During the middle of a troop and advising “surge” to Afghanistan following the election of Barack Obama, U.S. Defense Department officials and Afghan President Hamid Karzai made a blockbuster announcement: Afghanistan, formerly best known for its export of opium, was said to be on the brink of becoming the “Saudi Arabia of lithium,” a rare mineral essential for the production of modern computers and smartphones. American geologists had stumbled onto dusty old Soviet maps of the country produced during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan in the 1980s. Their quality was not terrific, but they hinted at enormous mineral deposits hitherto untapped that could turn Afghanistan from a large net recipient of foreign aid to a state flush with extraction-based revenues, like neighboring Turkmenistan, or Caspian Sea oil and gas giant Azerbaijan. American geologists soon conducted aerial surveys of Afghanistan that allowed them to photograph the interior of the Central Asian state. Thanks to American-made “advanced gravity and magnetic measuring equipment,” the U.S. had produced “a three-dimensional profile of mineral deposits below the earth’s surface” and “the most comprehensive geologic survey of Afghanistan ever conducted.”
The announcement, made in 2010, seemed like good news for the Afghans. But beyond obvious ongoing questions about when (if?) security conditions in Afghanistan will ever permit mining corporations the confidence to make major investments in that country, the episode also raises questions about the role of the United States in th world and the nature of sovereignty in which access to mining data may be just as crucial as political sovereignty over the piece of real estate in which this niobium deposit or that lithium bed might be located. What does political sovereignty mean for a post-2001 Afghan state if its main real hope for self-financing comes from the interface of U.S.-produced data with an international bidding process over which an Afghan people may have only limited say? While the contradictions are perhaps particularly vivid in the case of Afghanistan, the drama of how extractive industries are entangled with the sovereignty of less powerful states and nations—not least Indigenous Peoples—is an ongoing story. Recent events such as the Standing Rock protests make this ever more clear.
The work of our most recent guest to the Global History Forum, Megan Black, makes clear the history behind episodes like these. A Lecturer in History at Harvard University and a Post-Doctoral Fellow at the Charles Warren Center for Studies in American History, Black studies the United States Department of the Interior as an institutional prism through which to see a new history of U.S. global reach since 1890. Often misunderstood as an obscure branch of the U.S. government, the Department of the Interior, in Black’s account, turns out to be a crucial agent of American power toward the outside world in the nineteenth and twentieth century. Rather than seeing Interior as a mere manager of that which was already “inside” the U.S. polity, she sees it as the crucial actor in a process of “interiorization” whereby resources once external to the American homeland (whether in the North American West or anywhere in the world) were made legible and potentially extractable.
While one might expect Interior’s mission to have ended once the frontier was closed and the American West swelled with settlers, Black’s account shows how Interior reinvented itself as a crucial agent for the discovery and management of “strategic minerals” around the world — first in nearby theaters in the Americas, and later globally. Studying the rise and fall of the Department of the Interior and the logics of “interiorization” it relied upon, then, constitutes not just a lens to understand the nature of American hegemony in the 20th century. It’s also a crucial story for understanding how what it meant to be sovereign changed in light of the discovery of new aerospace, computing, and nuclear technologies, and the complex mineral chains required to maintain them. While our conversation with Black therefore provides a lens into one of the most dynamic historiographical literatures today—namely that of U.S. foreign relations—it also provides a terrific example of what it might mean for scholars of global history to take minerals and mining more seriously as subjects for investigation. Outgoing Toynbee Prize Foundation Executive Director Timothy Nunan recently sat down with Dr. Black to discuss her research as well as her forthcoming book manuscript, The Global Interior. Continue reading →
More and more social science research suggests that polities recovering from eras of mass atrocity do best with strategies that are both forward-looking and backward-looking. Forward-looking initiatives may include constitutional revisions, support for non-governmental organizations, and amnesties; backward-looking devices may include summary executions, war crimes trials, or truth commissions. While few would argue that we are in the twilight of impunity, scholars who study the generation and diffusion of norms look to recent settlements in Argentina and Columbia that stress increased accountability for past atrocities. The conviction of former Chadian dictator Hissène Habré by a Senegelese court for crimes against humanity and war crimes in early 2016 might be a harbinger of future, more regionally-grounded processes of international justice. Even more recently, the conviction of an ISIS militant for the destruction of ancient documents and religious sites in Mali has suggested an expansion zone for war crimes that would take in cultural destruction.
