center of emerging land power was the Eurasian core area—the
geographical pivot, roughly coincident with the tsarist Russian empire—
that Mackinder would come to call the Heartland. This core area was
inaccessible to sea power and therefore was capable of being exploited
by a land power seeking to dominate the Eurasian "World-Island" from
its continental fortress. Surrounding the Heartland were two crescents:
first, a wholly maritime outer crescent consisting of the Americas, the
British Isles, Australia, and sub-Saharan Africa; and second, an inner
crescent (partly maritime, partly continental) that extended along the
Eurasian littoral, including most of continental Europe west of Russia,
the Maghreb, the Middle East, and continental South, Southeast, and
East Asia. Most of the world’s population, and its great civilizations,
inhabited this crescent.
Because of its location, Mackinder believed that the
inner crescent would be a permanent zone of
conflict. If a land power expanded over these
marginal areas of Europe and Asia, it would obtain
vast resources for building a naval fleet capable of
overwhelming the outer crescent, the ring of
islands and outer continents that surrounded the
World Island. World empire would then be in sight.
They key to world politics in the early 20th
century, as Mackinder saw it, was the struggle between Russia and
Germany for control of the Heartland and adjacent areas, especially
Eastern Europe. For Mackinder, Eastern Europe was the gateway to and
from the Heartland, which later led him to offer his famous formulation.
Who rules Eastern Europe commands the Heartland
Who rules the Heartland commands the World-Island
Who rules the World-Island commands the world
Mackinder revised his geographical definition of the Heartland several
times over the next few decades. To reflect on the lessons and
consequences of World War I, he published a collection of his major
essays on geopolitics (a term he disliked), entitled Democratic Ideals
and Reality. He later raised the possibility that the Heartland could be
balanced by the powers of what he called the "Midland Basin"—Western
Europe and North America—the countries that surrounded the "Midland
Ocean." Mackinder’s conception of security influenced the negotiators at
Versailles in 1919, the debate over British strategy in the inter-war
years, and the American policy of containing the Soviet Union during the
Cold War.
For more detailed reflections on Mackinder, geography and politics,
see this essay by Professor Christopher Flannery of Azusa Pacific
University.
Giulio Douhet, The Command of The Air
(1921/1927)
Credit to Nicholas Morrow
Giulio Douhet, an Italian army officer who never learnt to fly, first
published one of military theory’s most recognized and controversial
works on airpower, The Command of The Air, in 1921. Just three years
after the end of the First World War and the first widespread use of
airplanes in warfare, this new technology had yet to be fully integrated
into military strategy. Douhet advocated a new strategic application for
what he identified as the airplane’s superior capabilities in order to avoid
the destructive stalemate of the First World War in future wars.
Promising a quick and decisive end to war, The Command of The
Air synthesized concepts, namely strategic bombing, an independent air
force, the dominance of an offensive strategy, and breaking the will of
the civilian population, among others, which contributed to the
development of the modern air force. Though he was one of many who
reflected on airpower’s rapid strategic development, Douhet “stated the
case for airpower as no one else did—with all the stops out.”[1] This
essay will trace the development of Douhet’s concepts of airpower, as
identified by his critics and military historians, from his early military
career to The Command of The Air.
The Command of The Air was originally published by the Italian Ministry
of War. However, there are several editions and translations. The most
widely read is Douhet’s second edition, published in 1927. Besieged by
criticism from the Italian Army and Navy and nearing the end of his life,
Douhet added material to the approximately 80-page first edition to
defend his opinions even more forcefully. Douhet would pass away in
1930. Still yet, a third edition with an introduction by Italo Balbo, one of
Benito Mussolini’s closest Lieutenants and supporter of Douhet, was
published in 1932. Then, a fourth edition published by the Italian Air
Force in 1955 was issued to commemorate the 25th anniversary of
Douhet’s death. For the definitive English language version, Dino
Ferrari’s 1942 translation of the second edition, published by Coward
McCann and then re-printed by the U.S. Office of Air Force History in
1983 and again in 1998, stands out. This version is in fact a collection of
Douhet’s principal writings, of which The Command of The Air comprises
one of the four collected works translated by Ferrari. Though there are
other English language translations, Ferrari’s is the most widely
recognized and is used by the U.S. military.
 Giulio Douhet’s Military Career
Douhet’s enthusiasm for airpower was grounded in his early interest in
engineering and the sciences. Born the son of an army officer in 1869,
Douhet graduated from Accademia di Artiglieria e Genio, the artillery
and engineering academy of the Italian army, in 1888 at the top of his
class and was commissioned as a Lieutenant. He followed on to advance
his studies in engineering at the Polytechnic Institute in Turin where he
graduated with distinction. There, he earned the praise of his professors
for his interest in the latest mechanical advancements with his thesis
paper titled, ‘The Calculation of Rotating Field Engines.’[2] Douhet then
combined his exceptional mechanical science background with study of
the theories of military strategy, logistics, and tactics at the School of
Warfare in Turin. Upon graduating from the School of Warfare, Douhet
took up various positions in the Italian army until 1900 when he
attained recognition for his brilliance in applying new technologies for
military purposes and was assigned to the Italian Army’s General Staff.
Once assigned to the General Staff in 1900, Douhet began to garner
attention for his military analysis and advocacy for the military’s
mechanization. Prior to the invention of the airplane, Douhet was
advancing his foundational concept of The Command of The Air—that
the character of warfare will be altered by the modern military’s
adoption of new technology and mechanization. From 1901-1904 he
gave a series of lectures he called Mechanization from the Point of View
of the Military that warned of the implications of advancing technology
upon warfare. Even prior to the invention of the airplane, and against
the backdrop of the advancements in the automobile, electricity,
gasoline, and the ‘Second Industrial Revolution,’ Douhet had concluded
that future conflicts would be won or lost on the basis of whether or not
militaries harnessed these new inventions to alter the conduct of war.
The pace with which Douhet and his airpower contemporaries crafted
their theories is remarkable. In 1905 Italy built its first dirigible and in
1908 flew its first airplane. In 1911 Italy became the first country to
utilize airplanes in combat during the Libyan War over Tripoli.
Immediately, the debate between dirigibles and airplanes grasped at
inadequate metaphors from naval combat. The dirigible gained early
favor from the majority of military leaders who envisioned aircraft
conducting only reconnaissance in support of land movements and naval
operations. Douhet however immediately identified the superiority of the
airplane and recognized its potential to alter the character of war, much
to the frustration of his superiors. The pages of military journals such
as La preparazione featured intellectual duals between Douhet and his
dirigible supporting opponents. Carlo Montù, an artillery officer and early
supporter of dirigibles, proposed that dirigibles be deployed individually,
rather than in fleets, and against targets on the ground and at sea.
Douhet’s argument in his debate with Carlo Montù, that airpower should
be deployed as a mass, is often compared by scholars of military history
to Admiral Alfred Thayer Mahan’s naval strategy. Mahan argued that
naval power should be massed against the decisive point. Douhet, like
Mahan in the 1890s, “developed a doctrine for [its] optimal strategic
employment that closely resembled the Jominan version of Napoleonic
warfare. Airplanes, like warships and armies, should be massed against
the decisive point. That point was located not in the armed forces of the
enemy, but in his economic and administrative centers, which were so
vulnerable to aerial attack,” argues John Shy.[3] The parallels between
the strategies of Mahan and Douhet are a constant source of comparison
for scholars.
Despite the recognition of Douhet’s brilliance early in his military career,
he was not the first nor only observer to write about the transformative
power of warfare’s mechanization, especially in the third dimension, the
air. Several of Douhet’s contemporaries also responded to the rapid
mechanization of the world’s militaries and the devastation of the First
World War by developing airpower theory and strategy. Together with
Hugh “Boom” Trenchard, H.G. Wells, and William “Billy” Mitchell, Douhet
became an early airpower visionary. Over the course of decades, in
comparison to the centuries of development for sea and land warfare
concepts, airpower theorists rapidly sought to understand how this new
technology would alter the character of warfare. Douhet stands out from
his contemporaries because, as the Editors’ Introduction to The
Command of The Air in the Air Force History and Museums Program’s
1998 re-print states, “much of what Douhet propounded was not original
with him, but his were perhaps the most coherent, the most systematic,
and the most prophetic airpower writings of the era.”[4] In writing The
Command of The Air, Douhet not only became an advocate for, but a
strategist of airpower recognized for not only his controversial concepts
but his contribution to an enduring debate which continues today.
Douhet’s early and prolific efforts to advocate for his concepts of
airpower caused conflict among the Italian general staff throughout his
career. His opinions were viewed as fantastical to some and earned him
a reputation as a ‘radical.’ Douhet was assigned to write a report on the
Libyan War’s significance for future employment of aircraft and he used
the opportunity to try to convince his superiors of the airplane’s
potential to alter warfare. It is in this report and a 1912 manual titled,
“Rules for the Use of Airplanes in War,” that Douhet began to advocate
for airplanes to conduct “high-altitude bombing” while his superiors, and
much of the world’s militaries, were focused on aerial reconnaissance.
The airplane could do more than observe troops and defend against
intruding observation aircraft, wrote Douhet. Despite his differences with
superiors, Douhet’s reports, and the vision he displayed for organizing
an Air Force, earned him a new position as Commander of the Aviation
Battalion.
Frustrated by bureaucratic battles against the supporters of dirigibles,
Douhet encouraged the Italian aeronautical engineer, Giovanni “Gianni”
Caproni, to construct the first bomber airplane without the support of
the Ministry of War. Once the plane, the Caproni 300, was ready for
production, Douhet went to his superiors to argue for the purchase of
the plane and anti-aircraft artillery. Witness to Europe’s military build-up
in advance of World War I, Douhet warned the Ministry of War of the
consequences of aerial bombardment. Douhet envisioned the
destruction of Italy’s coastal cities from the air, and with them its
materiel and morale. In his biographical dissertation of Douhet, Frank
Capelluti writes that “this is the first clear indication of the strategic
bombing concept as it developed in Douhet’s mind.”[5] Though strategic
bombing would become one of the most influential concepts of airpower
theory, Douhet’s impatience had put him at odds with his superior,
Commander of the Inspectorate, Colonel Maurizio Moris, and landed him
a transfer to the infantry on the eve of the First World War. Relieved
from his position as Commander of the Aviation Battalion, Douhet began
World War I as Chief of Staff for troops at Edolo while airplanes took to
the skies overhead.
From his position as Chief of Staff, Douhet came to the opinion that the
ground offensive against Austria was unwinnable and began to criticize
the general staff’s strategy to members of the Italian parliament. By
September 1917 nearly a million men had lost their lives in offensives
that moved the Italian front barely 30 miles into Austria. Douhet’s
criticism charged the general staff with misuse of aviation and once
again called for strategic bombing of targets in Austria. For his criticism,
Douhet faced court-martial in 1916 and served one year in prison.
Douhet was released from prison on October 15, 1917 and returned to
duty. That month, just as Douhet predicted in his criticism that had
resulted in his court-martial, Italy suffered its most terrible defeat of the
First World War at Caporetto. The events of Caporetto were later
officially determined to confirm Douhet’s criticism and his court-martial
was expunged in 1920. Upon returning to service, Douhet was named
Central Director of Aviation at the General Air Commissariat. “[I]n only a
few months conflict broke out between the ideas which sprang like
sparks from his keen intelligence and fertile imagination, and
bureaucratic resistance to the intrusion of innovations dealing with the
new air weapon,” according to Raymond Flugel’s dissertation on
Douhet’s influence on United States airpower doctrine.[6] In 1921, the
year The Command of The Air was published, Douhet resigned to focus
his attention on writing.
Douhet’s tenets of airpower in The Command of The Air are the product
of both a synthesis of theories and concepts developed by his
contemporaries and an evolution of his own thinking expressed
throughout his service in the military. It is in The Command of The
Air that Douhet consolidates and refines a career of prophetic ideas and
observations into what became a foundational document of airpower
doctrine and strategy. Douhet’s central thesis establishes aviation’s
capability to transform warfare through the technological superiority of
the airplane over surface warfare capabilities. In effect, The Command
of The Air defines the results, consequences and opportunities this new
technology will have on warfare. “This new arm had sprung suddenly
into the field of war; and its characteristics, radically different from
those of any other arm employed up to that time, were still undefined,”
writes Douhet in his first chapter, titled, The New Form of
War.[7] Defining airpower was Douhet’s life work and The Command of
The Air was Douhet’s most sweeping, organized, and complete strategy.
For Douhet, the consequences of this “new arm” in the field of warfare
eliminates the notion of a ‘front’ that was prevalent during the First
World War. As a result of the airplane’s ability to enter an enemy’s
territory, countries are required to gain command of the air to both
cause and prevent the destruction of the nation behind the fortified lines
of defense. This new consequence of the changing nature of war led
Douhet to define command of the air as the ability to deny the enemy
the ability to fly while retaining that ability for yourself. This is necessary
because, “by virtue of this new weapon, the repercussions of war are no
longer limited by the farthest artillery range of surface guns, but can be
directly felt for hundreds of miles over all the lands and seas of nations
at war. No longer can areas exist in which life can be lived in safety and
tranquility, nor can the battlefield any longer be limited to actual
combatants. On the contrary, the battlefield will be limited only by the
boundaries of the nations at war, and all of their citizens will become
combatants, since all of them will be exposed to the aerial offensives of
the enemy. There will be no distinction any longer between soldiers and
civilians… All of this must inevitably effect a profound change in the form
of future wars, because essential characteristics of those wars will be
radically different from those of any previous ones,” according to
Douhet.[8] This conceptualization of the effects of developments in
aerial warfare has continued to be a source of debate for airpower
theorists up to the present.
Critical Assumptions and Enduring Elements of The Command of The Air
The scholar, Edward Warner, identified the main assumptions of The
Command of The Air in his 1941 essay titled, “Douhet, Mitchell,
Seversky: Theories of Air Warfare.” He determined that the major
assumptions that underpin Douhet’s argument are, “(1) Aircraft are
instruments of offense of incompatible potentialities, against which no
effective defense is foreseen;” and, “(2) Civilian morale will be shattered
by bombardment of centers of population.”[9] These assumptions
establish the foundation for the absolute superiority of the air domain
over warfare conducted on the land and at sea. Unlike the other
domains, airpower can shatter civilian morale, through the destruction
of the logistical capacity to wage war, or by terrorizing population
centers causing the civilian populace to force a political end to conflict.
Beatrice Heuser likens the debate of choosing between these targets as
an extension of the naval blockade that stopped supplies from reaching
the front.[10] According to Douhetism however, airpower’s unique
capability alters the character of war and represents a new form of total
war not even seen during the devastation of the First World War.
From this foundation, Warner identifies what he considers the five basic
elements of Douhetism. These elements have enduring value for
airpower strategists analyzing Douhet’s theories. First, Warner identifies
Douhet’s belief that the air is the most important battle space. Warner
then identifies Douhet’s dual concept of strategic bombing and total war.
These two elements are inextricably linked as strategic bombardment
changed the character of war by making it possible to attack the
population and logistics centers behind the front lines on the battlefield
and therefore engage the civilians in total war. Fourth, Warner argues
that Douhet believes that military mechanization forces ground troops to
take a defensive posture. Fifth, Warner’s last element of Douhetism is
the supremacy of the bomber over all other aircraft. Warner’s five
elements of Douhetism found in The Command of The Air are the
product of Douhet’s career of advocating for the transformative
capabilities of airpower and the superiority of the airplane.
Warner’s first element of Douhetism in The Command of The Air is that
the air is the dominant domain of warfare. Warner cites Douhet in The
Command of The Air as writing, “in order to assure an adequate national
defense, it is necessary—and sufficient—to be in a position in case of
war to conquer the command of the air.”[11] Therefore, according to
Douhet, a country’s entire security rests on its ability to command the
air. However, if ensuring national security requires a nation take
‘command of the air,’ we must ask, what does Douhet mean by
‘command of the air’? Douhet provides a simple, yet absolute, definition.
He writes, “to have command of the air means to be in a position to
prevent the enemy from flying while retaining the ability to fly
oneself.”[12] According to Douhet, the air is the dominant domain of
war because without absolute command of the air to conduct and
protect one’s own country from an aerial offensive, national security
cannot be ensured.
Douhet and his contemporaries used this first element of Douhetism to
advocate for an independent air force. Douhet intensified his own
argument for the superiority of the air domain over the land and sea
during his military career. As early as 1909, Douhet gave equal
importance to the three domains. He predicted then that “soon the
command of the air will be no less important [than that of the seas]
because only by having such command—and only then—can we make
use of the advantages made possible by aerial observation and the
ability to see targets clearly—advantages which we shall not be able
fully to enjoy until we have the aerial power to keep the enemy
grounded. The struggle for the command of the air will be bitter; and
the so called civilized nations will strive to forge the most telling means
to wage the conflict.”[13]By 1927, Douhet had gone much further,
advocating the primacy of the air domain over the land and sea by
writing, “to conquer the command of the air means victory; to be beaten
in the air means defeat and acceptance of whatever terms the enemy
may be pleased to impose.”[14] Airpower theorists have since argued to
what extent airpower can independently attain victory over all other
domains of warfare.
Douhet began advocating the independence of the air domain as soon as
the superior technical capabilities of airplanes was evident. The
argument for an independent air force in The Command of The
Air naturally followed and his views became more extreme after 1921
when he faced criticism from the army and navy. The debate became, in
Thomas Hippler’s words, between ‘war from the air’ as compared to
‘war inthe air.’ [15] In the second edition, published in 1927, Douhet
had changed his thinking on the organization of the air forces, which
originally envisioned equal components of “aerial means used by the
army and navy,” and “aerial means destined to carry out war missions
in which neither the army nor navy can take part.”[16] He now believed
that “aerial means set aside for auxiliary aviation are means diverted
from the essential purpose” that are “worthless, superfluous and
harmful.”[17] This contention has become the source of inter-service
rivalry between armies, navies, and independent air forces across the
world.
Warner’s second and third elements of Douhetism, which address total
war and strategic bombing, are possibly the most debated by historians.
Douhet wrote that when evaluating strategic bombing targets, “the truth
of the matter is that no hard and fast rules can be laid down on this
aspect of aerial warfare. It is impossible even to outline general
standards, because the choice of enemy targets will depend upon a
number of circumstances, material, moral, and psychological, the
importance of which, though real, is not easily estimated.”[18] One
widely accepted view on Douhet’s concepts of total war and strategic
bombing, held by theorists including Warner and Gian P. Gentile, asserts
that Douhet holds a nation’s industrial capacity and the enemy’s air
force to be the primary targets of bombing missions. This is done,
according to Douhet, because, “the essential purpose of an Air Force is
to conquer the command of the air by first wiping out the enemy’s air
forces.”[19] Once this is accomplished, Douhet writes that bombing
strategic targets, including rail roads, ports, and population centers, will
quickly bring victory. Douhet summarizes his concept of total war by
writing, “the fundamental concept governing aerial warfare is to be
resigned to the damage the enemy may inflict upon us, while utilizing
every means at our disposal to inflict even heavier damage upon
him.”[20]
Warner’s fourth element of Douhetism in The Command of The Air, that
ground forces are to be delegated to defensive responsibilities, is the
result of Douhet’s reaction to the destructive stalemate of the First
World War. After witnessing the efficiency and devastation of machine
guns, small-caliber arms, mortars, and the mechanization of systems of
defense along Italy’s northern front with Austria, Douhet concluded that
there had been an upheaval in the character of war which favored only
the defensive on the ground. “Every development or improvement in
firearms favors the defensive,” according Douhet.[21] Still, Douhet
acknowledged that victory in warfare is dependent on offensive action
and attributes the destruction of the First World War to the failure of the
combatants to strike a decisive blow. The airplane, Douhet believes is
‘the offensive weapon par excellence’ and that it was not properly
utilized in the First World War. Douhet’s application of an aerial offensive
to avoid the stalemate and bloody trench warfare of the First World War
is but one attempt at altering the strategies that war employed to avoid
a repeat of its outcome in the future.
Finally, Warner’s last element of Douhetism from The Command of The
Air is that the bomber is superior to the fighter aircraft. Douhet’s
preference for the bomber rests on his concept of strategic
bombardment as the most effective form of aerial offense and his
disdain for interdiction efforts by defending fighter aircraft. Therefore,
the bomber is the superior airplane because it is capable of delivering
the greatest payload of devastating bombs and toxic gas munitions upon
the enemy’s industrial centers and cities. Douhet called the plane that
delivers this payload the “battle plane.” He is clear on an air force’s need
for such planes, stating, “we have been able to determine through
deduction the characteristics a battle plane should have—the only type
of plane which should make up the operating mass of an Independent
Air Force—the only organism necessary, because sufficient in itself, to
wage aerial warfare.”[22]Meanwhile, on the ground below, Douhet
observes that “nothing man can do on the surface of the earth can
interfere with a plane in flight, moving freely in the third
dimension.”[23] Douhet’s battle plane concept was controversial and
contributed to his court-martial for his independent support of the
Caproni 300 bomber leading up to the First World War. Yet, like many of
Douhet’s concepts it also found credence even if it was not entirely
accepted. In the words of British Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin
speaking before Parliament in 1932, the fear that “the bomber will
always get through” had become a reality before World War II.[24]

