A Revolutionary Tradition for the Ages
It might take only a significant economic downturn, a period that offered little promise to Chinese workers and consumers, to unsettle that country in major ways. After all, despite its striking growth rates, it remains in some fashion a poor land. And one more factor should be taken into consideration that few of our seers ever consider. It’s no exaggeration to say that China has a revolutionary tradition unlike that of any other nation or even region on the planet.
Since at least the time of the Yellow Turban Rebellion in 184 CE, led by three brothers associated with a Taoist sect, the country has repeatedly experienced millenarian peasant movements bursting out of its interior with ferocious energy. There is no other record like it. The last of these was undoubtedly Mao Zedong’s Communist revolution. Others would certainly include the peasant uprising at the end of the Ming Dynasty in the seventeenth century and, around the time of the American Civil War, the Taiping Rebellion. That was led by a man we would today call a cultist who had created a syncretic mix of Chinese religions and Christianity—and who considered himself the younger brother of Jesus Christ. Before Qing Dynasty forces finally suppressed it and a series of other rebellions, an estimated twenty million people died.
When Chinese leaders banned and then tried to stamp out the fast-spreading Falun Gong movement, they were not—as reported here—simply “repressing religion,” they were suppressing what they undoubtedly feared could be the next Taiping Rebellion. Even if few intelligence analysts in the West are thinking about any of this, rest assured that the Communist rulers of China know their own history. That’s one reason why they have been so quick to crack down on any Arab Spring–like demonstrations.
In addition, though I’m no economist, when I look around this planet I continue to wonder (as the Chinese must) about the limits of growth for all of us, but especially for such a vast country that is desperate for energy and other raw materials, with an aging population and an environment already heavily polluted by the last forty years of unchecked industrial expansion. There is no question that China has invested in its military, put together a powerful (if largely defensive) navy, elbowed its neighbors on questions of undersea mineral rights, and gone on a global search to lock up future energy resources and key raw materials.
Nonetheless, if predictions were to be made and trends projected, it might be far more reasonable to predict a cautious Chinese government, focused on keeping its populace under control and solving confounding domestic problems, than an expansively imperial one. It’s almost inconceivable that China could or would ever play the role the United States played in 1945 as the British Empire went down. It’s hard even to imagine China as another Soviet Union in a great global struggle with the United States.
And speaking of the conjunctures of history, here’s another thought for the U.S. Navy: What if this isn’t an imperial planet anymore? What if, from resource scarcity to global warming, humanity is nudging up against previously unimagined limits on unbridled growth? From at least the seventeenth century on, successive great powers have struggled to control vast realms of a globe in which expansion eternally seemed the name of the game. For centuries, one or more great powers were always on hand when the previous great imperial power or set of powers faltered.
In the wake of World War II, with the collapse of the Japanese and German Empires, only two powers worthy of the name were left, each so mighty that together they would be called “superpowers.” After 1991, only one remained, so seemingly powerful that it was sometimes termed a “hyperpower” and many believed it had inherited the Earth.
What if, in fact, the United States is indeed the last empire? What if a world of rivalries, on a planet heading into resource scarcity, turned out to be less than imperial in nature? Or what if—and think of me as a devil’s advocate here—this turned out not to be an imperial world of bitter rivalries at all, but in the face of unexpectedly tough times, a partnership planet?
Unlikely? Sure, but who knows? That’s the great charm of the future. In any case, just to be safe, you might not want to start preparing for the Chinese century quite so fast or bet your bottom dollar on China as number one. Not just yet anyway.
Afterword
On Being a Critic
All the World’s a Stage (for Us)
In March 2010, I wrote about a crew of pundits and warrior-journalists eager not to see the U.S. military leave Iraq. That piece appeared on the op-ed page of the Los Angeles Times (and in a longer version at TomDispatch.com) and then began wandering the media world. One of its stops was the military newspaper Stars and Stripes.