Critics of liberal internationalism, by contrast, are heralding the death of the human rights idea in light of the recent U.S. presidential election, Brexit, and the resurgence of ethnic nationalism in the West and elsewhere. Atrocity crimes seem to be a growth industry and botched humanitarian interventions are also doing a brisk business. These critics also ask how institutions such as the ICC and the UN tribunals for the Former Yugoslavia and Rwanda could have any legitimacy at all, as they are dominated by Western elites, with judges who are vetted and qualified to preside only after receiving indoctrination at Western law schools, while defendants are inevitably drawn from smaller, weaker countries, some of which are now turning their backs on international institutions in general and the ICC in particular. Law, skeptics say, has been unmasked as really “just politics;” that is, only capable of generating scenarios where illegitimate power expresses itself by means of adulterated law.
Convincing one side or the other of the moral legitimacy of today’s international tribunals may indeed be a rather fruitless exercise. In the meantime, however, it may be helpful to ask a more historically-informed set of questions, such as how some of the foundational ideas in international justice from the 19th century and before came to be institutionalized in the 20th century, or how the very format of trials came to be added to the spectrum of responses to various kinds of atrocities against civilians, or indeed how the idea of what might count as a “crime” in international law came to be debated and refined.
These are the questions at the heart of the research agenda of Elizabeth Borgwardt, an associate professor of history and law at Washington University in St. Louis, and a permanent faculty associate of the Center for American Studies at the Ruprecht-Karls-Universität Heidelberg. Borgwardt also recently served as the Richard and Ann Pozen Visiting Chair in Human Rights at the University of Chicago. Readers will probably best know Borgwardt as the author of the 2005 monograph A New Deal for the World: America’s Vision for Human Rights, published with the Belknap Press of Harvard University Press and co-winner of the Merle Curti award for best book in Intellectual History and of the Stuart Bernath Book award for best first book in U.S. foreign relations.
Now considered to be field-defining research in the then-novel specialization of human rights history, Borgwardt examined how the 1941 Roosevelt-Churchill Atlantic charter served as a kind of ideological blueprint for many of the young lawyers negotiating the draft charters of various wartime international institutions, notably the 1944 Bretton Woods agreements, the 1945 United Nations charter, and the 1945 Nuremberg charter. She explored how these new institutions were meant to generate a world order that would somehow “advance” human rights and, for the US officials involved, one which would entrench and extend U.S. influence. A major theme of New Deal for the World was also the role of unintended consequences, in that a variety of constituencies seized upon the vague and inspirational rhetoric in the Atlantic Charter and sought to use it for their own ends.
Now, however, Borgwardt is interested in a different set of questions related to human rights politics and ideas: how did “human rights” become a concept that even the most heinous regimes feel that they need to buy into, if only to pay it lip service? Why did ideas about sovereignty and individual accountability articulated in a courtroom in provincial Germany go on to affect larger systems of international justice? The answer to these questions — grounded, in Borgwardt’s case, in her background as both a lawyer and a historian — cannot but interest us in a world that continues to be scarred by human rights violations, both domestic and international.
The Toynbee Prize Foundation’s Executive Director, Timothy Nunan, recently had the opportunity to sit down with Professor Borgwardt during a visit to Harvard University to present an excerpt from her new manuscript, with the working title of The Nuremberg Idea: “Thinking Humanity” in History, Law & Politics, under contract with Alfred A. Knopf. We have reproduced below an edited transcript of that conversation.
Raymond Aron represents one of the most important intellectuals to take stock of the global situation in the twentieth century. A frequent commentator to French debates through his position at the Sorbonne and Collège de France, and his long-time column at the newspaper Le Figaro (and, later, L’Express), he engaged in debates about the Algerian war of independence, the meaning of the 1968 student protests in France, and France’s position in a world marked by the East-West conflict, decolonization, and economic reconstruction in Europe. While sometimes criticized for being a generalist—“the professor at Le Figaro and the journalist at the Sorbonne,” in one rendering—Aron’s range makes him one of the most interesting commentators for historians trying to reconstruct the intellectual landscape of the twentieth century. Not least for this reason does Aron number among the recipients of the Toynbee Prize.