Reaction to Douhetism and The Command of The Air

The theories of airpower Douhet synthesized in The Command of The
Air began to slowly gain influence in the United States, the United
Kingdom, and France. Either their geography in the case of the U.S. and
U.K., or defensive mentality in the case of France, favored the long-
range strike capabilities of airpower and appealed to their military
leadership. In the U.K., the prevalence and appeal of the concepts of
Douhetism, if not the direct influence of The Command of The Air, had
already gained popularity from a contemporary of Douhet’s, Frederick
Sykes, the Royal Air Force Chief of Staff, and later, Hugh Trenchard,
who supported RAF long-range bombers in 1918.[25] In the U.S. at the
Army Air Corps Tactical School, Douhet’s influence had been felt since as
early as 1923 when the first English translation of The Command of The
Air appeared there. While the School throughout the period 1920-1935
was of course subject to various influences of an intellectual order, there
was none so pervasive or significant as that of Douhet,” Flugel
concludes.[26] By 1928, elements of Douhetism such as strategic
bombing, the overriding importance of offensive aerial operations, and
even the superiority of Douhet’s “battle plane” concept had taken hold
at the U.S. War Department, according to Flugel.[27] Though it is
debatable which of the early airpower theorists had the greatest
influence it is clear that the concepts now known as Douhetism were
prominent among the world’s militaries in the years prior to World War
II.
Criticism of Douhet, just as the legacy of his influence, is extensive.
Many prominent scholars of airpower, such as Bernard Brodie, J.F.C.
Fuller, and Stefan Thomas Possony, have argued that World War II was
a test of Douhet’s theories, and the results proved them
invalid.[28] Others, many of them officers of the Italian Air Force, take
the opposing position and defend Douhet, believing his general
principals to have been vindicated by the success of strategic
bombing.[29] Though the criticism of The Command of The Air is
voluminous, in part because of Douhet’s definiteness, it is recognized as
an essential text for the development of modern airpower theory
because few deny that the concepts of Douhetism, especially strategic
bombing, have some degree of influence on the character of war.
Among the criticisms of Douhet is his deficiency in appreciating
aeronautical technology advancements in speed and radar for the
purpose of air-to-air combat. Douhet’s rejection of the importance of
speed is one of the most popular criticisms. On the topic of speed,
Douhet wrote, “what determines victory in aerial warfare is fire power.
Speed serves only to come to grips with the foe and to flee from him, no
more.”[30] Warner called Douhet’s failure to anticipate the importance
of increased speed, “the worst of all of Douhet’s failures in dealing with
technical development.”[31] As an example, Brodie cited Germany’s loss
in the 1940 Battle of Britain as an example of Douhet’s failure to
appreciate the changes in aerial warfare resulting from improved speed
and radar capabilities and thus the failure of Douhetism.[32] Brodie
criticizes Douhet’s rejection of the role of air defense and interdiction,
and the important effect technology has had in expanding the role of the
air force beyond Douhet’s focus on offensive strategic bombardment.
Together with the advent of radar, the engine and aeronautical
improvements that produced increasing difference in relative speed
between fighters and bombers during World War II damaged Douhet’s
presumption of the dominance of the aerial offensive.
The other significant criticism of Douhet’s concept of airpower strategy
is the lack of attention and thought he devoted to tactical applications of
airpower. In the bureaucratic inter-service rivalry from which Douhet
wrestled control of the air force, tactical operations were relegated to
‘auxiliary’ responsibilities and Douhetism focused on the strategic
applications of an independent air force. However, Douhet himself said
with certainty that the application of airpower in the First World War
provided no guidance whatsoever for the future.[33] In John Olsen’s A
History of Air Warfare,John H. Morrow Jr. reminds us of the danger of
forgetting lessons of past wars. He writes, “theory and wishful thinking
after the Great War focused on strategic aviation and nearly drove the
lessons of tactical aerial importance and success from the minds of
postwar observers. The more postwar aviation theorists speculated on
the ability of strategic bombardment to force enemy capitulation by
bombing cities, wrecking war industry and civilian morale, the less they
seemed to remember the contributions of battlefield
aviation.”[34] Douhet, according to his critics, was certainly focused on
strategic airpower to the detriment of developing theories for the
application of aerial warfare to tactical operations. Critics point to the
importance of close air support in the air campaign during the Vietnam
War as examples of the strategic amnesia of Douhetism.
Possibly the most controversial of Douhet’s concepts that continues to
attract scrutiny is strategic bombardment. The debate most often
centers on the issue of proving the effectiveness of strategic bombing.
On one side, scholars such as J.F.C. Fuller and Gian P. Gentile call
strategic bombardment ineffective and take issue with post-war
evaluations of its success. “As an experiment, the strategic bombing of
Germany up to the spring of 1944 was an extravagant failure. Instead of
shortening the war, its cost in raw materials and industrial manpower
prolonged it,” writes Fuller.[35] This then introduces the question of
morality as a second ground upon which critics take issue. Douhet
advocated strategic bombardment against civilians on the basis that it
will reduce overall suffering, but by questioning the effectiveness of that
bombing, its morality is also questioned. However, post-war studies
such as the United States Strategic Bombing Survey conducted after
World War II, which evaluated the effectiveness of strategic bombing,
found that it was indeed successful in bringing the war to a quicker end.
Today airplanes equipped with Precision Guided Missiles (PGMs) have
ushered in a new era of strategic bombardment that once again seems
to offer the promise of altering the character of war. The ability to
accurately target the leadership of opposing forces led to the popularity
of Col. John A. Warden’s concept of Warden’s Rings that placed
leadership as the primary target of conventional, targeted strikes during
the first Gulf War of 1990-1991. The re-ascendance of Douhet’s
concepts of strategic bombing, as a result of advances in technology,
was noted in the Summary Report of the Gulf War Air Power Survey
(GWAPS), written by Thomas A. Keaney and Eliot A. Cohen. It reports
that the 1990-1991 Gulf War is seen by some as “evidence that
technology has finally enabled airmen to fulfill the expectations” of “air
proponents such as Guilio Douhet and Billy Mitchell” that “described the
things that air power could achieve in theory, but until the Gulf War, air
forces lacked the ‘tools and systems capable of achieving them’ in
practice.”[36] (The authors of the GWAPS report did not endorse that
conclusion.) The morality and effectiveness of strategic bombardment,
which Douhet helped introduce to airpower theorists, remains a part of
our strategic debate today in the discussion of the use of PGMs and
Unmanned Aerial Vehicles in the war against global terrorism.