From a military man came this emailed response: “Read your article in Stars and Stripes. When was the last time you visited Iraq?” A critique in fifteen well-chosen words. So much more effective than a long, angry email, and his point was interesting. At least, it interested me. After all, as I wrote back, I was then a sixty-five-year-old guy who had never been anywhere near Iraq and undoubtedly never would be. I have to assume that my emailer had spent time there, possibly more than once, and disagreed with my assessments.
Firsthand experience is not to be taken lightly. What, after all, do I know about Iraq? Only the reporting I’ve been able to read from thousands of miles away or analysis found on the blogs of experts like Juan Cole. On the other hand, even from thousands of miles away, I was one of many who could see enough, by early 2003, to go into the streets and demonstrate against an onrushing disaster of an invasion that a lot of people, theoretically far more knowledgeable on Iraq than any of us, considered just the cat’s meow, the “cakewalk” of the new century.
It’s true that I’ve never strolled down a street in Baghdad or Ramadi or Basra, armed or not, and that’s a deficit if you want to write about the American experience in Iraq. It’s also true that I haven’t spent hours sipping tea with Iraqi tribal leaders, or been inside the Green Zone, or set foot on even one of the vast American bases that the Pentagon’s private contractors have built in that country. (Nor did that stop me from writing regularly about “America’s ziggurats” when most of the people who visited those bases didn’t consider places with 20-mile perimeters, multiple bus lines, PXs, familiar fast-food franchises, Ugandan mercenary guards, and who knows what else, to be particularly noteworthy structures on the Iraqi landscape and so, with rare exceptions, worth commenting on.)
I’m certainly no expert on Shiites and Sunnis. I’m probably a little foggy on my Iraqi geography. And I’ve never seen the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. On the other hand, it does occur to me that a whole raft of American pundits, government officials, and military types who have done all of the above, who have spent time up close and personal in Iraq (or, at least, in the American version of the same), couldn’t have arrived at dumber conclusions over these last many years.
So, firsthand experience, valuable as it may be for great reporters like, say, Anthony Shadid of the Washington Post and now the New York Times, or Patrick Cockburn of the British Independent, can’t be the be-all and end-all either. Sometimes being far away, not just from Iraq, but from Washington and all the cloistered thinking that goes on there, from the visibly claustrophobic world of American global policymaking, has its advantages. Sometimes, being out of it, experientially speaking, allows you to open your eyes and take in the larger shape of things, which is often the obvious (even if little noted).
I can’t help thinking about a friend of mine whose up-close and personal take on U.S. military commanders in Afghanistan was that they were trapped in an American-made box, incapable of seeing beyond its boundaries—of, that is, seeing Afghanistan.
I have no doubt that being there is generally something to be desired. But if you take your personal blinders with you, it often hardly matters where you are. Thinking about my Stars and Stripes reader’s question, the conclusion I’ve provisionally come to is this: It’s not just where you go, it’s also how you see what’s there, and no less important who you see, tha
t matters—which means that sometimes you can actually see more by going nowhere at all.
An Iraqi Tragedy
When American officials, civilian or military, open their eyes and check out the local landscape, no matter where they’ve landed, all evidence indicates that the first thing they tend to see is themselves. That is, they see the world as an American stage and those native actors in countries we’ve invaded and occupied or where (as in Pakistan, Somalia, and Yemen) we conduct what might be called semi-war as so many bit players in an American drama. This is why, in both Iraq and Afghanistan, military commanders and top officials like Secretary of Defense Robert Gates or National Security Adviser James Jones continued to call so unself-consciously for putting an Iraqi or Afghan “face” on whichever war was being discussed, that is, to follow the image to its logical conclusion, putting an Iraqi or Afghan mask over a face that they recognize, however inconveniently or embarrassingly, as American.