Yet in the Anglophone world, at least, the reception of Aron has been more blinkered. Many American readers are probably most familiar with Aron through the work of the late English historian Tony Judt, who in his 1992 volume Past Imperfect presented Aron as a beacon of sanity in a French intellectual scene otherwise marred by “the marked absence of a concern with public ethics or political morality.” More recently, readers without access to Aron’s writings in the original French may have engaged with him through the work of Columbia historian Mark Lilla, whose New French Thought Series for Princeton University Press re-introduced a French liberal center to Anglophone readerships. Both works situated Aron in a canon of responsible French intellectuals—Aron, Léon Blum, Albert Camus—who contrasted with radical or reactionary thinkers.
Daniel Steinmetz-Jenkins, our latest guest to the Global History Forum
However, as our most recent guest to the Global History Forum, Daniel Steinmetz-Jenkins, shows, there is another side to Aron that his current translation into the North American scene barely captures: namely, his engagement with American intellectual thought on themes like neoliberalism, modernization theory, and détente. Throughout his career, Aron debated and challenged Anglophone intellectuals like Edward Shils, Walt Rostow, Friedrich Hayek and others as intellectuals across the Atlantic found intellectual legitimizations for American hegemony. Steinmetz-Jenkins’ account also captures an Aron best understood not as a static “responsible” intellectual never changing, but rather as an evolving intellect who by the end of his life had arguably become a neoconservative. By the early 1980s, Aron was less committed to the kind of social democratic politics that marked his work from the 1940s and 1950s.
All of this recovers an Aron of interest not solely, or even primarily, of interest to historians of France or intellectual history as traditionally conceived. Instead, Steinmetz-Jenkins’ work helps us see an Aron as a figure who must be read alongside his American interlocutors if we hope to understand what was at stake in debates about the above themes. His reading also helps us see Aron as part of an Atlantic intellectual story wherein former liberals—think here Daniel Bell, Irving Kristol, or Malcolm Glazer in the American context—became neoconservatives by the 1970s. In short, Steinmetz-Jenkins helps us rethink Aron as precisely the kind global intellectual that the Toynbee Prize Foundation sought to recognize in awarding him the Prize in the 1970s. In order to discuss some of these themes, Toynbee Prize Foundation Executive Timothy Nunan spoke with Steinmetz-Jenkins via telephone recently.
We begin our discussion of Steinmetz-Jenkins’ contribution by asking him about his road to history as a discipline. Steinmetz-Jenkins initially pursued theological studies. He prepared for a career as a pastor or a theologian himself, and to that end, his first collegiate experience was at a Pentecostal Bible College. Yet for a variety of reasons, over time he became much more interested in political and historical questions, although theology still remains of significant interest. After receiving an MA in theology from Western Seminary in Portland, Oregon. he eventually came to the conclusion that he would rather study history and started his studies afresh at Concordia University, a Lutheran institution of higher education in Oregon. From there, he credits the mentoring of historians like Mark Ruff (at Concordia) and Ben Lazier (at Reed College, where Steinmetz-Jenkins pursued an MA in Liberal Studies after receiving a history degree from Concordia) for getting him up to speed on the field and the professional realities of an academic career as a historian of Europe.
Soon, by 2009, Steinmetz-Jenkins was off to Columbia University to study European intellectual history. But what topic would he choose? His initial inclination was to focus on the work of Carl Schmitt, a German legal scholar whose writings on political theory have proven extremely influential but whose legacy remains controversial due to Schmitt’s membership in the National Socialist Party and his scholarly defenses of anti-Semitism in German academia and Nazi foreign policy. Perhaps because Schmitt’s work emphasizes the centrality of executive power and existential distinctions between “friends and enemies,” reinterpreting his works had become a small cottage industry by the time of the Bush Administration’s War on Terror and defense of its actions through “unitary executive theory.” Steinmetz-Jenkins was interested in particular in exploring Schmitt’s idea of political theology (the idea, to oversimplify, that meaningful political concepts are secularized theological concepts), and when he went to Paris following his first year in the program, his PhD supervisor, Samuel Moyn, advised him to take a look at the correspondence between Schmitt and Raymond Aron held at the Bibliothèque nationale de France.
It turned out to be good advice—but for unexpected reasons. Steinmetz-Jenkins dove into the correspondence of Aron with the German intellectual, but he soon became as fascinated with the former as with the latter. “Here was a scholar,” explains Steinmetz-Jenkins, “that had exchanges, some of which quite significant, with the leading intellectual and political figures of his time, from Walter Benjamin and Herbert Marcuse, to John F. Kennedy and Henry Kissinger.” There was also the professional benefit of being able to make a bigger splash, as more and more work on Schmitt was being produced as Steinmetz-Jenkins decided on a dissertation topic. Aron, in contrast, was a more open field. The bigger challenges turned out to be interpretative. Aron wrote so much for so long that it was difficult to get a grasp on him. And because Aron enjoyed such charged reputations on different sides of the Atlantic, taking a stance on Aron in general could be construed by French or American audiences as an acid test for a broad set of political stances. But over the next several years (most of them spent in Paris), Steinmetz-Jenkins dove into the Aron papers at the BnF. He traveled to use the collections of prominent American social scientists in the United States. And he made it all the way to California, to work with the papers of the Mont Pelerin Society, located at the Hoover Institution.
