Cold War
Liberalism Against Itself: Cold War Intellectuals and the Making of Our Times – review
In Liberalism Against Itself: Cold War Intellectuals and the Making of Our Times, Samuel Moyn dissects intellectual battles within Cold War liberalism through six key figures: Judith Shklar, Isaiah Berlin, Karl Popper, Gertrude Himmelfarb, Hannah Arendt and Lionel Trilling. Teasing out their complex relationships with Enlightenment ideals, historicism, Freudianism and decolonisation, Moyn’s masterful group biography sheds light on the evolution of liberalism and the cause of the Red Scare, writes Atreyee Majumder.
In his most recent book, Samuel Moyn provides a set of intertwined intellectual profiles of six scholars of the Cold War, especially post-WWII era: Judith Shklar, Isaiah Berlin, Karl Popper, Gertrude Himmelfarb, Hannah Arendt and Lionel Trilling. Before I read Liberalism Against Itself: Cold War Intellectuals and the Making of Our Times, I had never come across the term Cold War liberalism. As Moyn clarifies, the term was coined in the 1960s by enemies of liberal ideas (presumably from within the Free World) emerging at the time, blaming “domestic compromises and foreign policy mistakes”. Moyn offers an intriguing argument that liberalism arrived at its current iteration through its defenders in the Anglo-American region during the Cold War.
Moyn offers an intriguing argument that liberalism arrived at its current iteration through its defenders in the Anglo-American region during the Cold War.
Interestingly, all the scholars in Moyn’s study except for Karl Popper are Jewish intellectuals of the post-Holocaust era or are children of American Jewish immigrants. An Austrian émigré in England, Popper was born Jewish but later converted to Lutheranism. Moyn takes great care not to reduce their loyalty to a certain iteration of liberalism to their religious identity (111). He employs an interesting writing strategy whereby he establishes a grapevine of conversations among these six figures and their various compatriot liberals. For instance, Shklar appears as a sharp critic of Hannah Arendt in Chapter five, while Berlin provides a corrective to Shklar’s rejection and blaming of Rousseau for sowing the roots of the red spectre with which the free world was confronted with in the twentieth century.
The first two chapters elaborate on Shklar and Berlin who have divergent attitudes towards the Enlightenment, Romanticism and Rousseau. Both are critical of the Enlightenment to the extent that they find themselves amplifying liberalism’s state-limiting function over its dimension of emphasising creative agency of the individual. They differ on the extent to which the Enlightenment could be held responsible for the rise of the Red Scare. It is in the Karl Popper chapter (Chapter Three) that the plot thickens, as Popper rejects “historicism” by way of rejecting Hegel and his infusion of the idea of progress with Christian “inevitabilism” (77, 80). As Moyn narrates, Popper held that history, if embraced, would mean the inevitable progress as argued for Hegel and later, in Marx’s terms, would lead to a communist version of progress that would usurp liberalism’s dominance. This anxiety made Popper reject the category of history itself. In fact, Jacob Talmon, the “slavish follower” of Popper, described “the idolization of history” as a “nineteenth century novelty” (80).
It is through Hannah Arendt that we see the uncomfortable relationship the Cold War liberals had with the decolonisation movements outside the west
The book reaches a crescendo in the last two chapters on Hannah Arendt and Lionel Trilling, respectively. It is through Hannah Arendt that we see the uncomfortable relationship the Cold War liberals had with the decolonisation movements outside the west; those that claimed the word ”freedom” for colonised populations. As a reader from the postcolony, I found it instructive to read Moyn’s discussion of Arendt’s ambivalence about reconciling her liberalism with the growing liberalisms of the former colonies. In an insightful section at the end of the Arendt chapter (137-8), Moyn discusses how nationalisms of these fledgling nations were objects of suspicion for Arendt and the Cold War liberals while they were eager to embrace the cause of Israel’s nationalism. In the final chapter we witness Lionel Trilling’s strange embrace of Freud’s psychoanalysis, especially Freud’s late work Civilization and its Discontents (1930). Trilling wanted to render a reformed liberalism – one that wasn’t so naïve and shocked at crisis or evil in the world. Moyn writes of Trilling’s use of Freud in working out his own theory of liberty and liberalism (152):
“…..Freudianism affected the theory of liberty. It turns out that people are constrained in the control they can win from the passions, and therefore in the freedom they should have in their self-making. They must use what autonomy they can gain in pitiless struggle with their own proclivities in the service of self-control.”
Trilling’s own treatment of Cold War liberalism […] could have arisen from his repeated attempts to process what he witnessed in Europe in the 1930s as fascism took hold
Trilling’s own treatment of Cold War liberalism, Moyn speculates, could have arisen from his repeated attempts to process what he witnessed in Europe in the 1930s as fascism took hold; Moyn writes that “he rationalized out of it a new liberalism” (153) – a kind of “survivalist” one. Trilling’s move for a reformed and less idealistic liberalism marked liberalism’s slow shift towards the right.
Moyn has written a masterful interconnected intellectual biography of Cold War liberals, unpacking arguments within the liberal establishment about what actually brought about the Red Scare.