Douhet’s Contribution to Airpower

The Command of The Air has had enduring influence on airpower and
strategy. Ever since its popularity took hold, the concepts of his theory
of airpower strategy, known as Douhetism, have been the starting point
for debate on military air operations. Though not the first nor only text
to recognize the consequences that the airplane would might on the
character of warfare, The Command of The Air is an indisputable classic
of military strategy because of Douhet’s systematic and forceful
argument. In a measure of Douhet’s recognition, U.S Air Force
Historian, Dr. Richard P. Hallion wrote of Douhet, “in the pantheon of air
power spokesman, Giulio Douhet holds center stage.”[37] Douhet’s
classic, published in 1921, has remained a source of modern strategy
that has transcended any reaction to the devastation of the First World
War that Douhetism originally sought to overcome, to remain a guiding
document for strategists of warfare’s third dimension, the air.
David Galula, Counterinsurgency Warfare:
Theory and Practice (1964)
Credit to A. Bradley Potter, Johns Hopkins University SAIS
While great power war defined the first half of the twentieth century,
insurgencies defined its latter half. Given present trends, these types of
conflicts will rage for the foreseeable future, and students of strategy
and diplomacy will want to consider classic counterinsurgency (COIN)
writings as they face this future. Central among these
is Counterinsurgency Warfare: Theory and Practice by David Galula. This
book written in 1964 was in many ways a forgotten work; however, it
quickly grew in prominence as the United States and its allies found
themselves facing insurgencies in Iraq and Afghanistan during the
opening years of the twenty-first century. Counterinsurgency is now a
staple for those interested in the dynamics and debate surrounding the
prosecution of counterinsurgency.
This essay aims to provide an overview of Counterinsurgency’s central
arguments while also placing the book into its modern context. After an
overview of Galula’s life and an outline of his book, the links between it
and other literature are explored before its influence on modern doctrine
and the ongoing disputes over its importance and interpretation are
considered. In the opening pages of Counterinsurgency, Galula claims
that he is not “providing the whole and complete answer to the
counterrevolutionary’s problems;” rather, he hopes “merely to clear
away some of the confusions that we have so often and so long
witnessed in the ‘wrong’ camp.”[1]Similar are the aims of this modest
essay – to clarity Galula’s “answer to the counterrevolutionary’s
problems” and “clear away some of the confusions” surrounding his
ideas.
Experience as Teacher
The insights provided by Counterinsurgency represent perhaps the
fullest vision of population-centric counterinsurgency and draw on the
rich experiences of its author. A French military intelligence officer
trained at the École Spéciale Militaire de Saint-Cyr and party to a
diverse set of military assignments, Galula rooted his book in first-hand
experience. Specifically, he blended his observations of the Chinese
communists in the 1940s and 1950s with his personal fighting in the
Algerian War to develop his vision for counterinsurgency.
Following action in World War II, David Galula found himself in China by
chance; Jacques Guillermaz, the new French military attaché to China,
invited his longtime friend and mentee to serve his assistant and follow
the ongoing communist revolution in East Asia.[2] Where Guillermaz
was bookish and academic, Galula featured an “unfailing good humor
and personable style” that made him popular and carried him across
vast reaches of China.[3] Galula’s biographer argues that the men
complimented one another like “yin and yang,” and that it was Galula
who pushed his superior consider the importance of interacting with
local populations and the evolution of revolutionary movements, ideas
that would later become central to Counterinsurgency.[4] Indeed,
studying the Chinese Revolution under Guillermaz may have been the
most influential experience in Galula’s professional life and most
certainly affected his later thinking.[5]
Still, it was the French war in Algeria, especially the period between
1956 and 1958 when he fought in the field, which provided the French
intelligence officer first-hand opportunities to take an active role in
fighting against insurgency. Reeling from the French decision to
relinquish Morocco and Tunisia, the places where he was born and grew
up, following short terror campaigns, Galula was convinced that his
country had given up too easily and could not afford to do the same in
Algeria.[6] Despite his past intelligence and diplomatic work, he
volunteered to command a combat unit so that, in his own words, he
might “test certain theories that I had formed on counterinsurgency
warfare” all while helping keep Algeria French.[7] If China had supplied
theoretical underpinning for the French officer’s views, Algeria served as
the empirical support for his later writings.
Still, not until he found himself at Harvard University in the early 1960s
did Galula string his ideas into book form. Foreseeing a period of
ongoing insurgencies across the world, he felt driven to offer the best
insights into how to fight and have a hope of winning these sometimes
counterintuitive fights.[8] While Counterinsurgency outlines his concept
for fighting against an insurgency, Galula’s The Pacification of
Algeriapublished a year earlier provides the detailed historical examples
from which his ideas were born.[9] The two form a powerful
combination for understanding the origins and implications of
population-centric COIN.
Writing in the 1960s, Galula found himself in a rapidly changing world.
Colonial powers had already or were in the process of giving up their
possessions around the world, especially in Africa and Southeast Asia.
Meanwhile, communism was on the march and led many in the West,
most notably the United States, to fear some kind of “domino effect”
would spread the ideology far beyond the USSR and China and into
important corners of the international landscape. Galula calls
nationalism and communism as driving insurgencies in the twentieth
century while making the dark prediction that the future would hold
many more revolutionary wars in which Western armies would fight
protracted, bloody wars.[10] Sadly, his prediction was correct. Yet, it is
important for the modern reader to remember the conflicts on which the
French officer was drawing his findings and making his predictions. He is
ultimately discussing insurgencies arising from forces of colonialism,
nationalism, and communism, and while his findings may have value for
understanding insurgencies driven by other motivations, the historical
context of Counterinsurgency is telling.
The Basics
What is an Insurgency?
At its heart, insurgency “is a competition between insurgent and
government for the support of the civilian population.”[11] This
competition is violent and manifests itself as a special type of war.
Rather than its conventional cousins, this fight is not one of two formal
armies squaring off; instead, it is fought by irregular soldiers against the
state and its security apparatus. Indeed, participants on either side of
an insurgency do not fight the same war.[12] Because one side fights as
an insurgent and the other as counterinsurgent, Galula coins the term
“revolutionary war” to cover both aspects of the
conflict.[13] Revolutionary war has “special rules, different from those of
conventional war” and is characterized by guidelines that do not apply
equally to each side.[14] It is an internal conflict, though external forces
may influence it, and it follows from the insurgent attempting to take
hold of the power of government.[15]Additionally, in Galula’s view
revolutionary war bucks Karl von Clausewitz’s conception of war;
indeed, “it is not like an ordinary war – a ‘continuation of the policy by
other means’ – because an insurgency can start long before the
insurgent resorts to the use of force.”[16]
Perhaps the most important aspect of revolutionary war that separates
it from conventional war is the role of politics. As Galula conceives of
them, politics in a conventional war set the goals for the military action
and then take a back seat throughout the period of fighting.[17] During
a revolutionary war, however, politics and political activity remain
central throughout because the objective of the fight is the population, a
political entity unto itself.[18] “It is not enough for the government to
set political goals, to determine how much military force is applicable,”
writes Galula, indeed, “politics becomes an active instrument of
operation. And so intricate is the interplay between the political and the
military actions that they cannot be tidily separated...”[19] Political
activities, especially those that manifest themselves as civilian in nature,
are central to fighting in a revolutionary war for both sets of
combatants. This reality has profound effects of the doctrine of both
insurgents and counterinsurgents.
The start of a revolutionary war is often vague and gradual, but the fight
is likely to drag on for a protracted period of time once underway. By
the very nature of the conflict, insurgents determine when it beings and
have the freedom to press the fight at a time seemingly most beneficial
to their success.[20] At the beginning of a revolutionary war the
counterinsurgent has more resources than his opponent but is burdened
with maintaining order; the insurgent, meanwhile, has important
intangible resources, especially the “the ideological power of a cause on
which to base his action.”[21] Given these initial distributions of power
and responsibility, the goal of the insurgent is to promote disorder and
undermine the government – a cheap activity in which to engage but a
costly one against which to defend.[22] As a result, the insurgent fights
and benefits from a protracted revolutionary war while the
counterinsurgent suffers along the way.[23]
Insurgency Origins and Doctrine
The most important thing for insurgents in the beginning is a
cause.[24] Early in their development, insurgencies will strive to latch
onto a cause or causes derived from political problems most relevant to
the population.[25] Causes may change as needed throughout a fight,
but the very best are those that last, attract large numbers of people,
are easily identifiable with the insurgents, and that the government has
no hope of coopting.[26] As the conflict drags on, however, the cause
matters less since the fight takes on a life of its own.[27] By the middle
of an insurgency the population’s position is defined by matters of
safety, that is, “which side gives the best protection, which one
threatens the most, which one is likely to win.”[28] This new dynamic
holds until the end.
Galula concludes that there are four conditions for an insurgency to
grow and have any hope of being successful.[29] As discussed, a cause
is vital, and insurgents may use all manner of communications tricks
and propaganda unavailable to a responsible government to spread the
word.[30] Equally important, however, is some kind of policing and
administrative feebleness on the government’s
part.[31]Counterinsurgency requires large numbers of infantry and
police alongside a judicial system willing to prosecute insurgents and
political leadership willing to use force as needed; if these are missing,
the insurgency has a chance to grow.[32] A suitable geographic
environment is also a bonus for insurgents.[33] As Galula describes it,
the optimal physical characteristics for an insurgency “would be a large
landlocked country shaped like a blunt-tipped star, with jungle-covered
mountains along the borders and scattered swamps in the plains, in a
temperate zone with a larger dispersed rural population and a primitive
economy.”[34] Meanwhile, the counterinsurgent benefits from just the
opposite arrangement. Finally, some kind of outside support during the
middle and latter portions of the insurgency may be valuable and
actually become a necessity if an insurgency hopes to succeed.[35] If
external support for insurgent operations is too easily obtained,
however, it may undermine the self-reliance of an insurgency as many
communists in Asia during Galula’s time feared.[36] Yet, once an
insurgency is established, such support can be vital in helping transform
the fight into a conventional war, an evolution that is ultimately needed
to defeat governments.[37]
Even with these conditions set, there is the question of insurgent
doctrine. Here Galula outlines two patterns. The first, or orthodox
pattern, is based on the experience of Chinese communists while the
second is an abbreviated form of the first which Galula feared took place
during the French withdrawal from Tunisia and Morocco.[38] Each
follows a series of steps that may overlap and vary in length. In the
orthodox pattern, after the creation of a political party, the would-be
insurgent must build a united front consisting of the largest portions of
the population, namely the proletariat and the peasants or workers of a
state, and mobilize it against the government.[39] These efforts are
paralleled by the formation of a clandestine apparatus designed to
subvert the government, address intelligence needs, and keep an eye on
the vast expanse of those associated with the insurgency.[40] The third
step features taking advantage of the active complacency of the
population to engage in guerrilla warfare.[41] Galula notes that guerrilla
operations are not so much to fight the government as they are “to
organize the population” and “bring the support of a village or implicate
its population against the counterinsurgent.”[42] A transition from
guerrilla warfare to employment of regular forces against the
counterinsurgent highlights the next stage and aims to transform state
controlled space into guerrilla space and guerrilla space into areas
suitable for regular opposition bases.[43] Finally, the insurgency aims to
annihilate its enemy, that is, overthrow the last remnants of the old
government.[44]
The shortcut, or bourgeois-nationalist pattern according to Galula,
ultimately merges with the orthodox pattern at the point of guerrilla
warfare, but features a very different opening sequence. In this case,
the insurgents, a small, dedicated group without the backing of a
political party, aim to seize power as quickly as possible.[45]To achieve
this, they engage first in blind terrorism to get publicity for their
movement and gain supporters.[46] They quickly transition to selective
terrorism aimed at killing low and mid-level government officials,
especially those compromise-minded individuals who might undermine
their cause, across wide portions of the country they seek to
upend.[47] These activities are designed to “destroy all bridges liking
the population with the counterinsurgent and his potential
allies.”[48] Once this is complete, the orthodox pattern is reengaged
and guerrilla warfare ensues.
Cold and Hot Revolutionary War
While Galula’s discussion of insurgent doctrine is instructive, his true
aim is to assist the counterinsurgent in his efforts to repress
insurgencies. To this end, the French officer proposes “…to define the
laws of counterrevolutionary warfare, to deduce from them its
principles, and to outline the corresponding strategy and
tactics.”[49]Revolutionary wars, in this view, can be broken into two
periods, namely the “cold revolutionary war” and the “hot revolutionary
war.”[50] The “cold” period features largely legal activities on the part
of the insurgent like the formation of a political party. Meanwhile, the
“hot” period is characterized by violent insurgent activity. Galula
laments that the real danger for the counterinsurgent during the “cold”
period and early “hot” period is that “the actual danger will always
appear to the nation as out of proportion to the demands made by an
adequate response” and the insurgent knowing this will make the
transition to war as gradual as possible.[51]
The counterinsurgent has four options available to address the insurgent
activities. First, he may target the insurgent leaders directly; second, he
may attempt to address the political problem underpinning the
insurgent’s cause; or third, he may attempt to infiltrate the insurgency
and destroy it from the inside.[52] While all of these may be valid
courses of action, Galula is most interested in a fourth option –building
up and reinforcement of the counterinsurgent’s “political
machine.”[53] The efforts associated with this fourth course of action
form the foundation for the counterinsurgent’s strategy and tactics
during the “hot” portion of revolutionary war.
Counterinsurgent Strategy
Galula’s discussion of counterinsurgent strategy and tactics is rooted in
several central insights, what he call laws, about the nature of
revolutionary war that are distinct from conventional military thinking.
First, both the counterinsurgent and the insurgent need the support of
the population. Thus, the population becomes the objective of the
counterinsurgent.[54] Second, only through an active minority is
support gained during an insurgency.[55] The goal in engaging this
minority is not just to destroy an insurgent force, but also to separate
them from the population. Ideally, isolation “not enforced upon the
population but maintained by and with the population.”[56] Third,
Galula stresses that the support from the population is always
conditional, meaning that “the minority hostile to the insurgent will not
and cannot emerge as long as the threat has not been lifted to a
reasonable extent.”[57] Moreover, the population must believe that the
“counterinsurgent has the will, the means, and the ability to win.”[58]It
is no little thing to throw in one’s lot with the counterinsurgent, and the
population must believe it will be safe now and in the future.[59] Finally,
the fourth law argues that intensive efforts and vast means are essential
to success in counterinsurgency.[60] Concentrated efforts prohibit
“diluted” efforts all over the country and are required in each successive
area.[61]
Strategy is also defined by several other prominent aspects. It is an
offensive effort aimed at regaining the initiative from the insurgent and
this is done by the counterinsurgency actively selecting its main area of
effort.[62] Additionally, it calls for troops living amongst the population
and helping local leaders emerge to support the counterinsurgent
effort.[63] This is a prime example of the counterinsurgent applying
pressure not “on the insurgent directly but on the population, which is
the insurgent’s real source of strength,” and in doing so force the
insurgent to fight or be defeated by default.[64] Indeed, “if the
insurgent is fluid, the population is not. By concentrating his efforts on
the population, the counterinsurgent minimizes his rigidity and makes
full use of his assets.”[65] The strategy is designed to be simple “in
conception and in execution.”[66] It may also be bolstered by a political
counter cause even if one only features minor reforms with a long-term
focus.[67] In the end, the strategy features military, policing, and
political operations that are mutually reinforcing.[68]
These many efforts necessitate huge personnel requirements that lead
to what Galula calls a “dual temptation.”[69] The first temptation is “to
assign political, police, and other tasks to the armed forces,” a
temptation the French officer admits cannot be avoided.[70] Indeed,
“the soldier must then be prepared to become a propagandist, a social
worker, a civil engineer, a schoolteacher, a nurse, a boy scout.”[71] The
second temptation, “to let the military direct the entire process” in some
or all of the country, should be avoided under all
circumstances.[72] After all, political action is the main focus of the
counterinsurgent and military activities are only carried out in
conjunction with these more fundamental efforts; thus, the overall
counterinsurgency should remain under the direction of civilian
leadership.[73]
From a strictly military perspective, the counterinsurgent’s strategy
attempts to degrade the military power of the insurgent while also
ensuring civilian safety.[74]There are two kinds of units for carrying out
the associated operations – generally conventional mobile units that
hunt insurgents and static units that embed within local populations to
keep them safe and support local political efforts.[75] Many specialized
units need to be converted into infantry units to meet the huge demand
for troops.[76] Regardless of a units original training, all of them will
require some instruction in counterinsurgency to hone the proper
reflexes, especially those that will be stationed to protect local
populations.[77] While this training may be done through indoctrination,
much of it will happen on the job due to the special nature of
counterinsurgency.[78] Galula stresses that soldiers need the reasons
for their alternative training and counterinsurgency strategy explained
to them since it is all so very different from conventional warfare.[79]
Finally, there is also a question about how the forces, military and
civilian, should be distributed across a country caught in the throes of
revolutionary war. The central issue revolves around if the
counterinsurgent focuses on the most challenging areas first and works
out to the easiest or if the counterinsurgent starts with the most difficult
regions and works to the easiest.[80] Regardless, it is most important
that the counterinsurgent show some success as early as
possible.[81] This requirement suggests moving from the easiest to the
most difficult, though this may not necessarily be the case given
realities on the ground.
Ultimately, Galula takes all of these strategic insights and breaks them
down into eight operational stages listed in the order of their execution:
1. “Concentrate enough armed forces to destroy or to expel the
main body of the armed insurgents.
2. Detach for the area sufficient troops to oppose an insurgent’s
comeback in strength, install these troops in the hamlets,
villages, and the towns where the population lives.
3. Establish contact with the population, control its movements in
order to cut off its links with the guerrillas.
4. Destroy the local insurgent political organization.
5. Set up, by means of elections, new provisional local authorities.
6. Test these authorities by assigning them various concrete tasks.
Replace the softs and the incompetents, give full support to the
active leaders. Organize self-defense units.
 7. Group and educate the leaders in a national political movement.
8. Win over or suppress the last insurgent remnants.”[82]
While examining each of these operational periods and the tactics
associated with them is beyond the scope of this essay, the third point,
establishing contact with the population, does warrant some special
treatment as it represents some of the most impressive insights
associated with Galula. During this stage, the principle objects of a
counterinsurgent include reestablishing control over local populations,
isolating the population from guerrillas, and gathering
intelligence.[83] These activities are in part carried out through a
sophisticated application of propaganda directed at three audiences –
the insurgents, the population, and even counterinsurgent
forces.[84]Efforts aimed at insurgents strive to sow division in their
ranks and split off individuals or groups who may aid the
counterinsurgent. The population, meanwhile, is engaged with
propaganda designed to gain their support, dissociate them from the
insurgents, and lay the groundwork for the acceptance of neutral
civilians back into the counterinsurgent’s camp. Finally, the
counterinsurgents are involved in a series of meetings with leadership
where they have opportunities to share experiences and learn from one
another. While these types of “propaganda” take many forms, they are
mutually supportive and remain a lauded aspect of Galula’s insight into
population-centric counterinsurgency.
In the closing portions of his book, Galula makes this conclusion,
“Whether in the cold or in the hot revolutionary war, its essence can be
summed up in a single sentence: Build (or rebuild) a political machine
from the population upward…”[85] This is the outstanding upshot of his
work and the driving force behind each of these eight phases.
Links to the Past
From the perspective of doctrinal development, the most relevant links
with past literature for the student of strategy and diplomacy are those
between Counterinsurgency and the U.S. Marine Corps Small Wars
Manual.[86] While the Manual was written over twenty years earlier
than Counterinsurgency, they share many of the same central insights.
Central among these is the importance of securing the population of a
country roiling with revolutionary war. Galula is clear in his
recommendation that securing the population is the objective of a
counterinsurgency.[87] In a related vein, the Manual argues that unless
a population lives under normal conditions, there is no hope to building
the economic welfare so essential to peace.[88] While these are slightly
different takes, they are cut from the same cloth that makes winning
the civilian population key to winning a revolutionary war.
Each document also discusses the nature and relationship between the
military and the population. Counterinsurgency reminds its readers that
troops embedded in towns and villages must be “on good relations” with
the local population while simultaneously keeping up their guard for
potential threats.[89] This is a difficult balance to achieve. Similarly,
the Manual encourages troops to exhibit “tolerance, sympathy, and
kindness” to locals while also being willing to “act with the necessary
firmness within the limitation imposed by the principles which have been
laid clown.”[90] While troops should not antagonize local populations,
should some transgression occur, both documents suggest that it be
dealt with in a professional way that redresses damages done by the
counterinsurgent against civilians.[91] A host of related issues are
covered in each book, especially as they relate to working with
populations to gather intelligence.[92]
The other significantly important commonality between Galula’s work
and the earlier efforts of the U.S. Marine Corps is their respective
focuses on the non-military aspects of counterinsurgency. The Manual is
careful to delineate the limits of military power in solving the many
economic, political, and social issues that often are the genius of an
insurgency.[93] These are the same “political problems” that Galula
takes care to identify.[94] Moreover, the Manual goes on to stress how
diplomatic and political activities take place alongside military operations
during counterinsurgencies and that these often work
together.[95] These warnings are in a spirit similar to that of the joint
military-civilian activities that
characterize Counterinsurgency.[96] Perhaps most importantly in this
vein that that both books stress the importance of civilian leadership for
those seeking to put down an insurgency.[97]
There are certainly importance differences between the two books as
well. First, they are each geared to different audiences.
The Manual targets various levels of U.S. Marine Corps leadership
while Counterinsurgency is geared to officers in general. Consequently,
each offers varying levels of detail. While Counterinsurgency does spend
some time discussing the ramifications of its strategy on the tactics of a
small war, it does not go into the same painstaking tactical detail as
the Manual. Meanwhile, Counterinsurgency spends many more of its
pages deeply considering the political aspects of revolutionary war,
which while noted as important in the Manual, receive far less attention.
Certainly the two offer very different operational visions, with
the Manual focusing on patrols and flying columns while Galula lingers
more on what stationary units embedded within the population might
do. In the end, however, the two works are largely congruent with one
another and suggest how the ideas Galula presented in the middle of the
twentieth century were rooted in earlier traditions.
Modern Influence, Interpretations, and Debates
The Vietnam War was blasted into the collective memory of the U.S.
military as precisely the kind of war, counterinsurgency, which should be
avoided by the Western superpower. In writing his book in the mid-
1960s, David Galula was painfully aware of the ongoing American efforts
in Southeast Asia and the disastrous French experience there. Still, his
writings seemed to have minimal influence on American strategic
thought during that conflict.[98] While a handful of ideas similar to his
were employed during the Vietnam War with some success, there was
never a systematic examination or application of them and many were
forgotten with time.[99] This would change.
Indeed, the relevance of Counterinsurgency is not confined to historical
military manuals; it is very much alive in the latest The US Army/Marine
Corps Counterinsurgency Field Manual No. 3-24 (FM 3-24) first
published in 2006 and subsequently updated. John Nagl, a central figure
in the new field manual’s development, reflected:
Galula’s influence was huge. If you look at the field manual’s Executing
Counterinsurgency Operations chapter, for instance, and compare it to
Galula’s on counterinsurgency operations, you could switch them up,
and nobody would bat an eye.[100]
Nagl further describes a central feature of the latest field manual being
the focus on securing and controlling local populations, just as Galula
argued.[101] FM 3-24 makes this claim in no uncertain terms by
proclaiming “irregular warfare is a violent struggle among state and
non-state actors for legitimacy and influence over the relevant
population(s).”[102] Only if the local population is secure thanks to
large numbers of embedded troops will they support the insurgent,
provide intelligence, and help build a stable community conducive to
supporting the national government.[103] In this modern manifestation,
the ideas of the French veteran of Algeria are alive and well.
FM 3-24 also makes clear the need for a joint approach to addressing
counterinsurgency much along the lines of what Galula suggested.
Specifically, the latest manual claims that “defeating an insurgency
requires a blend of both civilian and military efforts that address both
assisting the host-nation government in defeating the insurgents on the
battlefield and enabling the host nation in addressing the root causes of
the insurgency.”[104] In his introduction to the latest publication
of Counterinsurgency, Nagl stresses how Galula demanded a military
force including intelligence analysts, civil affairs specialists, and
engineers, who given their diverse skillsets would be best able to
connect with and protect the populations into which they were
embedded.[105] Indeed, FM 3-24 goes on to argue that the military
may only play supporting roles at particular points during
counterinsurgency operations as other aspects of national power,
especially political and economic, are used to address a particular
situation.[106] In the end, however, Conrad Crane, the writing
coordinator for all of FM 3-24, may have the best view of Galula’s
continued relevance. He notes being “… struck by [Galula’s] concise yet
complete vision for [counterinsurgency], and how most of his ideas still
made sense 40 years later.”[107]
Still, for all its modern influence, some scholars
argue Counterinsurgency is open to misinterpretation and may even be
quite off base in its recommendations. A.A. Cohen, Galula’s biographer,
observes that it seems easy for practitioners today to misread Galula
and get lost in his population-centric approach or think that he has the
military doing things it should perhaps not when in fact he has a very
particular message.[108] Cohen stresses that Galula wrote for those
engaged in a “defensive counterinsurgency” that tries to keep an old
regime alive while many have applied his work to “offensive
counterinsurgency” aiming to install a new government.[109] While
there are certainly similarities between these two endeavors, they
represent distinct efforts that may not benefit in the same way from
Galula’s insights. Thus, disagreement over Galula’s value may arise
simply out of misapplication.
Perhaps the leading critic of applying Galula’s ideas to modern
counterinsurgency, especially the kinds of activities the United States
has been involved with in recent decades, is Gian Gentile, a retired
colonel from the U.S. Army. From his view, “population-centric
counterinsurgency has perverted a better way of American war which
has primarily been one of improvisation and practicality.”[110] He draws
on his combat experiences in Iraq and analysis of Afghanistan to
conclude that Galula is over applied within the U.S. military and that it is
time to rethink how the capabilities and mission of the military map to
meeting the political goals of the day. As we are not fighting against
communist movements and have a national aversion to nation building,
there is little reason to hold Galula and the subsequent FM 3-24 up as
silver bullets for addressing the military challenges of the 21st century.
Our stated political goals are different, and the time we spend
developing and training to particular military doctrine should reflect this
reality according to Gentile.
Geography and World Politics
By: Colin Dueck