We ask Steinmetz-Jenkins if he has any reflections to offer to budding intellectual historians on research process. Here, he offers two notes. One is the importance of archival research—“even” for intellectual historians. “There is a reluctance that many intellectual historians have,” he says, “to do archival work, because they’re focused on ideas. That focus on ideas seems to suggest that they don’t need to look at letters, since the big ideas are in the books. But many of the claims of this dissertation have been derived from archival research. The chapter on Hayek, for example, makes heavy use of the archives of the Congress for Cultural Freedom at the University of Chicago’s Regenstein Library. In that sense, this dissertation makes the case that you can write a really good intellectual history project that makes heavy use of archives.” Lest this sound like a slog— Steinmetz-Jenkins will have visited some two dozen archives by the time the book is completed—he emphasized that it is enriching. “Throughout, I enjoyed the process, since I discovered many things that I don’t think are well known, at least in published writing.”
Another point concerns the importance of intellectual historians immersing themselves in secondary literature, especially if they want to make contributions to fields or discussions beyond just the field of intellectual history. That’s especially true in the case of someone like Aron, who made interventions into fields from international relations to modernization theory to decolonization. The problem Steinmetz-Jenkins encountered was that merely reading Aron’s output and the growing research literature on Aron was a huge task; adding to this a mastery of the history about one of the thematic avenues of his dissertation would have made things even more difficult. In his own case, he notes, the receipt of a prestigious post-doctoral fellowship was both a blessing and a curse, since he was forced to write up his findings quickly, rather than being able to integrate a more nuanced reading of one theme or the other into his Aron materials. “If I could have done it over again, I would have been more versed in modernization theory. I would have wanted to read more about debates about modernization in France, and then connect those to debates in the United States.” Doing precisely this remains a priority as Steinmetz-Jenkins refines the manuscript.
Moving beyond these issues of process, we plunge into a discussion of some of the debates around which Steinmetz-Jenkins organizes his treatment of Aron: neoliberalism; modernization; international relations realism; and neoconservatism. As Steinmetz-Jenkins argues, it’s in examining these four themes that readers can see how Aron offers a “a sustained critique of what I describe as the American ideology—a realist approach to international relations, the view that parliamentary democracy can be transferred abroad via global development schemes, the reduction of human liberty to free markets, and an over-reliance on rational choice theory and computer technologies to predict military, and specifically, insurgent behavior.” This doesn’t just make Aron significant on his own terms; it also means he’s a useful thinker for today’s critiques of “the American ideology” to reach back to as they articulate their concerns about trade deals, drone warfare, policy vis-à-vis Ukraine or Syria, and so on. Furthermore, Aron’s thought is refreshingly free of some of the dark associations of the other intellectual—Carl Schmitt—that critics of American power might use.
In order to ground the discussion a bit more, we ask Steinmetz-Jenkins to explain Aron’s stance vis-à-vis debates over neoliberalism and the welfare state. The starting point here is France in the 1930s, where intellectuals debated the proper response of the state to the post-1929 global economic crisis. Some on the Marxist Left perceived the global depression merely as the inevitable result of the contradictions of capitalism. The left-wing coalition that governed France from 1936-1938, the Popular Front, agreed with the proposition that more economic planning was necessary to resolve the crisis and implemented policies like a forty-hour work week and the nationalization of French credit. On the other side of the spectrum, what might be dubbed Manchester liberals promoted free trade and a loosening of work and labor regulations as the best response to the crisis. Those on the left could argue that precisely such liberal policies had helped augur in the economic crisis; those on the right, that state controls were responsible for double-digit inflation and job cuts, thus limiting workers’ gains and exacerbating the mass unemployment that the Left had sought to combat.