Moyn has written a masterful interconnected intellectual biography of Cold War liberals, unpacking arguments within the liberal establishment about what actually brought about the Red Scare. Moyn also makes clear that these figures are not particularly worried about the institutional arrangement that will bring about such actualisation of freedoms and hence, their version of liberalism. Moyn often uses the term neoliberal and I understand that his usage is quite different from the commonplace social science use of that word – which is a political form accompanying the condition of late capitalism. Hence, I would have liked Moyn to delineate his specific use of the term. Moyn does discuss, especially, in the chapter on Hannah Arendt (Chapter Five), the discomfiture of the Cold War liberals with the rise of new nations across the globe, claiming for themselves the political and social goods of liberalism through their own interpretation of what these might entail. He especially mentions, David Scott’s indictment of Arendt for her erasure of Haiti (138). A blind spot about the rest of the world seems to have existed among the Cold War liberals, which Moyn could have explored further. Finally, I was curious about whether Western Marxism – of the Althusser variety (I believe many of them are writing at the same time as Althusser in the 1960s) – were at all in the conversations that the Cold War liberals engaged in. If so, how would they respond to the Althusserian idea that “freedom” as ideology that hides actual class relations in the name of a pleasurable political ideal which thereafter encodes their worlds of desire? Nonetheless, Liberalism Against Itself is an illuminating and, at times, counterintuitive account of the intellectual wars internal to liberal establishment while it was under attack during the Cold War.
Note: This post gives the views of the author, and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, or of the London School of Economics and Political Science.
Image credit: DidemA on Shutterstock.
Building Socialism: The Afterlife of East German Architecture in Urban Vietnam – review
In Building Socialism: The Afterlife of East German Architecture in Urban Vietnam, Christina Schwenkel unpacks how the city of Vinh was reconstructed with the aid of East Germany in the aftermath of its bombing by the US between 1964 and 1973. Schwenkel skilfully combines historical analysis and ethnography to explore Vinh’s urban evolution, highlighting the challenges created through socialist planning and the enduring societal impact of Cold War urbanisation, writes Xue Xuan. This post was originally published on the LSE Southeast Asia Blog.
In her book Building Socialism: The Afterlife of East German Architecture in Urban Vietnam, Christina Schwenkel tells of the neglected story of the Vietnamese city Vinh’s socialist reconstruction during the Cold War. This city was badly decimated by US air strikes between 1964 and 1973. To rescue Vinh from its ruins, East Germany provided substantial material and technological assistance that was designed to transform it into Vietnam’s model socialist city. However, this transformation was not without its challenges, as Vinh’s rapid ascendance was followed by a quick fall into “unplanned obsolescence”.
Schwenkel skilfully weaves historical records with ethnographic research to dissect the architectural forms and planning practices of postwar Vinh, while also capturing its residents’ lived experiences within this changing urban landscape.
Schwenkel skilfully weaves historical records with ethnographic research to dissect the architectural forms and planning practices of postwar Vinh, while also capturing its residents’ lived experiences within this changing urban landscape. This historical ethnography of Vinh’s postwar reconstruction offers an in-depth exploration of state-led socialist modernisation, its vision, implementation and subsequent impact. During the Cold War, information about these urban experiments among socialist countries was largely inaccessible and unknown to the external world. To expose these facts contributes to a better understanding of socialist modernisation. It also resonates with the “multiplicity of experienced modernities”, thereby shifting the focus away from the dominant narrative of capitalist spatial production.
Schwenkel contends that socialist planning was both a “utopian science” and a “fantastical art of projection”, often venturing into realms of impracticality.
Interestingly, the book does not dedicate a specific section to explain what socialist urbanism is. Instead, its unique characteristics are gradually revealed across several chapters through detailed documentation of historical events and objects. Schwenkel contends that socialist planning was both a “utopian science” and a “fantastical art of projection”, often venturing into realms of impracticality. She examines two visual devices in the service of modernist planning: figurative drawing and abstract blueprints, delving deep into how these visual renderings of rationalised spaces sought to represent a universal socialist future. However, when materialised in buildings and infrastructures, the rational planning was far from fulfilling its promise: it neither increased labour productivity nor moulded enlightened proletarians. The author employs the case of Quang Trung Housing Estate to concretise how practical problems like poor material conditions and conflicting spatial practices inhibited the rapid construction of mass housing and how residents’ uncivil behaviours serves to contest quotidian forms of urban governance, epitomising the dialectical relationship between civilization and backwardness. The ethnographic approach of this study offers the author an opportunity to deliver a nuanced understanding of the lived experiences associated with socialist urbanisation. This perspective underlines the agency of citizens, challenging prevailing views that often portray citizens as passive participants. Schwenkel traces manifold ways that residents in Quang Trung made the decayed buildings adapt to their changing needs and urban lifestyles. Such acts, as demonstrated in the book, were not arbitrary but planned, which serves as individualised ways to pursue the unfinished utopia.
When recounting the destruction of Vinh during the war with the US, Schwenkel pays particular attention to the contrasting visual techniques employed by the US and Vietnam in reporting and recording urban warfare.
A particularly fascinating aspect of Schwenkel’s analysis is the focus on affect. She skilfully draws together socialist planning and its afterlife in mass housing through the thread of affect, generating many thought-provoking ideas. When recounting the destruction of Vinh during the war with the US, Schwenkel pays particular attention to the contrasting visual techniques employed by the US and Vietnam in reporting and recording urban warfare. In contrast with the aerial photographs by the US military, those photos taken by Vietnamese photographers employ close-up shots in recording the architectural remains of everyday urban life. The intimate portraits of the destroyed buildings powerfully convey the sense of trauma perceived by the people. This sense of trauma further strengthened international solidarity between East Germany and Vietnam, as detailed in the chapter “Solidarity”. It also set the stage for East Germany’s involvement in Vinh’s postwar reconstruction, which is thoroughly explored in the chapter “Spirited Internationalism”. This international solidarity, as demonstrated in the book, was both political and affective, appearing on the surface as a form of brotherhood between East Germany and Vietnam, but at its core, it was characterised by an asymmetrical relationship. The middle part of the book elaborates how this international solidarity gave birth to socialist planning and architectural forms in Vinh.