This essay first appeared in the Claremont Review of Books, Vol. XIII,
Number 2 - Spring 2013. Reprinted by permission.

Becoming the world's only superpower can cause strange dreams. In the
case of the United States, which achieved this status over 20 years ago,
many who should know better have dreamed that economic
interdependence, multilateral institutions, technological change, global
democratization, the rise of non-state actors—even Barack Obama's
charming personality—will have a transformational effect on world
affairs, rendering irrelevant the geopolitics underlying American national
security. But geopolitical competition between major world powers
obviously continues, and these dreams, which are recognizably liberal
dreams, remain delusive and dangerous.
The very word "geopolitics" strikes such dreamers as having a kind of
reactionary, outmoded, even sinister quality. It represents to them a
distasteful way of thinking about the world. In reality, geopolitics is
simply the analysis of the relationship between geographical facts on the
one hand, and international politics on the other. These geographical
facts include natural features, such as rivers, mountains, and oceans
along with elements of human and political geography, such as national
boundaries, trade networks, and concentrations of economic or military
power. To try to make foreign policy while closing one's eyes to
geopolitical factors in world politics is like trying to play chess without
noticing the configuration of the board, and the powers of the pieces.
A number of excellent recent books show the continued relevance of
classical geopolitical insights today. Jakub Grygiel's Great Powers and
Geopolitical Change (2006) uses historical case studies from the 16th
century to show that states prosper or decline depending on whether
they match their foreign policies to underlying geopolitical realities. C.
Dale Walton's Geopolitics and the Great Powers in the 21st
Century (2007) argues that the coming era of great power competition
centered on the eastern half of the Asian continent will be characterized
by the need for shifting, fluid alliances, requiring considerable American
versatility and skill. Angelo Codevilla's A Student's Guide to International
Relations (2010) reminds us that a geopolitical framework is not
incompatible with an appreciation for the ways in which cultures,
regimes, and civilizations differ in their approaches toward international
relations, and that the United States is entirely justified in pursuing its
own distinct interests abroad rather than conforming to progressive
visions of transnational governance. Alexandros Petersen's The World
Island: Eurasian Geopolitics and the Fate of the West (2011) makes a
powerful case for the U.S. and its NATO allies to pursue a vigorous
forward strategy around Russia's perimeter, with the aim of integrating
the smaller nations of the former Soviet Union more deeply into
Western-oriented market and democratic institutions. And Robert
Kaplan's The Revenge of Geography (2012)—one of his best books in
years—provides a characteristically engaging geopolitical world tour for
the reader, concluding with recommendations for close U.S. cooperation
with Mexico on issues of trade, immigration, and counternarcotics.
In addition to their useful differences, these books present certain
common themes of geopolitical analysis, which might be summed up as
follows: The international system is a competitive arena in which great
powers play a disproportionate role, struggling for (in the bland terms of
modern social science) security, resources, position, and influence.
Military force is critical to that influence. Given their essential autonomy,
states not unreasonably tend to fear their own encirclement by other
powers, and try to break out of it through strategies of counter-
encirclement. The realities of geography and material capability set very
definite constraints on foreign policy decision-makers, which they ignore
at their peril. At the same time, there is considerable room for human
agency and political leadership to respond to these constraints and
pursue worthwhile ends with skill, courage, and success. Despite
technological and institutional changes over the years, these underlying
features of world politics have never really changed much. This is one
reason the study of history is instructive for statesmen.

Classical Geopolitics
What has changed, among other things, is the distribution of power
within the international system. Today, it is China's economic and
military power that is rising, not only on land, but at sea. Yet the basic
patterns of its rise are hardly unprecedented. So it is appropriate that
we go back for perspective, and even wisdom, as these recent books do,
to the classical geopolitical theorists. In the past century or so, three
stand out: Alfred Mahan, Halford Mackinder, and Nicholas Spykman.
U.S. rear admiral Alfred Mahan was in his time the preeminent theorist
of maritime power in world politics. Disturbed by the lack of
governmental or popular attention to the state of the U.S. Navy, in 1890
he published his greatest work, The Influence of Sea Power upon
History, 1660-1783. In it, he argues that sea power is central to the rise
and decline of great nations. Sea power is defined by Mahan as not
simply a strong navy—although it certainly includes that—but a national
orientation toward the ocean, in terms of geographical position,
commercial shipping, maritime production, and intelligent policies. The
military essence of sea power, for Mahan, is the concentrated
possession of numerous capital ships, with well-trained and aggressive
crews, capable of defeating enemy navies in battle. The possession of
such naval forces, when properly led, carries the immeasurable benefit
of driving the enemy's fleet and commerce from the open seas. Mahan
refers to this type of naval predominance as "command of the sea." In
wartime, command of the sea allows maritime powers to intervene
decisively on land, whether through naval blockade, or in direct support
of allied armies. In peacetime, command of the sea allows for the
operation of friendly maritime trade, which in turn gathers wealth to
finance the maintenance of the navy. Maritime shipping, a strong navy,
and the benefits of seaborne commerce thus operate in a kind of
virtuous circle for the leading naval powers, giving them a great
advantage over nations whose capabilities are bound mainly to the land.
Mahan argued that the self-reinforcing nature of sea power was best
demonstrated in modern times by the rise of Great Britain, which
achieved worldwide preeminence by defeating the navies of Spain,
Holland, and France in turn. But he worried that modern democracies
were not sufficiently attuned to the necessity of maintaining sea power.
His own United States, in particular, he viewed as preoccupied with
internal matters, and neglectful of its navy. He therefore recommended
not only the expansion of the U.S. battle fleet, but the careful
development of naval bases, canals, and coaling stations overseas, so
that the oceans would act as a strategic asset for America rather than as
a liability in the face of more aggressive competitors. Effective control
over vital maritime choke points, bases, and ocean lanes would allow
the seagoing nations to project their influence inland while constraining
the expansion of great land powers such as Russia—but that control
would have to be exercised and maintained energetically.
Halford Mackinder was much less confident than Mahan that Anglo-
American command of the sea could be used to check the consolidation
of great land powers in Europe and Asia. A British parliamentarian and
founder of the discipline of geostrategy, Mackinder formulated his core
argument only a few years after Mahan's appeared. In aGeographical
Journal article from 1904, and later in a book entitled Democratic Ideals
and Reality, Mackinder asked his readers to think of Europe, Asia, and
Africa as one great continent, which he called the "world island." This
single world island, Mackinder pointed out, contained much greater
human and natural resources than the rest of the planet's islands and
continents combined. Moreover the world island's "Heartland"—at its
maximum extent including Russia, Mongolia, Iran, Tibet, Central Asia,
and Eastern Europe—had the great advantage of virtual inaccessibility to
sea power. Historically, it was not so unusual for land powers to defeat
and overcome sea powers. After all, sea power was ultimately based
upon the land. Were the European and Asian continents ever to fall
under the domination of a single political entity emanating from the
Heartland, that entity would necessarily overpower through sheer
weight the outer crescent of insular maritime nations such as the United
States, Great Britain, Australia, and Japan. In this sense, the most
relevant precedent for the future might not be European maritime
dominance, but the sprawling Mongol empires of the 13th century.
Mackinder suggested that starting in about 1500 A.D., with the launch
of what he called the Columbian era, Western European nations had
been able to employ specific naval and technological advantages to
explore, penetrate, and colonize the rest of the world. The Asian
Heartland had thereby been outmaneuvered. But by the start of the
20th century, that era was coming to an end. The surface of the earth
had been largely navigated and partitioned by Europe's great empires;
the international system was now closed, without more possibilities for
external discovery. Furthermore, railways now crisscrossed massive
distances, bringing new advantages to trade, transport, and
communication by land. The future tendency would therefore be toward
the consolidation of continental-sized land powers in Eurasia, raising the
danger of Britain's relative decline and encirclement. The aftermath of
the First World War, including the Bolshevik Revolution and Germany's
failed bid for continental dominance, illustrated Mackinder's argument
that the Eurasian landmass could not be allowed to fall under the control
of a hostile authoritarian power. His specific response was to call for the
creation of an independent tier of East European buffer states, at the
Heartland's perimeter, to guard against either German or Soviet
expansion. But like Mahan, Mackinder feared that modern liberal
democracies were not inclined to think strategically over the long run.
Woodrow Wilson's brainchild, the League of Nations, confirmed his fear.
Mackinder urged the West's great maritime democracies to defend
themselves by establishing favorable balances of power on land; Wilson
created the League with the intention of putting an end to balances of
power altogether.
The failure of the League of Nations to prevent fascist aggression led to
a new wave of Western geostrategy, in which Nicolas Spykman was the
leading figure. A Sterling Professor of International Relations at Yale,
Spykman built on Mackinder's work and modified it significantly in two
books written during the early 1940s: America's Strategy in World
Politics, and The Geography of the Peace. In particular, Spykman
introduced the concept of the "Rimland," a belt of nations stretching
from France and Germany across the Middle East, to India, and finally to
China. What distinguished Rimland nations was their amphibious nature:
they were neither purely land powers nor sea powers. But taken
together, it was these Rimland powers—and not Mackinder's Heartland—
that contained most of the human population and economic productivity
on the planet. Spykman therefore characterized great geopolitical
struggles such as the Second World War not as contests of sea power
versus land power, but as conflicts between mixed alliances—each on
sea and land—over control of the Rimland. And control of the Rimland
meant control of the world.
Spykman renamed Mackinder's outer crescent of maritime powers the
"Offshore Islands and Continents." To offshore islanders like the
Americans, a purely naval or isolationist approach is always appealing.
Aware of his countrymen's intense reluctance to engage in military
conflicts overseas, Spykman nevertheless denied that an isolationist
policy was a viable option for the United States, either during or after
World War II. If the U.S. did not exercise effective control over the
airspace and sea lanes of the two oceans on either side of it, then
somebody else would. Specifically, Spykman pointed out the southern
cone of South America was so far away from the United States that
German influence there was a real possibility if Hitler was permitted to
win the war in Europe. U.S. hemispheric defense would then inevitably
collapse into something even more impoverished and constrained,
allowing the Axis powers to dominate vital resources from Europe and
Asia. Altogether, the Rimland's combined potential meant there was
simply no safe resting place for Americans on this side of the water. The
U.S. would have to ensure, through serious and costly effort, that the
resources of the Old World were not combined and mobilized against the
New World. Spykman was more optimistic than Mackinder that this
could actually be done, through the exercise of a forward strategic
presence and with the development of modern American air power. He
further warned, in anticipation of World War II's conclusion, that from
the perspective of the leading Offshore Continent (America), a Rimland
dominated by the Heartland (Russia) was no improvement on a
Heartland dominated by the Rimland (Nazi Germany and Japan).
For both Spykman and Mackinder, the geopolitical nightmare for the
West was an autocratic Heartland-Rimland conglomeration able to
dominate the Old World to such an extent that the seagoing Anglo-
American democracies would be outmaneuvered. This dire scenario has
often been dismissed over the years as highly improbable. But the great
struggles of the 20th century, including two world wars and one cold
one, were fought to prevent it, and without American intervention there
is good reason to believe that either an authoritarian Germany or the
Soviet Union would have dictated world politics for decades to come.