At the same time, however, many figures in the French intellectual scene sought a “Third Way” between these options of right or left. Aron, Steinmetz-Jenkins, explains, viewed both Marxism as well as Manchester liberalism as relics of a nineteenth-century ideological age. Examining intellectual forums like the Colloque Walter Lippmann (a five-day event that took place in 1938 and brought Aron together with a young Friedrich Hayek), Steinmetz-Jenkins shows how the core issue for Aron was not simply that one ideological vision (Marxism or laissez-faire liberalism) would boost GDP or employment, but rather than both were themselves expressions of a kind of ideological determinism.
This, Steinmetz-Jenkins explains, is most on display in Aron’s 1938 dissertation, Introduction to the Philosophy of History. For Aron, what united doctrinaire Marxists with budding neoliberals like Hayek (who outlined some the arguments to appear later in The Road to Serfdom in a 1938 article titled “Freedom and the Economic System”) was their ideological, deterministic thinking. Marxists insisted on the inevitability of proletarian revolution as the result of capitalism; neoliberals, meanwhile, insisted on the natural and inevitable descent of any kind of central planning into unfreedom, even though this argument was not backed up by any factual or historical examples. Aron, Steinmetz-Jenkins explains, did not dispute the necessity or desirability of developing abstract economic models, but he was skeptical of Hayek’s early thought as a kind of “inverse Marxism” driven by the idea of one set of circumstances necessarily producing a certain outcome. “This made it,” Steinmetz-Jenkins explains, “an ideology that didn’t deal with reality—it was an ideology that mapped itself onto politics and attempted to steer it in a direction that reality didn’t want to go. “
What’s more, this insistence on planning necessarily leading to dictatorship was especially unhelpful for those (like Aron) interested in preventing the rise of Soviet-aligned Communist Parties in Western Europe. Theorists like Hayek might have thought that only laissez faire could hold off the Marxist temptation, but Aron saw “Hayek’s thought as an ideology that would create the conditions under which Marxism could speak to the working class.” The adequate response to meet the Soviet challenge, argued Aron, would combine some elements of the welfare state (to avoid the inequalities created by unfettered capitalism) but also pay attention to the realities of the geopolitical situation to avoid European decadence and the possibility of Nazi, or, later, Soviet domination. (The economic policies of the Popular Front government handicapped the French armaments industry at a time of unprecedented German rearmament, thus hamstringing the Third Republic’s ability to slow down the Nazi war machine in 1940.) Parallels arguably abound with today, when record numbers of young Americans and Europeans seem interested in “socialism” (however defined) after feeling let down by austerity and trickle-down economics; at the same time, some might argue that vigilance against an activist Russian Federation is more important than reallocating resources to social programs that would respond to young citizens’ demands.
Fittingly, the specter of Soviet domination over Europe would silence the divide between thinkers like Aron and Hayek for much of the 1940s and early 1950s. When asked, both agreed to participate in international conferences organized by the Congress for Cultural Freedom (CCF), an anti-communist advocacy group formed in West Berlin in 1950 shortly after the Soviet blockade and the Berlin Airlift. The CCF, which was exposed in 1966 to have received significant funding from the CIA, grew over time to be an incredibly active organization, running conferences around the world devoted to discrediting socialism and left-wing thought and upholding the importance of intellectual freedom around the world. This sufficed as a mission for the organization’s first several years, when the outbreak of the Cold War and the Chinese Revolution made a purely defensive, negative posture justified. But after Stalin’s death in March 1953, many involved in the CCF understood that the organization would have to adopt a more positive stance on what, exactly, “freedom” meant in the new Cold War world. Did free societies have, for example, large welfare states—or were these welfare steps merely a step down the Road to Serfdom, as a rejuvenated Hayek had begun to argue? Aron and Hayek had been put “on a collision course,” argues Steinmetz-Jenkins.
Steinmetz-Jenkins’ work delves into the archives of the CCF, Aron’s papers, and Hayek’s papers to explore the debate that unfolded at international conferences run by the organization, above all one that took place in Milan in 1955. At the top of the agenda was, in essence, the question of how “the end of ideology” could be globalized—that is, whether much of the non-Communist world could be convinced to avoid the extreme of Marxism-Leninism and instead embrace a non-ideological middle road. A few months before the Milan conference, Aron had published a piece in a CCF-funded journalstitled “What Are the Nations Arguing Over” (“De quoi disputent les nations?”) noting that:
we are becoming ever more aware that the political categories of the last century—Left and Right, liberal and socialist, traditionalist and revolutionary-have lost their relevance. They imply the existence of conflicts, which experience has since reconciled, and they lump together ideas and men whom the course of history has drawn into opposing camps.