The author delves into the complexities of international solidarity as affective practice, highlighting the challenge of cultural differences, misaligned expectations, and the difficult balance between altruism and self-interest. The last part of the book features voices from the people of Vinh, who inhabited and used modernist architecture. Their affective attachments to the modernist architecture of the city are reflected in the various modifications they made to their residences, which subverts the narrow understanding of seeing modernist architecture as the product of rationality. To examine this state-sponsored, nationalist project through the thread of affect is very intriguing. It also piques my curiosity: how does affect relate specifically to socialist urbanisation as opposed to capitalist urbanisation? While the author briefly addresses this aspect in certain chapters, a detailed exploration is not provided.
The book not only sheds light on a lesser-known chapter of Cold War history but also propels readers to think about the lasting impact of architectural and urban planning decisions in shaping societal narratives and experiences.
The book’s strength lies in its methodological approach. Schwenkel’s transnational perspective, underpinned by extensive use of both German archives and Vietnamese sources, allows for a nuanced understanding of this complex historical interplay. By engaging with key informants in Vinh and delving into local archives, Schwenkel brings to the fore voices that have long been marginalised in historical discourse.
Building Socialism is a compelling read for scholars and enthusiasts of socialist urban planning and architecture, Asian urbanisation, and postcolonial studies. The book offers a comprehensive and nuanced understanding of the socialist modernisation in the postwar city of Vinh. It not only sheds light on a lesser-known chapter of Cold War history but also propels readers to think about the lasting impact of architectural and urban planning decisions in shaping societal narratives and experiences.
This book review is published by the LSE Southeast Asia blog and LSE Review of Books blog as part of a collaborative series focusing on timely and important social science books from and about Southeast Asia.
This post gives the views of the author, and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, or of the London School of Economics and Political Science.
Image Credit: khuanchai photo on Shutterstock.
Q and A with Jonathan White on In the Long Run: The Future as a Political Idea
We speak to Jonathan White about his new book, In the Long Run: The Future as a Political Idea, which investigates how changing political conceptions of the future have impacted societies from the birth of democracy to the present.
On Tuesday 30 January 2024 LSE staff, students, alumni and prospective students can attend a research showcase where Jonathan White will discuss the book.
In the Long Run: The Future as a Political Idea. Jonathan White. Profile Books. 2024.
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Q: What is the value of examining democracy in terms of its orientation towards, or relationship to, the future?
My book tries to show how beliefs about the future shape expectations of who should hold power, how it should be exercised, and to what ends. The emergence of modern democracy in Europe coincided with new ways of thinking about time. In the 18th and 19th centuries, emerging ideas of a future that could be different from the present and susceptible to influence helped to spur mass political participation. Movements of the left cast the future as the place of ideals, and “isms” such as socialism and liberalism provided the basis on which strangers could find common cause. Conversely, authoritarians have used the future differently to pacify the public and keep power out of its hands. Projecting democracy, prosperity and justice into the future is one way to seek acceptance of their absence in the present.
In the 18th and 19th centuries, emerging ideas of a future that could be different from the present and susceptible to influence helped to spur mass political participation.
Q: Why is an emphasis on continuation beyond the present essential to the operation of democracy?
Modern democracy is representative democracy, and that gives the future particular significance. Why should people accept the results of elections that go against them? “Losers’ consent” is generally said to rest on the notion that victories and defeats are temporary – there will always be another chance to contest power. The expected future acts as a resource for the acceptance of adversaries and of mediating institutions and procedures. One of today’s challenges is that this sense of continuation into the future is increasingly questioned. Problems of climate change, inequality, geopolitics and social change are widely viewed as so urgent and serious that they remove any scope for error – waiting for the “next time” is not enough. Every political battle starts to feel like the final battle, to be won at all costs. This year’s US presidential election will be fought in these terms and will make clear the stresses it puts on democracy.
One of today’s challenges is that this sense of continuation into the future is increasingly questioned. Problems of climate change, inequality, geopolitics and social change are widely viewed as so urgent and serious that they remove any scope for error
Q: You credit liberal economic thinkers like Adam Smith with “pushing back the temporal horizon”. How did their ideas around the free market treat the future?
In the early Enlightenment, defenders of free trade and commerce tended to emphasise the dividends that could be expected in the short term – peace and stability, for example, and access to goods. But the legitimacy of the market order would be hard to secure if it rested only on immediate benefits. What if conditions were harsh, or wealth was concentrated in the hands of the few? Pioneers of liberal economic thought such as Smith started to promote a longer perspective, allowing them to cite benefits that would need time to materialise, such as advances in efficiency, productivity and innovation. The future could also be invoked to indicate where present-day injustices would be ironed out. What we now know as “trickle-down” economics, in which returns for the rich are embraced on the idea that they will percolate down to the many, entails pointing to the future to defend the inequalities of the present. By invoking an extended timeframe, one can seek to rationalise a system that otherwise looks dysfunctional.
Pioneers of liberal economic thought such as Smith started to promote a longer perspective, allowing them to cite benefits that would need time to materialise, such as advances in efficiency, productivity and innovation.
Q: You cite the 20th-century ascendance of technocracy, of “ideas of the future as an object of calculation, best placed in the hands of experts”. How has this impacted democratic agency?
One way to think about the future is in terms of probabilities – what outcomes are most likely and how they can be prepared for. You find this outlook in business, and in government – especially in its more technocratic forms. It brings certain things with it. A focus on prediction and problem-solving often means focusing on a relatively near horizon – a few years, months, weeks or less – as where the future can be gauged with greatest certainty. And that in turn tends to go with a consciously pragmatic form of politics, less interested in the longer timescales needed for far-reaching change. In terms of the democratic implications, a focus on probabilities tends to elevate the role of experts – economists, for example – as those able to harness particular methods of projection such as statistics. If you turn the future into an object of calculation, it tends to favour elite modes of rule.