This is why American officials regularly say that “Afghans are in the lead,” when they aren’t. This is why, when you read newspaper descriptions of how the United States is giving Afghan president Hamid Karzai the “leading role” in deciding about the latest military offensive or pushing such-and-such an official (with his U.S. or Western “mentors” in the wings) to take the lead in some action that seems to have been largely planned by Americans, the Afghans sound like so many puppets (which doesn’t mean that they are)—and this doesn’t embarrass Americans in the least.
Generally speaking, the American post-9/11 language of power ostensibly aimed at building up the forces Washington supports in Muslim lands invariably sounds condescending. They are always peripheral to us, even when they are being urged or prodded to be at the center of the action. This is why their civilians who come in harm’s way are referred to as “collateral damage,” an inconceivable way to describe American civilians in harm’s way. This is why, from the Vietnam era to today, in the movies that are made about our wars, even the antiwar ones, Americans invariably hog center stage, while you usually have to keep a careful watch to find passing evidence of those we are fighting against—or for. This was why, forty years ago, the Vietnam War was regularly referred to here, whether by hawks or doves, as an “American tragedy,” not a Vietnamese one—and why the same thinking applies to Afghanistan and Iraq today.
This is why, using imagery that might have come out of the mouths of nineteenth-century colonialists, American officials long talked patronizingly about teaching the Iraqi “child” to pedal the “bike” of democracy (with us, as global parents, holding onto the bike’s seat). This is the context within which even a president wondered when to take off “the training wheels.” This is evidently why, today, the introduction of “democracy” to Iraq is considered an American gift so precious that it somehow makes up for anything that’s happened in the past eight years. This is why, for instance, pundit Tom Friedman could write this sentence about the “U.S. project in Iraq”: “Former president George W. Bush’s gut instinct that this region craved and needed democracy was always right.”
Like Afghanistan before it, Iraq is now largely the “forgotten” war, and here’s a little of what’s been forgotten in the process, of what Friedman suggests he’d prefer to leave future historians to sort out: that the American invasion led to possibly hundreds of thousands of Iraqi deaths; that literally millions of Iraqis had to flee into exile abroad and millions more were turned into refugees in their own country; that the capital, Baghdad, was significantly ethnically cleansed in a brutal Shiite-Sunni civil conflict; that the country was littered with new “killing fields”; that a devastating insurgency roiled the land and still brings enough death and terror to Baghdad to make it one of the more dangerous places on the planet; that a soaring unemployment rate and the lack of delivery of the most basic services, including reliable electricity and potable water, created nightmarish conditions for a vast class of impoverished Iraqis; that the U.S. government, for all its nation-building boasts, proved remarkably incapable of “reconstructing” the country or its oil industry, even though American private contractors profited enormously from work on both; that a full-scale foreign military occupation left Americans on almost three hundred bases nationwide and in the largest embassy on the planet; that American advisers remain attached to, and deeply embedded in, an Iraqi military that still lacks a credible air force and is unlikely to be able to operate and resupply itself on its own for years to come.
The Pride of Us
In other words, as bad as Saddam Hussein was (and he was a megalomaniacal monster), what followed him was a staggering catastrophe for Iraq, even if Americans no longer care to give it much thought. Against the charnel house that Friedman would prefer to leave to history, however, stands one counterbalancing factor, the gift of “democracy.” Even many who never supported George W. Bush’s “democracy agenda” now seem to take some pride in this.
Let’s leave aside for a moment the fact that the Bush administration arrived in Iraq with remarkably undemocratic plans for the country and was thwarted only by the unwavering insistence of the revered Shiite cleric Ali Sistani on a one-person, one-vote election. In all of this, there are staggering levels of hypocrisy—in the fact that we were for Saddam before we were against him. In the fact, as well, that the U.S. government has, in instance after instance, regularly fostered and supported military juntas, strongmen, and dictators, while holding off or overthrowing democracies not to our taste or not in what Washington defined as our interests.
Perhaps stranger yet, the democracy that we actually have in the United States—and so can offer as our ultimate apology for invading and occupying other countries—is rarely subjected to analysis in the context of the glorious urge to export the same. So let’s just stop for a moment and think a little about the American urge to be thrilled that, despite every disaster, against all odds, our grand accomplishment lies in bringing American democracy to Iraq.