Eastern Rimland
The other way in which Mackinder's 1919 book, especially, appears to
have been prophetic, was in its prediction of a long-term power shift
from West to East, reversing the trend of previous centuries. During
most of the modern era, Europe was at the center of international
politics, with the world's most capable militaries, most dynamic
economies, and most assertive foreign policies. As Brendan Simms
shows in Europe: The Struggle for Supremacy (2013), the focus of great
power competition from the early modern era well into the 20th century
was ultimately the Holy Roman Empire and its successor states. Even
during the Cold War, when Rimland nations in Western Europe were
finally overshadowed by the actions of external superpowers, the
European continent—particularly Germany—remained the supreme
geopolitical prize for which those superpowers contended. The end of
the Cold War was taken by many liberal dreamers to mean the end of
geopolitics. But in reality, it merely introduced a new distribution and
ranking of great powers, characterized by a predominant America, a
resentful Russia, a strategically incoherent European Union, and a rising
set of Asian nations. As the Chinese economy has grown rapidly,
allowing them to build up and modernize their armed forces, there has
been a massive shift in relative economic and military capabilities from
the Atlantic to the Pacific. The chief focus of international great power
competition is now along the eastern rather than the western end of
Spykman's Rimland.
In geopolitical terms, China is not a Heartland but a Rimland power.
That is to say, it is accessible by sea and land, with security concerns in
both directions. The collapse of the Soviet Union represented a windfall
for China, reducing the threat from the north. Starting in the 1990s,
Beijing also resolved many of its border disputes with neighboring
countries. This has sometimes been taken as an indication that China
has few aggressive intentions. But in fact the resolution and security of
China's vast land frontier—an exceptional achievement, by historical
standards—allows Beijing to be more assertive and expansionist at sea.
In recent years, aware of America's preoccupations with economic
recession and Mideast terrorism, China has begun throwing its weight
around in the South and East China Seas, triggering a series of
dangerous maritime incidents with Japan, South Korea, the Philippines,
and Vietnam, as well as with U.S. surveillance ships. At the same time,
China has built up and modernized its navy, both to lend greater weight
to its diplomatic assertions in the region and to protect its extensive and
growing merchant marine. As James Holmes and Toshi Yoshihara detail
in their very useful book, Red Star over the Pacific (2010), numerous
Chinese naval strategists explicitly invoke Admiral Mahan and his
concept of sea command.
China's practical goal appears to be command over the South China
Sea. Admittedly, the Chinese navy—the People's Liberation Army Navy,
as it is called—is still not comparable to the U.S. Navy, but it doesn't
have to be. By building up large numbers of frigates, submarines, and
land-based missiles ready to attack U.S. forces in unorthodox fashion—
for example, in concert with cyber strikes—China has created a new
correlation of forces which an American president might be reluctant to
challenge during a crisis. The purpose of the Chinese naval buildup is
not to go looking for war with the United States, but to deter the U.S.
from acting in the region, notably in defense of Taiwan. Securing control
of Taiwan would constitute not only a sweeping national accomplishment
for the Chinese Communist Party, but a dramatic improvement in
China's geopolitical situation at sea. What Chinese strategists call the
"first island chain," stretching from Japan to Malaysia, would then be
breached. Beyond that, the Chinese themselves may not know how they
plan to use their newfound sea power. But history suggests they will
continue to define their maritime interests more expansively as they
acquire greater and greater maritime capabilities.

China and America

China is in a position to challenge the U.S. for predominance along the
East Asian littoral, and has considerable interest in doing so, especially
given its grinding sense of historical grievance. For many Chinese, to
achieve such predominance would be a return to the natural order of
things, in which the Middle Kingdom leads within East Asia. The
Russians, for their part, share with China a long-term desire to expel
American influence from their immediate spheres of influence. The most
persuasive accounts of Sino-Russian cooperation tend to suggest it is
opportunistic and pragmatic. Still, from an American point of view, this
is not exactly reassuring. If these two massive, authoritarian powers are
able to cooperate pragmatically and case by case against American
interests, the U.S. will face a severe geopolitical challenge in much of
Eurasia. When Rimland powers are able to secure their land borders, as
China seems to be doing, and then convincingly take to the seas, this
has to worry offshore powers like the United States.
President Barack Obama came into office hoping for cooperation with
China on a range of issues such as climate change and arms control;
sustained Sino-American strategic competition was probably the last
thing on his mind. He soon discovered that praising China's growing
power, as he did when visiting Beijing in 2009, only encouraged its self-
assertion. As America's Asian allies grew increasingly concerned by
Chinese aggressiveness at sea, the Obama Administration eventually
announced a strategic "pivot" toward Asia. But at the same time the
administration cut U.S. naval strengths significantly—strengths that will
be crucial to balance Chinese influence. It didn't help when Obama
displayed his strategic insouciance during a 2012 presidential election
debate, mocking concerns over America's shrinking Navy.
It is neither unusual nor irrational for great powers to engage in long-
term geopolitical competition during peacetime. This is exactly what is
happening between the U.S. and China now, whatever liberal dreamers
may want to dream. In his edited volume, Competitive Strategies for the
21st Century (2012), Thomas Mahnken of the Naval War College shows
that although this competition does not rule out the possibility of
cooperation in certain areas, it does oblige us to leverage our strengths
against our competitor's weaknesses for decades to come. The last time
the U.S. government developed a genuinely grand strategy in relation to
another great power was during the 1980s. China is not the Soviet
Union, but there are still lessons to be learned from America's Cold War
competition with Moscow, which after all ended peacefully and, for the
U.S., successfully.
One of the explanations for the lack of grand strategy toward China
today is the tacit and widespread assumption that American power is in
relative and irreversible decline, while China's rise is more or less
ordained. But as Georgetown University's Robert Lieber points out in his
new book, Power and Willpower in the American Future (2012),
America's "decline" is vastly overstated. The United States possesses
capabilities and advantages denied to any other power. These include
the world's largest economy, its most powerful armed forces by far, its
leading universities, a persistent edge in technological innovation, an
unusual attractiveness for immigrants, vast natural resources on a
continental scale, deep financial markets, underlying political stability,
tremendous resilience, and a set of flexible international alliances. China
poses a serious geopolitical challenge, but it lacks these advantages,
and Chinese leaders know it.
Americans still have the ability to choose whether we want to play a
leading role in the world. If we abdicate that role, we will one day
awaken not to liberal dreams come true but to nightmarish realities that
a sensible foreign policy could, and should, have averted.
n Defense of Classical Geopolitics
Mackubin Thomas Owens
Naval War College Review
Autumn 1999
pp. 59-76
THE FORMULATION OF national strategy is influenced by a wide variety
of factors, including the past history of the nation; the nature of the
regime; the ideology, religion, and culture; economic factors, to include
technology; and governmental and military institutions.1 When Albert
Einstein remarked that “politics is harder than physics,” he had in mind
the enormous number of such variables that the statesman and
strategist must consider when describing international phenomena and
developing prescriptive measures.2

Geography and Geopolitics

Perhaps the most important influence on strategy making, however,
is geography, the physical setting of human activity, whether political,
economic, or strategic. As Nicholas Spykman observed, “Geography is
the most fundamental factor in foreign policy because it is the most
permanent.”3 The geographic setting imposes distinctive constraints on
a nation’s foreign policy and strategy while at the same time providing
distinctive opportunities. As Colin Gray has remarked, geography at a
minimum defines the players in international relations, the stakes for
which the players contend, and the terms by which they measure their
security relative to others.4
Geography, the descriptive science of the earth, can be understood in a
number of ways. Saul Cohen provides three definitions of geography:
the “science of area differentiation,” the science of “spatial relations and
interaction,” and the “science of distributions.”5 Thus, the geographer
examines such physical factors as space, topography, and climate.
There are many subdivisions of geography, but those of greatest
interest to the statesman and strategist are variants
of human geography, which studies the ways in which physical factors
interact with population, political institutions, culture, communications,
industry, and technology. The resulting branches of human geography
include political geography, economic geography, cultural geography, mi
litary geography, and strategic geography.6
A form of geographic reasoning that necessarily encompasses all these
branches is geopolitics, “the relation of international political power to
the geographical setting.”7 Geopolitics is essentially the study of the
political and strategic relevance of geography to the pursuit of
international power. As such, it is most closely related to strategic
geography, which is concerned with the control of, or access to, spatial
areas that have an impact on the security and prosperity of nations.

The Post–Cold War Security Environment: Contending

Perspectives
The end of the Cold War has generated a number of competing
candidate descriptions of the international environment, some of which
essentially proclaim the “end of geopolitics.” Optimistic nongeopolitical
descriptions of the post–Cold War international environment include
Francis Fukuyama’s “end of history” thesis, which argues that the end of
the Cold War represents the final triumph of liberal democracy over its
twentieth-century ideological competitors, fascism and communism.8
Other optimistic nongeopolitical visions of the future world include
“global interdependence,” the idea that the pursuit of power in its
geographic setting has been supplanted by liberal economic cooperation.
According to such analysts as Richard Rosecrance and Jessica Mathews,
the near future will feature borderless economic interdependence and
the end of the nation-state.9
Pessimistic nongeopolitical images of the future include Samuel
Huntington’s “clash of civilizations” and Robert Kaplan’s “coming
anarchy.” Huntington claims that “fault lines between civilizations are
replacing the political and ideological boundaries of the Cold War as the
flash points for crisis and bloodshed.”10 Kaplan contends that in the
future much of the globe will be consumed by ethnic, racial, and
religious strife unleashed by the failure of territorial states to protect the
lives and property of those who live within their borders.11
Some have proposed semigeographic but nongeopolitical views of the
future. Prominent among these are concepts of “core” and “periphery,”
“pivotal states,” and “geo-economics.” Immanuel Wallerstein proposed
the core and periphery as part of his neo-Marxist model of world
politico-economic development. According to Wallerstein, the capitalist
world economy created a single global unit, generating two fundamental
inequalities: the traditional class inequality identified by Marx between
bourgeoisie and proletariat, and the spatial inequality between the
states of the developed capitalist core and those of the nondeveloped
periphery.12
What Wallerstein identified as the capitalist core is tantamount to what
the great geographer Sir Halford Mackinder called the “Midland Basin”:
North America and Western Europe. Most of the rest of the world is the
periphery. Wallerstein’s model is in essence a spatial representation of
Lenin’s theory of uneven capitalist development. Although the dynamics
are reversed, it also bears a striking resemblance to Lin Piao’s
conceptualization of the world as the capitalist “city” surrounded by
agrarian, revolutionary “countryside.”13
Non-Marxists like Barry Buzan have adapted the core-and-periphery
concept to “structural realism.” One component of this application is the
notion that while multipolarity is emerging among the capitalist great
powers, the ideological harmony within the core has lessened the
importance of military power among states within the core, but not
between the core and the periphery.14
The pivotal-state concept is geographical in that it argues that certain
states are important to the stability of entire regions. It is, however,
nongeopolitical in that it does not explicitly describe a hierarchy among
those regions.15
Geo-economics purports to place international politics on an economic
basis. In the words of Edward Luttwak, “Everyone, it appears, now
agrees that the methods of commerce are displacing military methods—
with disposable capital in lieu of firepower, civilian innovation in lieu of
military-technical advancement, and market penetration in lieu of
garrisons and bases. States, as spatial entities structured to jealously
delimit their own territories, will not disappear but reorient themselves
toward geo-economics in order to compensate for their decaying
geopolitical roles.” In geo-economic state rivalry, the “logic of conflict”
will be expressed in the “grammar of commerce.”16
Adherents of geopolitics argue that to be of any use to the statesman
and strategist, these various descriptions of the future must be placed
within a geopolitical context. Real international relations occur in real
geographical space. The relative importance of a given geographical
space may be modified by technology or the infusion of capital, but
geographical space cannot be ignored, as several of these approaches
do.