An emphasis on prediction is also something that has shaped how politics is covered in the media. Consider the use of opinion polls to narrate change – increasingly prominent from the 1930s onwards – which encourage a spectator’s perspective. Or consider a style of reporting quite common today, whereby a journalist talks about “what I’m hearing in Washington / Westminster / Brussels”. Its focus is on garnering clues about who seems likely to do what, and what they think others will do. The accent is less on the analysis of how things could be, or should be, or indeed currently are, and more on where they seem to be heading. It is news as managers or investors might want it – and politically that often amounts to an uncritical perspective.
Q: You discuss how desires to calculate the future through military forecasting took hold during the Cold War. What are the legacies of this in governmental politics today?
One of the main functions of military forecasting during the Cold War was to second-guess the actions of enemy states – where their weaknesses lay, where they might attack, and so on. That was true in both the West and the East. But forecasting was also applied to the control of populations at home, and not just with an eye to foreign policy. Fairly early on, national security experts started to get involved in public policy and urban planning – think of initiatives such as the “war on crime” launched by US President Lyndon Johnson in 1965. The outlook of the military forecaster began to transfer from the realm of geopolitics to public policy, counterinsurgency and the management of domestic protest, bringing methods of secrecy with it. Today’s forms of surveillance governance are the descendants of these forecasting techniques. And so too are conspiracy theories, which are often based on the idea that some have more knowledge of the future than they let on. Theories of 9/11 that suggest the US government saw the attack coming and deliberately let it happen, or even assisted it, are emblematic.
Q: Why is reducing social and economic inequality important to enable future-oriented political engagement from as many people as possible?
Democratic participation requires the capacity to see the present from the perspective of an imagined better future. But that presupposes the time and capacity for reflection. Those living in insecure conditions typically lack the resources and inclination to turn their eyes to the future. In exhausting jobs, the focus tends to be on getting through the day (or night): the present dominates the future. In precarious jobs or unemployment, people lack control of their lives: the future can look too unpredictable to bother with. Political engagement also depends on a sense that the problems encountered are shared with others. A workplace centred on short-term contracts on the contrary presents individuals with a constantly changing cast of peers. Other things can also undercut a sense of shared fate – personal debt, for instance, or algorithmic forms of scoring (eg, in insurance) that focus on the particularities of individual lives.
In exhausting jobs, the focus tends to be on getting through the day (or the night): the present dominates the future.
This is the sense in which the social and economic changes of the last few decades have fostered the privatisation of the future. The choices of political organisations like parties and movements are crucial in this context. They can either challenge these tendencies, developing that critical perspective on the present and a sense of shared fate – think eg, of a movement like the Debt Collective. Or they can reproduce these tendencies – eg, by treating voters as individuals who want only to maximise their own interests.
Q: What effects can crises have on how governments and citizens conceptualise and act on the future? Are current democratic political systems capable of addressing the climate crisis, the great future-oriented challenge of our time?
Crises tend to engender a sense of scarce time, and in the contemporary state that tends to bring a managerial approach to the fore. Emergencies are governed as one more problem of calculation, with a focus on concrete outcomes that can be traced from the present. The risk is that questions of justice and structural change get marginalised, as considerations that distract from the immediacy of the situation and open too many issues. Emergency government tends to prioritise short-term goals over long-term, and those which are concrete and quantifiable over those which are not.
Climate change too tends to be turned into a problem of calculation in policymaking circles. One sees it with the targets and deadlines invoked. By making net zero carbon emissions an overriding objective, authorities can marginalise considerations no less relevant to human wellbeing and environmental protection – biodiversity, global health and economic equality, for example. This is why some climate scholars see such methods as counterproductive. By emphasising a particular set of variables within a delimited timeframe, targets and deadlines get us thinking more about the near future, crowded with specificities, and less about the further horizon and the more general, incalculable goals that belong to it.
Taking the future seriously meant not hemming oneself in with false precision but setting out clear principles and organising in their pursuit.
The pitfalls of exactitude are something I try to highlight in the book. Not only is it hard to make predictions in a volatile world, but a focus on quantified targets can be counterproductive, since the facts at any moment can be bleak. As the socialists of the late 19th century understood, if the future was to be about radical change pursued over the long term, one could not afford to get lost in the details of the moment. Taking the future seriously meant not hemming oneself in with false precision but setting out clear principles and organising in their pursuit. I think this is a message that still applies. Climate change requires science and precision to grasp, but climate politics requires balancing this with a sense of uncertainty, open-endedness, and the possibility of radical change.
Note: This interview gives the views of the author, and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, or of the London School of Economics and Political Science. The interview was conducted by Anna D’Alton, Managing Editor of LSE Review of Books.
Homelands: A Personal History of Europe – review
In Homelands: A Personal History of Europe, Timothy Garton Ash reflects on European history and political transformation from the mid-20th century to the present. Deftly interweaving analysis with personal narratives, Garton Ash offers a compelling exploration of recent European history and how its lessons can help us navigate today’s challenges, writes Mario Clemens.
Homelands: A Personal History of Europe. Timothy Garton Ash. The Bodley Head. 2023.
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Almost ten years ago, I heard the then-German Foreign Minister (and current Federal President) Frank-Walter Steinmeier say that we have to prepare ourselves for the fact that in the near future, crises will become the norm. What sounded like a somewhat eccentric assessment now appears to be an apt description of our reality, including in Europe. How did we get here?