At the Milan Conference, however, Hayek profoundly disagreed with this interpretation. In his speed, he argued for a conception of liberty centered around private ends and the private sphere, remarking that no other conception of liberty had supplanted this Lockean one in the last one hundred and fifty years. Rather than submitting himself to a vision of politics in which the masses no longer needed to be feared (since they had, in effect, been bought off from Marxism through the welfare state) Hayek remained militant about the need for “a good sprinkling of rich men who have both the leisure and the means to espouse unpopular causes and to oppose the monolithic power of the government machine representing the majority.” In short, without the permanent vigilance of liberal élites (think of the Koch Brothers, controversial in the United States for their support of free market policies) it was virtually inevitable either that the masses would demand more and more planning (reducing freedom) or that bureaucratic creep would achieve the same end of unfreedom.
Much as it did in the 1930s, this interpretation exasperated Aron. He viewed Hayek’s insistence about the inevitability of a turn from planning to dictatorship as an ideological position unfounded in reality. Unable to reconcile himself to Hayek’s position, he resigned from Hayek’s Mont Pelerin Society shortly after the Milan conference, and in many of his works in the 1960s, he stressed the “priority of the political” rather than the “priority of the economic” in determining the direction of societies. Aron noted that “industrial society” could exist under both conditions of socialism, like in the Soviet Union or Eastern Europe; or under conditions of capitalism, like in the United States or Western Europe. The existence of a planned economy in the Eastern Bloc, however, was the result of conscious political decisions and the legacy of Lenin and Stalin, not the purported inevitable turn from any planning to totalitarianism that Hayek seemed to be arguing for. As Steinmetz-Jenkins notes, “Aron observed that partial planning in the postwar era or even total planning, such as in Britain during the war, did not abolish the rule of law.” It was, in short, mistaken for theorists to try to argue that politics could be overwhelmed by “some kind of universal system, whether economic or political,” argues Steinmetz-Jenkins.
Aron’s engagements with American thinkers were not confined to these debates over economics. Even though the clash with Hayek was in part concerned the extent to whether the CCF should support laissez-faire economics or the welfare state as the way forward for the non-Communist world, Aron also grappled head on with questions of international development and international relations theory. Two of the chapters of Steinmetz-Jenkins’ work show in particular Aron’s engagement with the guru of American modernization theory, Walt Rostow; as well as the godfather of postwar American international relations realism, Hans Morgenthau. As was the case in Aron’s clash with Hayek, in both of these cases Aron plead for a “Third Way” that would offer an alternative to the faith in technology and power politics ultimately adopted by the United States in the 1960s.
Aron’s argument with Rostow was connected with debates inside the Congress for Cultural Freedom about the direction of the post-colonial world. By the late 1950s, Rostow had begun developing the theses that would figure into his major 1960 work, The Stages of Economic Growth: A Non-Communist Manifesto. In Rostow’s view, all nations passed through five stages of economic growth in their historical development, ending in a phase of mass consumption. Given the proper forms of assistance (whether American aid to post-colonial states like India, or French development assistance for Algeria, then in the middle of an anti-colonial revolution) societies could avoid the temptations of socialism or Third Worldism. In other words, the United States had a responsibility to guide post-colonial societies down this “natural” road of development to make sure that they did not fall off the path, as had Communist China, North Vietnam, or (as seemed increasingly possible) Algeria.
Aron had been aware of Rostow’s through CCF seminars in the late 1950s, but once The Stages of Economic Growth was published, he voiced his dissatisfaction with the work. He slammed Rostow’s “five-stage” scheme of history as incredibly simplistic, overlooking the fact that industrial “take-off” (Rostow’s term) had taken place under very different conditions in, for example, France and Brazil. Many societies, such as Meiji Japan, had managed to modernize without ditching tradition or embracing liberal political institutions, as Rostow suggested they necessarily would. Similarly, in the context of the 1960s, the Soviet Union and the United States had both modernized, but under diametrically opposed ideological systems. All of this meant, concluded Aron, that “there are no grounds for believing that all advanced societies must be of the same type.”