Geopolitics, Con and Pro

Despite widespread use of the term, the concept of geopolitics is
controversial. To some, it smacks of a particularly crude form of
geographic determinism; to others, it represents nothing more than a
justification of international aggression. The term itself is derived from
geopolitik, which during the interwar period became synonymous with
“the German science of statecraft” embraced by the Nazis.17 Its
American form underlay the strategy of containment, and in the eyes of
many critics it led to the rigid divisions of the Cold War.18 Marxists and
adherents of “critical geopolitics” dismiss classical geopolitics as a
rationalization for American imperialism.19
Some students of international relations argue that geopolitics is banal,
that it is a pretentious word adding nothing to the important debates
regarding international relations, foreign policy, and strategy. Others
hold that since geopolitics is wedded to the concepts of military power
and the territorial state, the importance of geopolitical reasoning is in
decline as nonstate actors in the international political system increase
in importance. A corollary of this perspective is that since the pursuit of
prosperity is supplanting the quest for power in international affairs,
geopolitics has been superseded by the aforementioned geo-economics,
or even “geopolinomics.”20 Still others contend that although a
geopolitical perspective may have been useful in the past, advances in
technology, particularly airpower, nuclear weapons, and information
technology, now render it moot.21
Many of the misunderstandings associated with “geopolitics” arise from
the fact that the term itself is heterogeneous: it has been used to mean
everything from geographic determinism to the spatial dimension of
political inquiry to merely an analytical way of thinking.22 It is used
here to mean a normative-strategic doctrine: geopolitics is descriptive in
that it helps us understand the world as a whole, and prescriptive in that
it suggests strategic courses of action.
Although there have been “idealistic” geopoliticians, especially those
who envisioned an American response to the German geopolitik of World
War II, geopolitics as employed here is very much a part of the Realist
tradition. Indeed, it can be understood as the description of the spatial
aspects of power politics, as modified by technology and economics, and
their strategic implications—realpolitik manifest in geographic space.23
Geopolitics makes certain claims: there is an international pecking
order, determined by who has power and who does not; power is rooted
in the physical nature of the world itself; the power of the modern state
has some relation to the territory that it occupies, controls, or
influences; resources and strategic potential, the sources of state power,
are unequally distributed worldwide; and power is ephemeral—
possession is no guarantee of its permanent retention, and therefore
states must take steps to ensure its retention.
Accordingly, adherents of geopolitics contend that the study of the
international scene from a spatial viewpoint, by which one better
understands the whole, has strategic implications. The main directions
of proper strategy may be deduced from an understanding of the
overarching spatial relationships among political actors: by discerning
broad geographical patterns, one may develop better strategic options
by which a state can assert its place in the world.
The geopolitical perspective in international relations has given rise to
spatial “pivotal binaries,” categories that shape how we look at the world
and suggest strategic steps to enhance state power. The most enduring
of them include East and West, “sea power” and “land power,”
“maritime” and “continental,” “heartland” and “rimland,” and “core
areas” and peripheral “shatterbelts.” These are, of course, mental
constructs; but strategy is directly connected to perceptions about the
geographic attributes that configure the global space in which conflict
occurs. We might call these “mental maps.”24
Mental maps reflect another important aspect of geopolitics: strategic
culture. It is undeniable that different countries manifest different
approaches to international politics. For instance, sea powers envision
their security differently than do land powers. As Gray observes,
“Distinctive political culture, which substantially determines national
style in foreign and military affairs, is the product of a distinctive
national historical experience—and that distinctive historical experience
reflects no less distinctive a blend of national geographical
conditions.”25
Since geopolitics describes the nexus of geographic factors, relative
power (including economic power), and militarily significant technology,
these geopolitical categories tend to be dynamic, not static. This point is
often lost on critics of geopolitics. Thus Halford Mackinder revised his
concept of the heartland three times, and Saul Cohen modified his idea
of which regions constituted the world’s shatterbelts several times. Such
changes reflect modified circumstances arising from changes in relative
power among states, including economic development, or advances in
technology.
This is a critically important point to remember: technology and
economics are not extraneous to geopolitical analysis. They are integral
to geopolitics. The shift in ship propulsion from sail to coal to oil to
nuclear power significantly changed the geopolitical landscape, as did
the railroad and the development of air power. Some analysts suggested
that nuclear weapons spelled the end of geopolitics; some make that
claim now on behalf of information technology and cyberspace.
However, while technological advances can alter the importance of the
geographic determinants of policy and strategy, they do not negate it.
The same is true ofeconomic development; the infusion of capital may
modify but not negate the importance of a particular geographic space.

Classical Geopolitics Revisited

Geopolitical reasoning has a long pedigree. It is visible in the works of
Herodotus, Thucydides, and Aristotle. Indeed, Herodotus, the title of
whose History is better translated as “inquiries,” provides a strong
geographic underpinning to his examination of the “clash of civilizations”
of his time. For Herodotus, the “ways” of Egyptians, Persians, Scythians,
and Greeks were heavily influenced by the physical geographical
setting.26
In the late eighteenth century, Adam Heinrich Dietrich von Bülow
proposed a geometrical science of strategy that some have seen as a
forerunner of geopolitics. When Bülow’s best-known work, The Spirit of
the Modern System of War, appeared in 1799, Europe was divided into a
multitude of small states. Based on his geometrical system, Bülow
predicted that the larger states would swallow up the smaller ones,
resulting in a Europe of eleven large states, none of which would be
capable of further expansion. Bülow, of course, was one of Clausewitz’s
main targets in On War, but the similarity between his predictions and
the map of Europe after the unification of Germany and Italy in 1866 is
striking.27
What we now think of as geopolitics had its origins infin de siècle Europe
in response to technological change, primarily the revolution in land
transportation, and to the creation of a “closed political system” as
European imperialist competition extinguished the world’s “frontiers.”
The various leitmotiven of the emerging geopolitics included the
ineradicable antagonism between Anglo-American sea power and,
especially, Russian land power; the inherent danger to the West of the
German Drang nach Osten, the “drive toward the East”; the strategic
importance of various geographic areas; and the changes in relative
power resulting from technological advances in warfare and transport.
Fin de siècle geopolitics generated two main strands of thought. One
branch, organic state theory, primarily took root in Germany, and the
other, geostrategy, in the Anglo-American world.28

Organic State Theory. Organic state theory was continentalist in

outlook and heavily influenced by Social Darwinism. In his 1897
book Politische Geographie, Friedrich Ratzel employed biological
metaphors, describing the state as an organism. According to Ratzel,
international politics was a constant struggle for survival in which the
state was required to adapt to its environmental conditions: the state
must grow or die. For Ratzel, states derived their power and adaptability
from raum, space—more specifically lebensraum, that is, wide
geographical living space.29
While Ratzel saw the development of the state as an evolutionary
process and political geography as a part of the natural sciences, he was
always careful to employ biology only as an analogy. The Swedish
Germanophile Rudolf Kjellen was not so careful. For Kjellen, the state
was in fact a living organism, as the title of his major geopolitical work
indicates.30 It was Kjellen who coined the term geopolitik to describe
“physical structure,” one of the five “organs” of the state.31 While both
these authors left some room for statesmanship, their approaches were
largely deterministic.

Geostrategy. The other main strand of classical geopolitical thought,

geostrategy, was less focused on the stateper se and more concerned
with discovering patterns of state development and behavior within a
broader geographic context. Alfred Thayer Mahan, a geopolitician before
the term was invented, sought to demonstrate that sea power was the
key to world power. Mahan identified six factors affecting the
development and maintenance of sea power: geographical position,
including coastlines, interconnected waters, exposed land boundaries,
overseas bases, and the ability to command critical trade routes; the
physical conformation of the state, that is, the nature of the coastline;
extent of territory; size of population; national character; and the nature
of the regime.32
Mahan’s most explicitly geopolitical work was The Problem of
Asia (1900), in which he identified an Asian “core,” occupied by Russia.
He predicted the continuation of the struggle between Russian land
power and British sea power. Much of this struggle, Mahan argued,
would take place within a “debated and debatable middle strip,” the
zone between the thirtieth and fortieth parallels in Asia, running from
Turkey to Manchuria.33 This geopolitical category was the forerunner of
today’s shatterbelt or zone of turmoil, which James Fairgrieve called
a crush zone and Richard Hartshorne a shatter zone: an area of
contention caught between two powers or geostrategic realms.34
Sir Halford Mackinder is the writer most usually associated with
geopolitics, although he hated the term. Mackinder believed that
changes in technology, especially the revolution in land transportation
associated with the railroad, had altered the balance of power between
sea power and land power, bringing the Columbian age of dominant sea
power to a close. In the new, closed international global system, land
power would hold the advantage.35 The center of emerging land power
was the Eurasian core area Mackinder first called the “geographical pivot
of history” and later the Heartland. This core area was inaccessible to
sea power and therefore capable of sheltering a land power able to
dominate the Eurasian “World-Island” from its central continental
fortress: “The oversetting of the balance of power in favor of the pivot
state, resulting in its expansion over the marginal lands of Euro-Asia,
would permit the vast continental resources for fleet-building, and the
empire of the world would then be in sight.”36 For Mackinder, Eastern
Europe was the gateway to the Heartland. Mackinder’s geopolitical
thesis, which influenced the victors at Versailles after World War I, was
whispered by an “airy cherub” to the statesmen of the world: “Who rules
East Europe commands the Heartland; Who rules the Heartland
commands the World-Island; Who rules the World-Island commands the
world.”37
Surrounding the Heartland were two crescents: a wholly maritime outer
crescent consisting of the Americas, the British Isles, Australia, and sub-
Saharan Africa; and a partly continental and partly maritime inner
crescent, extending along the Eurasian littoral from Iberia to Siberia and
including most of continental Europe west of Russia, the Maghreb, the
Middle East, and continental South, Southeast, and East Asia. This
“marginal region” contained the vast majority of the world’s population
and was the origin of most of the world’s great civilizations, religions,
and empires. Because of its location, Mackinder believed, the inner
crescent would forever be a zone of conflict (Map 1).
In 1924, Mackinder raised the possibility that the Heartland could be
balanced by the powers of the “Midland Basin,” the countries that
surrounded the North Atlantic or “Midland Ocean”—North America and
Western Europe. In 1943, he argued that the Heartland and the Midland
Basin could combine to control Germany in the future. Although we
would call Mackinder a Realist, he did raise the possibility that
statesmen could, to a certain extent at least, rise above the geopolitical
process of world history and create effective international structures as
an alternative to force as the arbiter of international politics.

Geopolitik. Organic state theory and geostrategy came together in the

interwar Munich school of geopolitik, a vindictive and expansionist
ideology that has tainted geopolitics ever since. For its best known
proponent, Karl Haushofer, geopolitikexplained the defeat of Germany in
World War I and offered a prescription for the restoration of German
power. Haushofer appropriated such concepts
as autarky andlebensraum from Ratzel and Kjellen, using them to justify
Germany’s Drang nach Osten, which was blocked by
a kleinstaatengerumpel, literally “a rubbish of small states.” This barrier
of small, “artificial” states erected by the Versailles Treaty was destined
to be swept away and replaced by a German-dominated new European
order.38
Haushofer adopted Mackinder’s leitmotiv of sea power versus land
power and the importance of East Europe as the gateway to the
Heartland, which Germany regarded as its schicksalsraum, its “space of
destiny.” Indeed, he advocated the alliance against which Mackinder had
warned—the uniting of German and Soviet land power against the
Western sea powers. He envisioned a German-Soviet Eurasian union,
anchored in the east by Japan. While German global dominance was the
ultimate goal of geopolitik, Haushofer envisaged an intermediate stage
of “pan-regions”: Pan-Europe (including Africa), dominated by Germany;
Pan-Asia, dominated by Japan; Pan-America, dominated by the United
States; and at least for a while, Pan-Russia.

American Geopolitics. Geopolitik and organic state theory died with

the Third Reich, but before it did, it stimulated the development of a
geostrategic American geopolitics that had a profound influence on U.S.
policy and strategy during and after World War II. Many American
geopoliticians—for instance Robert Strausz-Hupé, Derwent Whittlesey,
and Andrew Gyorgy—wrote interpretive books on Geopolitik. Among the
American geopoliticians were both “Realists” and “idealists.”39 The most
influential of them all was the Realist geostrategist Nicholas Spykman.
Spykman contended that Mackinder had overemphasized the power
potential of the Heartland, having overestimated the impact of the
revolution in land transportation and underestimated the power of the
inner and outer crescents. Spykman argued that the critical geopolitical
area of the globe was Mackinder’s inner crescent, which he renamed the
“Rimland.”40
The Rimland could operate in both the continental and maritime modes,
but it was, accordingly, vulnerable to both land and sea power. Alliances
among the Rimland powers or between the Heartland and the Rimland
and hostile to the United States constituted for Spykman the real
geopolitical threat to America. “The Mackinder dictum . . . is false. If
there is to be a slogan for the power politics of the Old World, it must be
‘Who controls the Rimland rules Eurasia; who rules Eurasia controls the
destinies of the world.’”41 The strategic imperative for the United States
arising from Spykman’s thesis was to prevent consolidation of the
Rimland by a hostile power: “Our constant concern in peace time must
be to see that no nation or alliance of nations is allowed to emerge as a
dominating power” within the Rimland.42

The Geopolitics of Containment. Spykman’s approach greatly

influenced the U.S. Cold War policy of containment. Indeed, if George
Kennan is the “father of containment,” Spykman is its godfather.
Kennan wrote that vis-à-vis the Soviet Union, the United States should
follow a “policy of 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.”43 Thus
containment is a particular manifestation of Spykman’s dictum that the
United States had a universal interest in “the prevention of hegemony, a
power position which would permit the domination of all within [a
hegemon’s] reach.”44
The history of containment indicates that the development of long-range
airpower did not nullify geopolitics, although it certainly modified the
existing framework. Alexander de Seversky was one of the few who
argued that the air constituted an altogether different order of power,
leading him to propose a “geopolitics of air power.” Employing an
azimuthal equidistant projection centered on the North Pole, de
Seversky divided the world into two great circles of airpower, centered
on the industrial hearts respectively of the United States and the Soviet
Union. These circles overlapped in North America and northern Eurasia,
which de Seversky called the “area of decision.” Here, the United States
and the Soviet Union possessed approximately equal power, and their
respective industrial centers were within striking distance of each other
by means of strategic bombers.45 De Seversky contended that the
United States should conduct its defense from the Western Hemisphere;
that, with the exception of those in Great Britain, it should abandon its
overseas bases; and that it should avoid small wars that sapped the
strength of the nation.
Although de Seversky’s approach influenced the Eisenhower
administration’s New Look strategy, policy makers for the most part
rejected “air isolationism,” maintaining that the Western Hemisphere
would become increasingly vulnerable to attack unless the United States
defended critical parts of the Rimland.46 Thus in practice, containment
represented the triumph of Mackinder and Spykman over de Seversky.
De Seversky’s airpower framework is just one example of the seductive
and plausible idea that technology can abolish geopolitics by annihilating
the significance of space and distance. During the Cold War, Colin Gray
provided the most explicit rejection of this view. For Gray, “Mackinder’s
notion that the future would be shaped by the opposition between sea
power and land power has looked better and better as time separates us
from World War II.”47 The Cold War, Gray argues, was a “contest
between the Heartland of the Soviet Union and the maritime alliance led
by the United States for control, or denial of control, of the Rimlands of
Eurasia-Africa and their adjacent or marginal seas.”48 Due to the
resulting mutual vulnerability, the development of the means for
intercontinental nuclear bombardment did not negate this fundamental
geopolitical framework.
Much of the Cold War bipolar competition between the Heartland Soviet
Union and the maritime alliance led by the United States occurred in
shatterbelts of the Eurasian Rimland. Cohen defines a shatterbelt as “a
large, strategically located region that is occupied by a number of
conflicting states and is caught between the conflicting interests of
adjoining Great Powers.”49 Shatterbelts are distinguished by their
fragmented political and economic character:
Owing to physical, environmental, historical, cultural, and political
differences, the Shatterbelt appears to be incapable of attaining political
and/or economic unity of action. Parts of the shatterbelts tend to seek
neutrality and lead the entire region into this path, but other portions
are committed to external ties, either because of their self-interest or
because of military and economic pressures from the external power
centers.50
Cohen identified the Middle East and Southeast Asia as the shatterbelts
of the Cold War. It was within these areas that the “domino theory” was
thought by U.S. policy makers to operate. Ironically, the domino theory
has been roundly criticized by many of the very analysts who believe the
concept of the shatterbelt still has utility.51