As Timothy Garton Ash argues in Homelands: A Personal History of Europe, Western Liberals made the mistake of relying on the unfounded assumption that history would simply continue to go their way. Post-cold-war-liberals failed, for example, to care enough about economic equality (237) and thus allowed Liberalism to make way for its ugly twin, Neoliberalism.
Western Liberals made the mistake of relying on the unfounded assumption that history would simply continue to go their way.
Whether we want to understand Islamist Terrorism, the rise of European right-wing populism, or Russia’s revanchist turn, in each case we find helpful hints in recent European history. What makes Garton Ash the ideal guide through the “history of the present” is his three-dimensional experience: that of a historian, a widely travelled and prominent journalist and a politically active intellectual.
What makes Garton Ash the ideal guide through the “history of the present” is his three-dimensional experience: that of a historian, a widely travelled and prominent journalist and a politically active intellectual.
Garton Ash started travelling across Europe fresh out of school, “working on a converted troopship, the SS Nevada, carrying British schoolchildren around the Mediterranean” (27). Aged 18, he was already keeping a journal on what he saw, heard and read.
He nurtured that journalistic impulse and soon merged it with a more active political one, eventually becoming the “engaged observer” (Raymond Aron) that he desired to be. In the early 1980s, he sat with workers and intellectuals in the Gdańsk Shipyard, where the Polish Solidarity movement (Solidarność) emerged. Later in the 1980s, he befriended Václav Havel, the Czech intellectual dissident and eventual President. Garton Ash chronicled and participated in the movement led by Havel, which successfully achieved the peaceful transition of Czechoslovakia from one-party communist rule to democracy. Since then, Garton Ash has consistently enjoyed privileged access to key political figures, such as Helmut Kohl, Madeleine Albright, Tony Blair and Aung San Suu Kyi. Simultaneously, he has maintained contact with so-called ordinary people. All the while, he has preserved the necessary distance intellectuals require to do their job, which in his view “is to seek the truth, and to speak truth to power” (173). His training as a historian, provides him with a broader perspective, which, in Homelands, allows him to arrange individual scenes and observations into an encompassing, convincing narrative.
Garton Ash has published several books focusing on particular themes, such as free speech, and events, such as the peaceful revolutions of 1989. In addition, he has published two books containing collected articles that cover a decade each. History of the Present: Essays, Sketches, and Dispatches from Europe in the 1990s and Facts are Subversive: Political Writing from a Decade without a Name, which covers the timespan between 2000 and 2010. Homelands now not only covers a larger timespan, the “overlapping timeframes of post-war and post-wall” (xi) – 1945 and 1989 to the present – but the chapters are also more tightly linked as had been possible in books that were based on previous publications.
By the second decade of the twenty-first century we had, for the first time ever, a generation of Europeans who had known nothing but a peaceful, free Europe consisting mainly of liberal democracies.
“Freedom and Europe” says Garton Ash, are “the two political causes closest to my heart” (xi), and he had the good fortune to witness a period where freedom was expanding within Europe. Now that history seems to be running in reverse gear, he worries that this new generation don’t quite realise what’s at stake: “By the second decade of the twenty-first century we had, for the first time ever, a generation of Europeans who had known nothing but a peaceful, free Europe consisting mainly of liberal democracies. Unsurprisingly, they tend to take it for granted’ (23-24).
Thus, one critical aim motivating Homelands is to convey to a younger generation what has been achieved by the “Europe-builders,” men and women who have been motivated by what Garton Ash calls the “memory machine,” the vivid memory of the hell Europe had turned itself into during its modern-day Thirty Years War (21-22). While nothing can equal this “direct personal memory,” he argues that there are other ways “in which knowledge of things past can be transmitted” – via literature, for instance, but also through history (24), especially when written well.
A gifted stylist, Garton Ash makes history come alive by telling the stories of individuals
A gifted stylist, Garton Ash makes history come alive by telling the stories of individuals, for instance, that of his East German friend, the pastor Werner Krätschell. On Thursday evening, 9 November 1989, Werner had just come home from the evening church service in East Berlin. When his elder daughter Tanja and her friend Astrid confirmed the rumour that the frontier to West Berlin was apparently open, Werner decided to see for himself. Taking Tanja and Astrid with him, he drove to the border crossing at Bornholmer Strasse. Like in a trance, he saw the frontier guard opening the first barrier. Next, he got a stamp on his passport – “invalid”. “‘But I can come back?’ – ‘No, you have to emigrate and are not allowed to re-enter,’” the border guard replied. Horrified because his two younger children were sleeping in the vicarage, “Werner did a U-turn inside the frontier crossing and prepared to head home. Then he heard another frontier guard tell a colleague that the order had changed: ‘They’re allowed back.’ So he did another U-turn, to point his yellow Wartburg again towards the West” (146).
History, written in this way, “as experienced by individual people and exemplified by their stories” (xiii), may indeed help us to “learn from the past without having to go through it all again ourselves” (24).
Though he emphasises the wealth, freedom and peace in late 20th-century Europe, Garton Ash also reminds us that post-war European history, even its “post-wall” period, is not an unqualified success story.
Though he emphasises the wealth, freedom and peace in late 20th-century Europe, Garton Ash also reminds us that post-war European history, even its “post-wall” period, is not an unqualified success story. Notably, right after the Cold War, there were the hot wars accompanying the dissolution of Yugoslavia. He regards the fact that the rest of Europe “permitted this ten-year return to hell” as “a terrible stain on what was otherwise one of the most hopeful periods of European history” (187).
Garton Ash is equally alert to the danger of letting one’s enthusiasm for Europe’s post-war achievements turn into self-righteousness. “That post-war Europe abjured and abhorred war would have been surprising news to the many parts of the world, from Vietnam to Kenya and Angola to Algeria, where European states continued to fight brutal wars in an attempt to hang on to their colonies” (327).