And even as Rostow went on to serve as American President John F. Kennedy’s National Security Advisor, Aron disseminated this critique to Asian (in particular Indian) members of the CCF who, too, felt that Rostow’s scheme to be too superficial. It was, in the end, better for Western would-be modernizers like Rostow to accept that Western political institutions had arisen under unique circumstances, and that many formerly colonized people would, for the foreseeable future, simply choose to go another way. As Aron concluded in one piece from the late 1950s:
whether independent Indians or Egyptians enjoy more or less liberal institutions is up to them. People of color, whom the Westerns have humiliated, use a Western vocabulary to voice their claims, but if they were given the choice between liberal institutions under Western tutelage or tyrannical ones in an independent state, the fact is that most of them would chose the second alternative.
From Aron’s point of view, Rostow’s intellectual resistance to these facts led him (and the United States) down the twisted road of the Vietnam War. Steadfast in the belief that enough modernization and economic aid could defeat a guerrilla war and popular nationalist movements, the United States embraced a cause it could not advance in Southeast Asia. As Aron later summed up in a book, The Imperial Republic, Rostow had, similarly to his intellectual cousin, Friedrich Hayek, fallen prey to ideological thinking. Ideologies, whether in the sphere of economics or modernization, demanded (however foolishly) that reality adapt itself to them, rather than the other way around.
Walter Rostow developed an interpretation of contemporary history to which [he] pinned [his] faith . . . . The North Vietnamese, he claimed, were the last prophets of revolutionary romanticism, and Vietnam was a decisive test of counterinsurgency, because if South Vietnam held out and won, the United States would have deterred the doctrinaires of the revolt of the countryside against the cities, the last proponents of Communist expansion by force, once and for all. Whether Kennedy or Johnson believed in these reasons or justifications, the war created its logic.
The other major bete noire for Aron in the sphere of international politics was the German-American émigré scholar Hans Morgenthau, probably most familiar to readers as the author of the influential textbook Politics Among Nations. Morgenthau’s work filled a need in the context of post-World War II America, as American élites looked for a comprehensive theory of international relations that could guide policy decisions. (Like most countries, an independent discipline of “International Relations” did not exist in postwar France.) In his work, Morgenthau emphasized the primacy of the pursuit of power and promotion of “the national interest” as key determinants in understanding international relations.
Morgenthau’s message had (and has) great appeal, but from Aron’s point of view, Morgenthau’s approach was based on an idealized picture of European diplomacy from the Treaty of Westphalia to the First World War, and then asserted that the dynamics of that period were universal across all historical contexts and geographies. Far from being an age of “international morality” (Morgenthau’s phrase), the Cold War was instead marked by an absolute contest between two opposed systems, and smaller states often had few options to resist falling into “the orbit of one or the other of the two giants whose political, military, and economic preponderance can hold them there even against their will.” Even assuming that the idealized period of European diplomacy had ever existed, it was dangerous to presume that similar wheeling and dealing could work in an international system of unprecedented bipolar ideological competition.
Aron sought to make these and other objections clear in his 1962 book, Paix et guerre entre les nations, itself an attempt to establish international relations as an intellectual field in France. Once again, ideology was the problem for American thinkers. Setting up power,” affirmed Aron, “as the unique or highest goal of individuals, parties or nations does not constitute a theory in the scientific sense but rather amounts to a philosophy or ideology.” It was an unhelpful truism to observe that states sought to promote their own interests, but Morgenthau’s approach avoided the crucial work of understanding how states defined their own interests. And particularly in the context of the Cold War, this realist approach was dangerous for understanding the conduct of ideologically-driven states. As Aron noted,
To say that the Soviet Union conducts its foreign affairs on the basis of its ‘national interests’ means that it is not guided exclusively by ideological considerations, by its ambition to spread communism. Such a proposition is undeniable, but to conclude from it that the rulers of a noncommunist Russia would have had the same diplomatic policy between 1917 and 1967 is simply absurd.
Once again, Aron sought to find a “Third Way,” this time between a Marxist approach that emphasized economic domination by capitalist elites and a “power politics” approach that emphasized an eternal contest for power in an anarchic international arena. “Aron,” emphasizes Steinmetz-Jenkins, “was trying to find a pathway between these extremes. He’s trying to find a pathway between his friend, Alexander Kojeve, and then the Schmittian worldview of enmity being ever present, and therefore war is ever-present.” Morgenthau had imported the latter into the American context, where American publics, unaware of Weimar-era political debates, absorbed it as objective theory rather than ideology. In contrast, says Steinmetz-Jenkins, Aron was “trying to find a worldview between the two. Instead of a theory, you’re supposed to write about the history of different cultures, you’re supposed to study the languages. And it’s only on the basis of that study that you can make a judgment. This was later his critique of the RAND Corporation, which relied too much on rational choice and calculation–it didn’t look at language, and culture.”