Post–Cold War Geopolitics

What might a post–Cold War geopolitics look like? To begin with, it must
reject the idea that geography is the only important factor affecting
international action, and it must understand geographical phenomena as
complex “spatial patterns and relations that reflect dynamic physical and
human processes.” A useful starting point is the global geopolitical
structure proposed by Saul Cohen (Map 2).52
Cohen’s geopolitical structure is hierarchical. At the highest level are
two geostrategic realms, which are “arenas of strategic place and
movement.” Reflecting the classical origins of geopolitics, he identifies
these geostrategic realms as the maritime and the Eurasian continental.
They are characterized not only by the physical characteristics of place
and movement but also by cultural and strategic outlook. Realms are
vast spatial areas affecting everything within their strategic-military
reach.
Below the realms are geopolitical regions, which are shaped by
“contiguity and political, cultural, military and economic interaction.”
Cohen identifies nine geopolitical regions. Four are contained within the
maritime geostrategic realm: Anglo-America and the Caribbean;
Maritime Europe and the Maghreb; offshore Asia; and South America
and sub-Saharan Africa, most of which constitutes what he calls the
“quartersphere of strategic marginality.” 53 Two are part of the
Eurasian continental realm: the Russian heartland and East Asia.
Of the remaining regions, Cohen argues that one, South Asia, is
independent. Another, the Middle East, remains a shatterbelt. Yet
another, Central and Eastern Europe, Cohen describes as a “gateway
region,” a transitional zone that can facilitate contact and interchange
between the two realms.”54
Below the regions are states, hierarchically ordered according to their
power, geographical location, and function within the world system.
Certain states dominate, or contend for domination of, the various
regions. The United States is the “controlling state” within the maritime
geostrategic realm. Geopolitical analysis suggests that China and Russia
will vie for that position within the Eurasian continental realm.
Such an analytical framework allows us to discern broad spatial
patterns, make predictions about the future shape of the international
political system, and develop strategic options for ensuring the nation’s
place in this system. Within this framework, a number of variables
interact with geography to shape the world. As we have seen, one is
technology. Another, however, is the infusion of capital and economic
development.
The infusion of capital can modify the relative importance of a given
geographic space by, for example, shifting power centers. In the early
twentieth century the core of the maritime geostrategic realm shifted
from Europe to North America. On the other hand, lack of capital can
consign geographical regions to the world’s periphery. For instance,
Cohen’s “quartersphere of marginality” is peripheral largely because,
with the exception of such pockets of modernity as South Africa,
Argentina, Chile, and Brazil, these regions are relatively untouched by
“the capital flows, technology transfer, and specialization of industry
that characterize the developed market economies . . . , continental
Eurasia . . . , and South Asia.”55
But geopolitical reasoning suggests limits to the impact of economic
development. Location still matters.56 Consider the relative importance
to the security of the United States of Brazil and China. Some consider
Brazil to be a pivotal state, but its location in South America makes
Brazil relatively less strategically important than China. Even supposing
rapid economic growth, Brazil does not possess the weight and position
of China. While Brazil has a long coastline, it does not command the sea
lines of communications of great maritime, manufacturing, and trading
powers. China does. Indeed, in all respects, China possesses the
geographic location, extent of territory, and number of population to
affect the international order for good or ill.
What are the strategic implications of geopolitical analysis? How do they
differ from those of the other assessments of the post–Cold War
international political system? First, geopolitical reasoning suggests that
the consistent concerns of the geopolitical tradition—that is, the
geographical correlation of power, the identification of core areas, and
the relationship between maritime and continental capabilities—will
continue to shape U.S. policy and strategy. Second, geopolitical
reasoning suggests that the overarching strategic imperative of the
United States will continue to be to prevent the rise of a hegemon
capable of dominating the Eurasian continental realm and of challenging
the United States in the maritime realm. In other words, future
American regional strategic priorities will resemble those of the past.
There are several further implications of geopolitical reasoning. Among
the most important, the first is that the United States should maintain
sufficient land power to influence Europe and East Asia, keeping in mind
that it cannot be a land power beyond North America without also being
a sea power. Second, Nato should be expanded in order firmly to
anchor Mitteleuropa to the maritime realm. This is important because,
detached from Western Europe, the region of Central and Eastern
Europe may revert to its traditional role as a shatterbelt. This is also
true of the Balkans; there is substantial evidence to support the
contention that the region is reemerging as a shatterbelt. Third, there
are limits to improved relations between the United States and Russia
on the one hand and with China on the other. Neither Nato nor the
United States–Japan relationship should be sacrificed based on the hope
or expectation of an entente with Russia or China. Fourth, concerns
about drugs, environmental degradation, migration, and economic chaos
in Africa and South America—the quartersphere of strategic
marginality—should not divert the United States from its perennial
overarching strategic goal of preventing the rise of a Eurasian hegemon.
Fifth, space, distance, and the fact that South Asia is an independent
geopolitical region limit the ability of the United States to affect directly
the emerging India-Pakistan arms race.57 Sixth, because of oil and
strategic location, the Middle East shatterbelt will continue to be a zone
of turmoil. Without a strategic U.S. presence, this turmoil could spread
to affect the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean in one direction and
Central Asia in another.

Limits, Opportunities, and International Politics

Napoleon defined strategy as the art of using time and space. His focus
was the operational level of war, but his definition applies as well to the
level of grand strategy. Geopolitics provides the link between geography
and strategy. Geopolitics is based on the undeniable fact that all
international politics, running the gamut from peace to war, takes place
in time and space, in particular geographical settings and environments.
It then seeks to establish the links and causal relationships between
geographical space and international political power, for the purpose of
devising specific strategic prescriptions.
Geopolitics is not geographic determinism, but it is based on the
assumption that geography defines limits and opportunities in
international politics: states can realize their geopolitical opportunities or
become the victims of their geopolitical situation. One purpose of grand
strategy is to exploit one’s own geographical attributes and an
adversary’s geographical vulnerabilities.
Geopolitics is dynamic, not static. It reflects international realities and
the global constellation of power arising from the interaction of
geography on the one hand and technology and economic development
on the other. Technology and the infusion of capital can modify, though
not negate, the strategic importance of a particular geographic space.
Finally, geopolitics clarifies the range of strategic choices, providing a
guide for achieving strategic efficiency. While it places particular stress
on geographic space as a critically important strategic factor and source
of power, it recognizes that geography is only a part of the totality of
global phenomena.
As Colin Gray observes, geopolitics is “a word—as well as a basket of
associated ideas—that all but begs to be abused by the
unscrupulous.”58 Properly understood and employed, however,
geopolitical analysis is an indispensable part of strategy making.
Geography and Politics
by Christopher Flannery