While such warnings qualify and differentiate Homelands’ central message – that today’s Europeans have much to lose – they do not reverse it. But knowing that one is bound to lose a lot can also have a paralysing effect, as many of my generation currently experience. Here again, history can help: to understand our present, we need to know what brought us here. Garton Ash is convinced that we can learn from history; he, for instance, claims that the rest of Europe should “learn the lessons of Brexit” (279).
Those who seek orientation through a better understanding of the past should turn to this extraordinary, eminently readable exploration of recent European history.
Homelands: A Personal History of Europe perfectly complements Tony Judt’s extensive Postwar (published in 2005). While Judt’s work offers a detailed and systematic account of European history after 1945, Garton Ash’s book seamlessly blends personal narratives, insightful analysis, and astute critique. Those who seek orientation through a better understanding of the past should turn to this extraordinary, eminently readable exploration of recent European history.
This post gives the views of the author, and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, or of the London School of Economics and Political Science. The LSE RB blog may receive a small commission if you choose to make a purchase through the above Amazon affiliate link. This is entirely independent of the coverage of the book on LSE Review of Books.
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Tyranny of the Minority: How to Reverse an Authoritarian Turn and Forge a Democracy for All – review
In Tyranny of the Minority: How to Reverse an Authoritarian Turn and Forge a Democracy for All, Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt consider the institutions and practices of counter-majoritarianism in the United States. The book effectively demonstrates that American democracy is under attack, but the authors’ proposals for constitutional amendments to help end that attack are unlikely to be implemented, writes Larry Patriquin.
Tyranny of the Minority: How to Reverse an Authoritarian Turn and Forge a Democracy for All. Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt. Viking. 2023.
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A spectre is haunting America – the spectre of Donald Trump, the loose cannon who defeated his competitors for the Republican Party nomination in 2016 and then went on to shock the world by winning the presidency. From that point on, almost all Republican politicians offered their support to him, while the few remaining GOP dissidents were effectively silenced. It all ended badly, however, with Trump’s refusal to accept his defeat in November 2020 and the ensuing coup attempt, which he encouraged, in January 2021.
As late as the 1960s, the Democrats and Republicans were “big tent” organisations dominated by white Christians. As a result, they had much in common
So, how did we get here? Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt argue that as late as the 1960s, the Democrats and Republicans were “big tent” organisations dominated by white Christians. As a result, they had much in common, so both were able to vote overwhelmingly in favour of important legislation, including the 1964 Civil Rights Act and the 1965 Voting Rights Act. But shortly thereafter, the Republicans began to pursue a hardcore “white party” strategy as the best way to win elections, drawing southern white voters away from the Democrats. This process solidified by the time of Richard Nixon’s re-election in 1972 and was mostly complete with the GOP’s embrace of burgeoning Christian fundamentalism in the 1970s and 1980s.
The United States is now a country where electoral minorities, rooted in a mostly white, rural-based party, can consistently rule over and dominate a multiracial, highly urbanised society.
Today, however, the Republicans are trying to scupper democracy. They realise they cannot win elections if they play by the rules, because they have for the most part abandoned the vast majority of non-white citizens, in a society that is becoming more diverse with each passing year. This has had profound effects on American governance. Representative democracies are supposed to ensure that majorities can implement their favoured policies and are able to do so relatively easily and peacefully. But the United States is now a country where electoral minorities, rooted in a mostly white, rural-based party, can consistently rule over and dominate a multiracial, highly urbanised society.
This turn toward authoritarianism has unfolded because of the US’s counter-majoritarian institutions and practices.
This turn toward authoritarianism has unfolded because of the US’s counter-majoritarian institutions and practices. These include, among others: (1) a politicised Supreme Court, in which six of its nine justices regularly contribute to rulings that are reactionary and antidemocratic; (2) the apportionment of two senators to each state (the same number, for instance, to Wyoming’s 580,000 residents as to California’s 39 million); (3) a constitution that is almost impossible to amend (aside from a minor amendment in 1992 on Congressional salaries, the last successful amendment was in 1971 – that is, more than 50 years ago – when the voting age was lowered to 18); (4) the Electoral College, which enabled Donald Trump to capture the presidency in 2016 even though he lost the popular vote by 3 million votes; and (5) the Senate filibuster, which requires 60 votes for a bill to proceed to the floor, hence serving as an effective veto of potential legislation by 41 senators.
In sum, “in America majorities do not really rule” (225). In response, Levitsky and Ziblatt make ten general recommendations on how to move forward, including having the government register voters, creating independent redistricting commissions in every state, and abolishing the Senate filibuster. There is a reasonable possibility that most of these reforms could be implemented.
This is not the case, however, for their additional five recommendations, which would necessitate constitutional amendments. They would like to: (1) enshrine the right to vote; (2) abolish the Electoral College; (3) have Senate seats distributed more in line with each state’s population; (4) create term limits for Supreme Court justices; and (5) revise the Constitution’s amendment process by removing the requirement to have three quarters of the states approve each proposed amendment.
They point to the abolition of slavery and the extension of suffrage to women, both of which were forward-looking ideas at one time, but were eventually implemented
Levitsky and Ziblatt anticipate my main objection to their constitutional proposals: that if they “make sense in theory, aren’t they utterly unrealistic in practice?” (236) They argue, though, that while there would be serious obstacles to their passage, these amendments are within the realm of possibility and so should at least be debated. They point to the abolition of slavery and the extension of suffrage to women, both of which were forward-looking ideas at one time, but were eventually implemented, even if they took a century or two to accomplish.