The Rectification of Names
Democracy, like terrorism, is a method, a means to an end, not an end in itself. Nobody is ruled by elections any more than any organization is run by terror or has terror as its ultimate goal. If this obvious point had been accepted in the wake of the 9/11 attacks, the absurdity of the idea of a Global War on Terror would have been self-evident, as would a global war to deliver “democracy” to faraway peoples.
Democracy, after all, is a way to determine and then express the majoritarian will of a people, a way to deliver power to “the people” or, more important, for those people to take possession of it themselves. It’s the sort of thing that, by its nature, is hard to import from great distances, especially when, as in our case, the delivery system to be exported seems strikingly deficient. And keep in mind that the “people” exporting that system to Iraq were largely incapable of seeing Iraqis as actors in their own democratic drama. They were incapable, that is, of imagining the nature of the lives they wanted to shape and change.
In a sense, that was hardly less true when they looked homeward. After all, the glorious democracy they trumpeted to the world bore little relation to the Pax Republicana headed by an imperial presidency (complete with a cult of executive power) that they dreamed of installing in Washington for generations to come. Given the nature of American democracy today—the first billion-dollar presidential election, the staggering levels of lobbying and influence-peddling that go with it, the stunning barrages of bizarre advertising, the difficulty of displacing incumbents in Congress, the increasingly corporate-owned and financed campaigns, a half-broken congressional system, a national security state with unparalleled powers and money, and so on—why all the effort to take it to Iraq? Why measure Iraqis against it and find them lacking? After all, in 2000, our presidential election went to the non-majoritarian candidate, thanks to decisions made by Supreme Court justices appointed by his father. If this had happened in Nigeria, Afghanistan, or perhaps Iraq, we would know just what we were dealing with.
The
fact is we have no word to adequately describe what, at the national level, we still persist in calling “democracy,” what we regularly ask others to admire to the skies or bow down before. Writing for the website Talking Points Memo Café, Todd Gitlin termed our system a “semi-democracy.” That, at least, represents an honest start.
In imperial China, when a new dynasty arrived on the scene, the emperor performed a ritual called the “rectification of names” in the belief that the previous dynasty had fallen in part because reality and the names we have for it had ceased to correspond. We in the United States undoubtedly now need such a ceremony. We certainly need a new term for our own “democracy” before we’re so quick to hold it up as the paragon for others to match.
We also need to rethink our language when it comes to the U.S. military undertaking “nation building” in distant lands—as if countries could be constructed to our taste in just the way that KBR or DynCorp construct military bases in them. We need to stop our commanders from bragging about our skill in creating a “government in a box” for our Afghan friends, when our government at home is largely boxed-in and strikingly dysfunctional.
So, no, I have never been to Iraq, but yes, I’ve been here for years, watching, and I can see, among other things, that the American mirror on the wall, which shows us ourselves in such beautiful, Disneyesque detail, has a few cracks in it. It looks fragile. I’d think twice about sending it abroad too often.
A Note on the Text
Thirty-two of the thirty-three pieces that make up this book were written between April 2010 and mid-2011, thirty-one for my website TomDispatch.com. Barely more than a year on the calendar, but given our exploding world, it seemed like years, not months. Has there ever been a time—not in my life anyway—when so much seemed to happen all at once? So consider this my small record of a period when, for all the fear-suffused attempts to lock America down, the world came pouring in anyway. It’s important, however, to note that the essays included here are not the originals I wrote. They were edited, trimmed or cut down, modestly updated, and woven into book form. The tell-tale signs of the immediate moment—all the recentlys and next weeks, along with examples that were gripping then but are forgotten today—have been removed; as have most of the thematic repetitions that are bound to pop up in any set of weekly responses to ongoing events. Nothing basic or significant about them has, however, been changed; for better or worse, nothing had to be, which tells you something about our present world.
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