I'll attempt to persuade first the rulers and the soldiers, then the rest of
the city, that the rearing and education we gave them were like dreams;
they only thought they were undergoing all that was happening to them,
while, in truth, at that time they were under the earth within, being
fashioned and reared themselves, and their arms and other tools being
crafted. When the job had been completely finished, then the earth,
which is their mother, sent them up. And now, as though the land they
are in were a mother and nurse, they must plan for and defend it, if
anyone attacks, and they must think of the other citizens as brothers
and born of the earth. [1]
"God," as John Locke says, "gave the World to Men in Common." [2] But
every political community begins by acquiring and establishing dominion
over a particular part of the world. Men must acquire property for the
sake of life and of a good life, for which reason Aristotle says that "the
art of acquiring property is a part of managing the household," or what
we call economics. [3] This sounds tranquil and domestic enough. But
the art of acquiring property is a species of the art of war. The art of
war, from this point of view, is "a natural art of acquisition," acquisition
of the natural necessities and utilities of life. [4] The statesman must be
concerned with acquisition of territory for the sake of the existence and
the self sufficiency of his political community. The primary concern of
politics with geography lies here: in the necessity of acquiring and
securing territory for the sake of political existence. To paraphrase
the Federalist, the first act of politics is the exercise of the different and
unequal faculties of acquiring territory. [5]
In seeking to understand the nature of politics, ancient Greek political
philosophers thought it necessary to contemplate the idea of the best
regime. [6] This idea is abstract and universal and is not subject to the
coercive material necessities of any actual and particular place or time.
It is a utopia, a no-place. Every actual political community, however,
must claim and occupy a particular, more or less defined, portion of the
earth's surface as its own, with its own peculiar topography, climate,
wealth or dearth of natural resources, and location with respect to
neighboring nations, to land and sea routes of trade and travel, and to
the rest of the world's powers. Next to the people themselves, the land
they live on is the most fundamental and necessary material condition of
political life. The rest of political life depends upon the acquisition and
defense of this particular territory, and the need to preserve this
territory is never absent from political life. This particular necessity is
then an ineradicable part of all actual politics and can be seen as "the
ultimate determinant of the nature of political society." [7]
Because politics must always be concerned with acquiring and
preserving the material necessities of political life (in the first instance,
territory) the art or science of acquisition is often equated with the art
or science of politics itself. As Aristotle writes, most people think that
statesmanship or the political art is the ability to establish and maintain
dominion (over territory and people) and, in most states, if the laws aim
at any one thing, they aim at domination. [8] From this point of view,
the soul of politics is conquest and war. [9] And the paramount concern
of politics with geography is a concern with the application of physical
power or force.
This is a harsh and repugnant view of politics. It means nothing less
than that "for everyone there always exists by nature an undeclared [or
declared] war among all cities." [10] Common decency averts the eyes
from such a prospect. Nonetheless, as a hardened student of these
matters writes, if this is the nature of politics, then "[t]his is the way in
which the matter must be viewed, and it is to no purpose, it is even
against one's own interest, to turn away from the consideration of the
real nature of the affair because the horror of its elements excites
repugnance." [11] One who did not turn away from consideration of "the
real nature of the affair" of politics but faced the horror with relish was
Niccolo Machiavelli.
"[T]ruly," wrote Machiavelli, "it is a very natural and ordinary thing to
desire to acquire, and always, when men do it who can, they will be
praised or not blamed." [12] The unlimited "desire to acquire" is the
natural disposition of men. The ability to satisfy that unlimited desire—
the art of acquisition or the art of war—is the essence of the art or
science of politics. And this art or science of acquisition contains within
itself no intrinsic limiting principle. It involves, as Clausewitz wrote, "the
use of physical power to the utmost extent," the use of force
"unsparingly, without reference to the bloodshed involved.… [T]o
introduce into the philosophy of War [or politics] itself a principle of
moderation would be an absurdity." [13] Machiavelli's Prince is advice
on how to "acquire" on the grandest scale, how to acquire
"principalities" or states. Because this is the nature of the affair of
politics, "a prince should have no other object, nor any other thought,
nor take anything else as his art but the art of war and its orders and
discipline; for that is the only art which is of concern to one who
commands." What "enables you to acquire [states] is to be a
professional in this art.… Therefore, [a prince] should never lift his
thoughts from the exercise of war, and in peace he should exercise it
more than in war." [14] Such an understanding of politics is found in our
time, among other places, in the thinking of what has come to be called
the "realist" school of international politics, according to which politics is
"rooted in the lust for power which is common to all men." [15]
If statesmanship or the political art is synonymous with the art of war or
the art of acquisition on the grandest scale, then mastery of geography
becomes "the first part" of the statesman's arsenal. "[H]e should learn
the nature of sites, and recognize how mountains rise, how valleys open
up, how plains lie, and understand the nature of rivers and marshes—
and in this invest the greatest care.… And the prince who lacks this skill
lacks the first part of what a captain must have." [16] If the "desire to
acquire" or the "lust for power" is inherently unlimited and is the
governing principle of politics, then the primary concern of politics with
geography, the concern with acquisition of territory, in principle knows
no bounds.
The concern of politics with geography, at a certain point in history,
expanded its scope, not just in principle but in fact, to encompass the
world. The British geographer, Sir Halford J. Mackinder, in his famous
paper delivered to the Royal Geographical Society in 1904, identified
this moment as the close of the "Columbian epoch" at the turn of the
twentieth century. In the four centuries since the first voyages of
Columbus and the other European explorers, Mackinder wrote, the world
had become virtually completely discovered; these same 400 years had
also witnessed the world's "virtually complete political
appropriation." [17] Henceforward, "in the post-Columbian age, we shall
… have to deal with a closed political system, and none the less that it
will be one of world-wide scope. Every explosion of social forces, instead
of being dissipated in a surrounding curcuit of unknown space and
barbaric chaos, will be sharply re-echoed from the far side of the
globe." [18] Nicholas J. Spykman, an American student and critic of
Mackinder, restates Mackinder's point in a lecture delivered in the midst
of the Second World War: "[T]he total earth's surface has, today,
become a single field for the play of political forces. The whole world is
now known geographically and changes in the arrangement of forces in
one region must affect the alignment of forces in others.… The
conditions of power on one continent are inevitably reflected in the
distribution of power on another and the foreign policy of any state may
be affected by events taking place throughout the world." [19]
The fundamentally new, global dimensions of the relations between
geography and politics created the need for a new branch of study, a
new political discipline capable of understanding these relations in their
most comprehensive scope. Under the new conditions, "military
strategy," for example, "must consider the whole world as a unit and
must think of all fronts in their relations to one another." [20] The
discovery and political appropriation of virtually the whole world made
such a new discipline not only necessary but, for the first time, possible.
Because of our unprecedented vantage point, Mackinder thought, "we
are for the first time in a position to attempt, with some degree of
completeness, a correlation between the larger geographical and the
larger historical [or, for our purposes, political and strategic]
generalizations." [21]According to Spykman, it was Alfred Thayer Mahan
who "first comprehensively recognized and analyzed" the fundamental
new condition of global politics. But it was Sir Halford Mackinder "who
first studied in detail the relations between land and sea power on a
truly global scale." [22] The political and strategic aspect of this study
came to be called geopolitics.
By the close of the Columbian era, according to Mackinder, it had for the
first time become possible to see that Europe, Asia, and Africa
constituted a "joint continent," which Mackinder called the "World-
Island." This World-Island is "incomparably the largest geographical unit
on our globe," and is "possessed potentially of the advantages both of
insularity and of incomparably great resources." In this new view, one
could see that there is "one ocean covering nine-twelfths of the globe;
there is one continent—the World-Island—covering two-twelfths of the
globe; and there are many smaller islands, whereof North America and
South America are, for effective purposes, two, which together cover the
remaining one twelfth." Mackinder estimated that, in his time, "[m]ore
than fourteen-sixteenths of all humanity live on the Great Continent,
and nearly one-sixteenth more on the closely offset islands of Britain
and Japan.… [O]nly about one-sixteenth live in the lesser continents."
Anticipating that the foreseeable future would not materially alter these
proportions, and assuming that "given its climate and history, the
interior of Asia … [might] nourish a population as virile as that of
Europe, North America, or Japan," he raised the question: "What if the
Great Continent, the whole World-Island or a large part of it, were at
some future time to become a single and united base of sea-power?"
Might not this power be "invincible"? [23]
If the World-Island is the dominant geopolitical fact within the world
ocean, what Mackinder called the "Heartland" is the dominant
geopolitical fact within the World-Island. "[T]he World-Island and the
Heartland are the final geographical realities in regard to sea-power and
land-power." [24] He defines the heartland somewhat differently at
different times and considers it historically and strategically as well as
geographically. Geographically, we may understand the heartland as
"the northern part and the interior of Euro-Asia. It extends from the
Arctic coast down to the central deserts, and has as its western limits
the broad isthmus between the Baltic and Black Seas." In the heartland
lies the "widest lowland plain on the face of the globe." [25] It consists
of "steppes spread[ing] continuously for 4000 miles from the Pusstas of
Hungary to the Little Gobi of Manchuria." The rivers of these interior
steppelands of Eurasia drain either into the frozen Arctic Ocean or into
the inland Caspian and Aral seas, so that the entire expanse is "wholly
unpenetrated by waterways from the ocean." [26] The heartland is
bounded on the north by the bulwark of the Arctic Coast; on the east by
over three million square miles of "rugged country of mountains,
plateaux, and valleys, covered almost from end to end with coniferous
forests" through which flows the Lena river; and on the south by the
"mighty barriers" of the Tianshan mountains, Pamirs, Karakoram
mountains, Hindu Kush, Himalayas, the Tibetan plateau, and the
Tibetan, Gobi, and Iranian deserts. [27] These features make the
heartland "the greatest natural fortress on earth." [28]
"To east, south, and west of this heart-land are marginal regions,
ranged in a vast crescent, accessible to shipmen. According to physical
conformation, these regions are four in number.… The first two are the
monsoon lands, turned the one towards the Pacific, and the other
towards the Indian ocean. The fourth is Europe, watered by the Atlantic
rains from the west." These three regions, when Mackinder delivered his
famous lecture, contained "two-thirds of the world population." The
remaining region Mackinder called "the land of the Five Seas" and we
would call the Middle East. [29]These regions, taken together, are called
by Mackinder the "inner crescent" or the "marginal crescent." Spykman
calls them "the rimland." Whereas the heartland is a "wholly
continental" or land power, the lands of the inner crescent or rimland
are "partly continental, partly oceanic"; or as Spykman puts it, they are
"amphibious." "The rimland … [is] an intermediate region, situated …
between the heartland and the marginal seas" that surround the
Eurasian land mass. "It functions as a vast buffer zone of conflict
between sea power and land power." [30]
Beyond the rimland or inner crescent "lie the islands and off-shore
continents of the outer crescent." [31] England and Japan hem Eurasia
on west and east respectively. Southwest, beyond the Mediterranean
Sea and the great barrier of the Sahara desert stretches sub-Saharan
Africa; southeast, beyond the "Asiatic Mediterranean Sea" lies Australia.
On the "fringes of the oceans," when one is looking at a global map
centered on Eurasia, lie the "overseas continents of the Western
Hemisphere." [32]
Looking back over the centuries at such a map, Mackinder was
convinced that the heartland must be viewed as "the pivot region of the
world's politics" or the "Geographical Pivot of History." This vast steppe
land in the heart of the Eurasian continent, while inaccessible to ships,
had "all the conditions for the maintenance of a sparse, but in the
aggregate considerable, population of horse-riding and camel-riding
nomads." "For some recurrent reason … these Tartar mobile hordes
have from time to time in the course of history gathered their whole
strength together and fallen like a devastating avalanche upon the
settled agricultural peoples" to their east, south and west, so that "all
the settled margins of the Old World sooner or later felt the expansive
force of mobile power originating in the steppe." To the east and south,
access from the heartland to the settled margins is impeded by a
"system of mighty barriers" through which there are only a few narrow
and difficult "natural ways." For this reason, although "both China and
India have been repeatedly invaded from the Heartland, … the empires
thus founded have usually soon become detached from the rule of the
steppemen." "There was no [such] impediment to prevent the horsemen
from riding westward." There is an "open passage from the Heartland
into Europe." Because of this, "[f]or a thousand years [from the fifth to
the sixteenth century] a series of horse-riding peoples emerged from
Asia through the broad interval between the Ural mountains and the
Caspian sea, rode through the open spaces of southern Russia, and
struck home into Hungary in the very heart of the European peninsula,
shaping by the necessity of opposing them the history of each of the
great peoples around—the Russians, the Germans, the French, the
Italians, and the Byzantine Greeks." Thus Mackinder, at the outset of
the twentieth century, came in a sense to look upon world history in
what has become at the close of this century a "politically correct"
manner. He came "to look upon Europe and European history as
subordinate to Asia and Asiatic history." His reasons, however, are of a
flavor somewhat different from current fashionable opinion, his point
being that European civilization was, "in a very real sense, the outcome
of the secular struggle against Asiatic invasion." [33]
It is from this point of view that Mackinder sees the historic significance
of "[t]he revolution commenced by the great mariners of the Columbian
generation."
The all-important result of the discovery of the Cape road to the Indies
was to connect the western and eastern coastal navigations of Euro-
Asia, even though by a circuitous route, and thus in some measure to
neutralize the strategical advantage of the central position of the
steppe-nomads by pressing upon them in rear. … The one and
continuous ocean enveloping the divided and insular lands is, of course,
the geographical condition of ultimate unity in the command of the sea,
and of the whole theory of modern naval strategy.… The broad political
effect was to reverse the relations of Europe and Asia.… [Europe] now
emerged upon the world, multiplying more than thirty-fold the sea
surface and coastal lands to which she had access, and wrapping her
influence round the Euro-Asiatic land-power which had hitherto
threatened her very existence. New Europes were created in the vacant
lands discovered in the midst of the waters.… Britain, Canada, the
United States, South Africa, Australia, and Japan are now a ring of outer
and insular bases for sea-power and commerce, inaccessible to the land-
power of Euro-Asia. [34]
"[T]he development of ocean navigation and the discovery of sea routes
to India and America" fundamentally altered the geopolitical
relationships among the powers of the world island. [35] Sea power,
owing to its greater mobility on a global scale, had gained the ascendant
over continental land power; in doing so, it made it possible for the first
time "to conceive of the Eurasian continent as a unit" and introduced the
"age of world politics." [36]
For some four centuries, the European oceanic empires maintained their
strategic advantage against the great land empires of Eurasia. [37] The
establishment of European dominion over such a vast expanse of the
globe from the fifteenth through the nineteenth centuries had been
made possible largely by "advances in naval shipbuilding, navigation,
and weaponry." [38] This global dominion was extended and entrenched
in the latter part of the nineteenth century by means of "two
technological innovations that revolutionized the way in which people
and materials are moved across" land and sea (notably the application
of steam power to sea and land transportation); and by additional
inventions (the telegraph and later the radio) making possible "the rapid
transmission of the human voice across the airwaves above." [39] Even
as he first began to reflect on these global relationships between land
and sea power, however, Mackinder thought he saw the potential for
another historic reversal. The latest technologies of transport,
production, and communications, which had made possible the
extension and entrenchment of global maritime empire in the nineteenth
century, might also make possible the establishment of a continental
land power in Eurasia of unprecedented potency.
Mackinder draws a "most interesting parallel" between "the advance of
the sailors over the ocean from Western Europe and the contemporary
advance of the Russian Cossacks across the steppes of the Heartland."
While western Europe was expanding over the sea to establish dominion
across the "oceanic margins of Asia," the land power of Russia was
reversing the centuries old movement in the interior of Eurasia and
expanding eastward across the heartland "from Moscow through
Siberia." During the nineteenth century, the Russian empire was
practically coterminous with the heartland and "seemed to threaten all
the marginal lands of Asia and Europe." During the same century in
which Great Britain had come to dominate the world ocean and was
bringing pressure to bear on the rimland of Eurasia from the sea, Russia
was exerting an opposing pressure outward from the heartland. The era
of world politics came to light in the confrontation between a global sea
power and a continental land power across the whole expanse of the
Eurasian rimland. Unlike the storied horsemen from the steppe,
however, the Russian was able to establish the conditions to sustain
"the necessary man-power upon which to found a lasting empire." This
man-power—located in the geographic pivot of world power, sustained
by modern production and industry, harnessed by superior organization,
armed with modern weapons, and made mobile by the new modes of
overland transport—threatened to reverse the centuries old relation of
sea power to land power on a global scale. Such man-power under such
conditions could be "sufficient to begin to threaten the liberty of the
world from within [the] citadel of the World-Island." [40]
To understand the strategic significance of modern Russian domination
of the heartland Mackinder thought it necessary to understand the
geopolitical source of that domination. Only then could one accurately
conceive of the necessary strategic response for a global sea power such
as Great Britain. The source of Russian power was not spread across the
whole vast and vacant breadth of the Eurasian steppeland; it was
concentrated in "the real Russia" which "lies wholly in Europe,… between
the Volga and the Carpathians and between the Baltic and Black Seas."
More precisely, "Russian rule in the Heartland was based … in East
Europe." Looking back over the hundred years following the French
revolution, Mackinder saw that "East Europe was in command of the
Heartland." It was the man-power, organization, production, and
industry concentrated here in modern times that could enable a
heartland empire, for the first time, to make of most or all of the World-
Island a single, united, and invincible base of global sea-power. It is this
analysis that led Mackinder to his famous formula:
Who rules East Europe commands the Heartland:
Who rules the Heartland commands the World-Island:
Who rules the World-Island commands the World. [41]
Throughout most of the nineteenth century it was Russian land-power
emanating from East Europe that "was opposed by the sea-power of
Britain round more than three-quarters of the margin of the Heartland,
from China through India to Constantinople." There was nothing
inevitable, however, in this land-power being Russian. Already at the
end of the nineteenth century "Berlin had supplanted Petrograd as the
center of danger in East Europe" and aimed at domination of the
heartland. [42] For the reasons given, Mackinder's analysis required
that "West Europe, both insular and peninsular, must necessarily be
opposed to whatever Power attempts to organize the resources of East
Europe and the Heartland." [43]
Mackinder would add, more generally, that "it is the plain duty of the
insular peoples" to protect the Eurasian rimlands "from Heartland
conquest." [44] From this broader view, what Britain had long been to
Europe, America had become to a considerable extent with respect to
Eurasia as a whole. Spykman emphasizes that the insular peoples must
also (as Spykman argues Great Britain historically had done) prevent "a
dominating rimland power" from gaining command of the
heartland. [45] From this perspective, the survival and independence of
all the insular peoples of the world "depended on the preservation of a
power equilibrium between the maritime and continental states of the
world island." [46] The focus of this strategic concern is not so much on
the heartland as on the rimland of Eurasia. Thus Spykman would replace
the Mackinder dictum with his own:
Who controls the rimland rules Eurasia;
Who rules Eurasia controls the destinies of the world. [47]
The broad outlines of the two world wars in the first half of this century
and the "cold war" that dominated the second half of the century are
illuminated by this geopolitical analysis. Germany's intention in the first
World War, as Mackinder says, was to establish in continental Europe
and the Asiatic heartland "the naval base from which she would have
fought Britain and America in the next war." [48] Spykman reminds us
that Japan, while allied with Great Britain and the United States in that
war, was nonetheless "engaged in trying to achieve complete control
over the Far East." [49]These efforts by Germany and Japan, in league
for a time with the Soviet Union, were continued in the 1930s and led to
the second World War. The global strategic significance of both wars
was the prospect "that the rimland regions of the Eurasian land mass
would be dominated by a single power" or coalition of powers with the
vast resources of the world island at their disposal. [50] Writing in the
midst of World War II, Spykman tentatively anticipated the essential
source of global conflict for the following half century: "[I]t may be," he
wrote, "that the pressure of Russia outward toward the rimland will
constitute one important aspect of the post-war settlement." [51] The
American policy of containment was the global strategy of an insular
power to defend the Eurasian rimland against this most recent and
formidable outward pressure from the heartland. The strategic logic of
that policy was indebted to the geopolitical logic of Mackinder and
Spykman. [52] The dissolution of the Soviet Union is a result—certainly
of chance and of the inherent infirmity of the Soviet system—but just as
certainly of the remarkably tenacious application by the insular powers
and their allies of a strategy grounded in the realities of geopolitics. This
restructuring of a great heartland power may reflect a historic
reordering of the power constellation within the eastern hemisphere. It
does not, however, alter the fundamental facts of geography. It remains
in the permanent interest of all the "insular peoples," indeed in the
interest of the "liberty of the world," to maintain an equilibrium between
the maritime and continental powers of Eurasia and to prevent the
dominion of any one power or coalition over the world island. [53]
The two world wars and the "cold war" illustrate the strategic conditions
that must obtain if the insular powers are to prevent an overwhelming
power from being developed in Eurasia. First is needed a secure base
with resources, reserves of man-power, and organization capable of
opposing the military force that can be accumulated by a great Eurasian
land power. This base should be distant or as inaccessible as possible to
offer the advantages of defense in depth. In the twentieth century only
the United States has possessed these attributes in sufficient measure.
Next this base must be able to project its power onto the Eurasian
continent. This requires naval mastery over the world ocean. [54] To
translate its sea power into amphibious power on the littoral of Eurasia,
the United States requires one or more "moated forward stronghold[s]"
such as Great Britain provided for the purposes of the Normandy
landings of 1944. Finally, a "defensible bridgehead" is required, "a
continental ally who can provide a base from which land power can be
exercised." [55] Spykman thought that, following the second world war,
Russia might be the "most effective base" for such purposes, provided
"she does not herself seek to establish a hegemony over the …
rimland." [56] Following the break-up of the Soviet Union, this could
conceivably be the case again, depending on the capacity and inclination
of the successor regime to dominate the rimland.
Geopolitics is properly concerned with the material necessities of
political life, specifically with the "physical features of the world" that are
"most coercive of human action" on the largest scale. [57] It is
concerned with the location, topography, climate, resources, manpower,
and organization that affect the ability of a people to exert physical
power over the land and sea. Such concerns are part of the unending
concern of politics with geography, part of the political necessity of
acquiring and defending a particular parcel of the earth's surface for the
sake of political life. Geopolitics adds something new only in its scope,
though this is no small thing. When the concern of politics with
geography expanded to encompass the world, the real prospect of world
empire was placed before men for the first time. Those who understood
the art of politics to be synonymous with the art of acquisition or the art
of war had no reason not to apply this art on a global scale. Because
this, in fact, occurred, geopolitics came to have a bad odor among
decent people. [58]
Geopolitics, however, is a part of politics. And politics, though it must
always be concerned with war and other coercive necessities, is in the
final analysis not reducible to such concerns. Even Sun Tzu, that great
teacher of the art of war, insisted that "[t]hose who excel in war first
cultivate their own humanity and justice and maintain their laws and
institutions." [59] States devoted to war and conquest necessarily breed
citizens equally driven to seek domination over their fellow citizens;
among such citizens there can be no justice or common good, and
political life comes to an end. Aristotle thought this to be evident no less
from reason than from experience, and therefore says that both
arguments and events testify that war is conducted ultimately for the
sake of peace. [60] The "real nature of the affair" of politics, then, is
revealed not in the horrors of war but in the domestic tranquility of
peace. And the political art, though it may often find the art of war
indispensable, is essentially an art of peace.
If political life characteristically begins with an act of war in the
acquisition of territory, it does not end here. Indeed, even in such
beginnings statesmen have found it necessary to contemplate the
"ends" for which political life is instituted. When the American founders
were still struggling to establish physical control over their newly
acquired territory, they were deeply concerned with a more lofty aspect
of the relation of geography to politics: whether republican liberty could
thrive in such an extensive sphere. [61]
If the art of applying physical power over territory is the "first part" of
the statesman's art, it is first only with respect to urgency or necessity.
The greater part of the statesman's concern with the relations of politics
and geography lies on higher ground. He must consider how a nation
may so conduct itself that the encroachment of another power upon its
territory could never in truth be said to be a blessing to the people of
that land; so that whatever territories and people should fall within its
dominions may truly be said to be better off because of that fact. He
must seek to arrange the political affairs of his land so that the citizens
can never with justice wish for the displacement of their country's rule
by that of an enemy. Such a nation will be neither self-aggrandizing nor
self-sacrificing. It will defend such dominions as its "interest, guided by
justice, shall counsel." [62]

Christopher Flannery is a professor in the Department of History and

Political Science and the director of the Humanities Program at Azusa
Pacific University. He has been a member of the board of directors of
the The Claremont Institute for the Study of Statesmanship and Political
Philosophy since 1981 and is currently the senior editor ofThe Claremont
Review of Books.
This essay was originally published in Christopher C. Harmon and David
Tucker, eds., Statecraft and Power: Essays in Honor of Harold W. Rood
(Lanham, MD: University Press of America and the National Institute for
Public Policy, 1994). Copyright, Christopher C. Harmon and David
Tucker. This essay should not be reproduced or cited without permission
of the editors.