They suggest that the “unrealistic” criticism could come down to the perception that the “reforms we propose might appear radical” (236). They add that the refusal to at least air these reforms is problematic, noting that if “an ambitious idea is ‘unthinkable’,” then “the battle is lost” (238). However, the content of Levitsky and Ziblatt’s proposals is neither ambitious nor radical. As they observe, they are recommending laws and regulations similar to those in place in just about every nation outside the US.
Previous landmark constitutional amendments occurred during and after extended calamities, including the Civil War, World War I, and the massive civil rights movement of the 1960s. I am not sure the successes created in these instances could be replicated today
Still, their proposals are unlikely to pass, at least any time soon. This is because previous landmark constitutional amendments occurred during and after extended calamities, including the Civil War, World War I, and the massive civil rights movement of the 1960s. I am not sure the successes created in these instances could be replicated today, especially given that – as the authors effectively demonstrate over hundreds of pages – the Republican Party and its supporters have detached themselves from democracy, from the law, and even from reality.
The current political climate in the US is much more toxic than it was a half century ago
The current political climate in the US is much more toxic than it was a half century ago, yet throughout the 1970s advocates could not get final approval from enough states to support the Equal Rights Amendment, which passed in Congress in 1972. It would have enabled the following sentence to become part of the Constitution: “Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex.” If something so basic, something almost no sentient being would oppose, could not find its way into the Constitution, then none of the authors’ proposed amendments, all of which would significantly reduce the power of Trump-crazed Republicans, seem to have any chance of ratification.
At the time of writing, Donald Trump held a massive lead in polling for the Republican primary – with more support than all other candidates combined – so barring an asteroid hitting the earth, he will be the Republican nominee for president in 2024, and he could very well defeat Joe Biden (the two are currently running neck-and-neck in the polls). If that happens, or if Trump loses and he again cheers on his violent sycophants as they rampage through Washington, the US will not be in a position to enact sensible constitutional amendments, even ones that are relatively uncontroversial – even one which, for instance, would declare that women are equal to men.
This post gives the views of the author, and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, or of the London School of Economics and Political Science. The LSE RB blog may receive a small commission if you choose to make a purchase through the above Amazon affiliate link. This is entirely independent of the coverage of the book on LSE Review of Books.
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Indigenizing the Cold War: Nation-Building by the Border Patrol Police in Thailand – review
Indigenizing the Cold War: Nation-Building by the Border Patrol Police in Thailand by Sinae Hyun explores the effects of the Cold War on Thailand’s nation-building process, specifically on the transformation of the Border Patrol Police (BPP) from a force supported by the CIA to a civic action agency. Applying the analytical lens of indigenisation, the book vividly describes the interplay between anti-communist mobilisation and nation-building during this period, writes Xu Peng. This post was originally published on the LSE Southeast Asia Blog.
Indigenizing the Cold War: Nation-Building by the Border Patrol Police in Thailand. Sinae Hyun. University of Hawaii Press. 2023.
The main argument of this book is that the Cold War in Thailand was not just an ideological struggle between communism and anti-communism but a complex interplay between local elites and the general populace. The book highlights two key historical continuities: the Thai ruling elite’s collaboration with the US to establish Thailand as a bastion of anti-communism and leveraging US Cold War policies to advance Thai military and royal agendas. This work offers valuable insights into Southeast Asian studies, Cold War history, and political science by exploring the complexities of nation-building and the role of global superpowers in local affairs.
The author astutely observes that the revival of monarchical influence [in Thailand] was not an isolated phenomenon but a strategic move that dovetailed with anti-communist politics during this period [1947-1962]
The first chapter, “From CIA Brainchild to Civic Action Agent, 1947-1962,” serves as a foundational piece, setting the stage for the intricate transformations the Border Patrol Police (BPP) would undergo. The author astutely observes that the revival of monarchical influence was not an isolated phenomenon but a strategic move that dovetailed with anti-communist politics during this period. This alignment of interests between the Thai military and the monarchy was not merely coincidental but rather a calculated strategy that drew substantial support from the United States. This chapter illuminates how international geopolitics and local political imperatives can intersect, thereby mutually reinforcing each other. Moving on to the second chapter, “Building a Human Border, 1962-1980,” the author delves into the complexities of nation-building and bordercraft. The BPP’s initiatives in remote mountainous regions, which included sanitation, health, rural economic development, and narcotics suppression, were not merely civic actions. Rather, they were strategic moves designed to maintain a hierarchical relationship between the hill tribes and mainstream Thai society. Far from aiming to integrate these ethnic minorities into the Thai nation, these activities deliberately kept the highland minorities at arm’s length, serving to legitimise the nation-building process led by the existing ruling elite.
The author argues that [the 6 October1976 Massacre] epitomises how the Thai ruling elite, whether military or monarchy, successfully indigenised American anti-communist strategies to serve their own ends
The third chapter, “The Saga of the Black Panther, 1950-1976,” offers a nuanced look into the Police Aerial Reinforcement Unit (PARU) and its role within the broader framework of the BPP and the Cold War. Initially formed as a CIA paramilitary force, PARU faced existential challenges, particularly when Sarit Thanarat seized power in 1957. In order to survive, the unit was deployed to Laos for clandestine operations, securing US military aid for Thailand in the process. However, when the Laos operation faltered, PARU returned to Thailand as a demoralised unit. At this juncture, the Thai monarchy adopted PARU as an agent of indigenisation and royalist nationalism. The chapter reflects on the complexities of survival, allegiance, and identity. It highlights how local actors like PARU were not merely pawns but active agents in shaping their destinies within shifting geopolitical landscapes. In the fourth chapter, “Crusade from the Borders to Bangkok, 1969-1976,” the focus shifts to the 6 October Massacre, a watershed moment in Thai history. The author argues that this event epitomises how the Thai ruling elite, whether military or monarchy, successfully indigenised American anti-communist strategies to serve their own ends. The formation of the Village Scouts by the BPP and their role in the massacre is a stark reminder of how state-sponsored initiatives can have far-reaching and often devastating consequences. The concluding chapter, “Mission Incomplete,” serves as a reflective epilogue, pondering the long-term impacts of the indigenised Cold War on Thai society. The chapter scrutinises the transformation of King Bhumibol from a traditional royal patron to a modern nation-builder. It also examines the legacies of Thai-style democracy and royalist nationalism, which continue to exert a profound influence over Thai society. The chapter raises pertinent questions about the future role of the BPP, especially given its ambiguous identity constructed during the Cold War era.
The ruling elite engaged in a calculated ‘othering’ process, setting up psychological borders between ‘friend’ and ‘foe,’ ‘us’ and ‘them.’[…] to marginalise political dissidents and others posing threats to the regime, often labelling them as communists irrespective of their actual affiliations
One of the most salient strengths of Indigenizing the Cold War lies in its nuanced understanding of the postcolonial nation-building process. The author compellingly argues that under the aegis of the global Cold War system, nation-building was not merely a territorial project but also a psychological one. The ruling elite engaged in a calculated ‘othering’ process, setting up psychological borders between ‘friend’ and ‘foe,’ ‘us’ and ‘them.’ This strategy was particularly effective as it employed ambiguous criteria to determine who were communists and who were not, thereby consolidating the state’s authority. The ruling class weaponised this ‘othering’ tactic to marginalise political dissidents and others posing threats to the regime, often labelling them as communists irrespective of their actual affiliations. This strategy essentially conditioned the nation to fear and respect the authority of the state, as it was the state that had the ultimate say in meting out punishment or rewards. Additionally, the book offers a unique perspective on communism’s impact on Southeast Asia. The narrative tends to depict communism more as an abstract, distant threat rather than a tangible force with ebbs and flows. This portrayal could be a deliberate choice by the author to underscore how the concept of communism was often manipulated or reconstructed to fit specific narratives.
Another significant strength of the book is its nuanced analysis of the BPP’s role, which the author describes as a ‘symbolic missionary of nationalism’(page 5). The term ‘missionary’ is employed to signify the BPP’s active role in disseminating and reinforcing nationalist ideologies, a role in which it was patronized and emboldened by the Thai ruling elite, particularly the monarchy. The BPP is not merely a security force but a formalised institution that epitomises the collaboration between the United States and the Thai monarchy up to 1974. While the book provides an exhaustive account of the BPP’s role in Thai nation-building, it could benefit from situating the BPP within a broader context. Specifically, the BPP acts as a broker between ethnic minorities and the ruling regime, and it is worth noting that Thailand often employs a more direct form of intervention, particularly in the use of forest land rights in border areas, to complete the state’s control of the border through processes of territorialisation. These top-down processes, like the civic initiatives led by the BPP, are instrumental in nation-building. Therefore, the correlation between the BPP and other state-led initiatives in nation-building should also be considered for a more comprehensive understanding.
While the book does touch upon the bureaucratic hindrances to the assimilation of mountain peoples, as mentioned in Chapter 2, ‘The Human Border,’ it still lacks a comprehensive account of resistance or agency from these communities
The core issue that emerges from the book is its portrayal of nation-building as a largely one-way process, focusing predominantly on the actions and strategies of the state or its agents (or broker), such as the BPP. While the book does touch upon the bureaucratic hindrances to the assimilation of mountain peoples, as mentioned in Chapter 2, ‘The Human Border,’ it still lacks a comprehensive account of resistance or agency from these communities. This absence is significant because it is difficult to gauge the effectiveness of nation-building without considering this component of resistance. The book’s one-sided portrayal simplifies what should be understood as a complex, two-way interaction between the state and the people in ungoverned areas. This leads to a further point of curiosity: Which concept of ‘nation-building’ is the book discussing? Is it the ‘united, progressive nation-state’ that the author describes as challenging to build, or is it a more inclusive concept of the nation? While the author’s final conclusion does reflect on the limitations of the concept of nation-building, it leaves room for further exploration and discussion.
The book excels in its theoretical contributions, particularly the concept of ‘indigenisation.’ […] Compared to the more commonly used term ‘localisation,’ ‘indigenisation’ serves as a more potent analytical tool to highlight the reciprocity involved in creating and sustaining conditions for collaboration and adaptation between the U.S
Lastly, the book excels in its theoretical contributions, particularly the concept of ‘indigenisation.’ The author employs the metaphor of ‘missionisation’ in missiology to elucidate the work and practices of missionaries who aimed not merely to convert indigenous people but also to bring them under their mission’s sphere of influence and control. Compared to the more commonly used term ‘localisation,’ ‘indigenisation’ serves as a more potent analytical tool to highlight the reciprocity involved in creating and sustaining conditions for collaboration and adaptation between the U.S. and its Southeast Asian allies during the Cold War. Significantly, the book integrates this theory of ‘indigenisation’ exceptionally well, particularly in chapters one through five. It demonstrates a progressive increase in the degree of ‘indigenisation,’ culminating in the 6 October Massacre, representing the apex of full ‘indigenisation.’ This observation adds another layer of depth to our understanding of how the theory is not just static but evolves and intensifies over time, thereby enriching our understanding of Cold War dynamics in Southeast Asia.
This book review is published by the LSE Southeast Asia blog and LSE Review of Books blog as part of a collaborative series focusing on timely and important social science books from and about Southeast Asia. This review gives the views of the author, and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, the LSE Southeast Asia Blog, or the London School of Economics and Political Science.
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