These attempts didn’t work. Morgenthau blasted Paix et guerre in a review, and it arguably was only thanks to Franco-American students and interlocutors like Harvard professor Stanley Hoffmann that Aron’s IR theory found a voice in the American academy. “Perhaps because of its intention to find a Third Way,” says Steinmetz-Jenkins, “people didn’t like Aron when it came to international relations theory. Ultimately, within the American context, Aron’s theory wasn’t as successful as Morgenthau’s theory. Morgenthau told audiences, ‘everyone is selfish, everyone wants power, and we can base policy on that.’ Whether Aron pulled this off, I think, is open to question. But perhaps the beauty of his thinking is the same reason for its failure. At the end of the day, politicians need to decide, and there’s the question of whether they can use Aron’s theory to make decisions.”
Ultimately, they couldn’t. As commentators like Stanley Hoffmann recognized, once Morgenthau’s theories of power politics arrived in Washington circles, they blended with, rather than replaced, older traditions of American exceptionalism and idealism. Rather than the concept of “the national interest” being used to define a more circumspect foreign policy, American foreign policymakers asserted a definition of the American interest that was practically limitless—precisely the danger that Aron asserted in a 1953 article. Precisely this kind of thinking legitimized the American intervention in Vietnam, and parallels to more recent events should be obvious, when the United States has, in effect, argued that the establishment of cosmopolitan democracies in Mesopotamia or the Hindu Kush was essential to American interests. Morgenthau did, it bears mentioning, oppose the Vietnam War, but Aron and his followers like Hoffmann recognized early on that the idea of a theory of international relations based on “national interest” would lend itself to easy misappropriation by ideologues.
As Steinmetz-Jenkins’ work concludes, however, it would be a mistake to see Aron exclusively as a critic of US power and neoliberal economics. Throughout the 1970s, he notes, Aron grew increasingly concerned that Western European societies had grown complacent to the greatest threat still facing them, namely the Soviet Army. He opposed strategic arms limitation talks on the grounds that they acquiescefd to Western nuclear strategic parity with Moscow. And he viewed United States’ President Jimmy Carter’s emphasis on human rights as “fool’s gold,” argues Steinmetz-Jenkins, since such “diplomatic evangelicalism” was unlikely to put serious pressure on the Soviet military machine.
By the late 1970s, Aron had joined the editorial board of American magazine Commentary (often linked the budding neoconservative movement), and he himself founded a journal, Commentaire, that would oppose the Common Program of François Mitterrand after 1981. “Instead,” explains Steinmetz-Jenkins, Aron “stressed the necessity of the market system and free enterprise to ensure political liberty out of fears of the Common Program and disdain for spoiled baby boomers.” Gone was an earlier interest in the need to placate the masses to avoid their turn toward Marxism; now, the risk seemed to be that the welfare state had so tranquilized the masses that they had turned their attention from the persistent threat of Soviet domination to matters of sexual liberation, lifestyle, and diet.
The transformation was complete when by the late 1970s, he announced his support for the election of Ronald Reagan, Ironically, even through Aron would come to be celebrated for his place as a morally engaged thinker within a French “liberal revival,” by the end of his life, he had completed the kind of turn toward neoconservatism. All of this makes Aron’s a rather mixed legacy. While Aron remained bitterly opposed to Hayek’s neoliberal policies to the end of his life, he eventually embraced the two figures (Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan) whose rise represented the ascendancy of Hayek’s thought into public policy. He had opposed the naïve identification of “the American interest” with the economic and institutional transformation of the non-Western world, but he allied himself with an American President more openly committed to military adventurism than any since Vietnam and under whom “democracy promotion” abroad became a core principle of US foreign policy. Paradoxically, the man who had sought a “Third Way” for so much of his life seemingly found it in neoconservatism. “All of this,” concludes Steinmetz-Jenkins, “is to say that Aron’s Third Way offers a mixed political bag that can contribute to the very causes it once sought to resist.”
With the dissertation behind him, Steinmetz-Jenkins is currently engaged in several projects in intellectual history. There remains the task of re-writing the dissertation into a book manuscript. He says, he intends to expand the manuscript with additional chapters focusing on (among other things) Aron’s engagement with intellectuals at the Rand Corporation. He has also recently received permission to work in the archives of Indian journals and magazines funded by the Congress for Cultural Freedom in the 1960s such as ReOrient andFreedom First, and he hopes to travel to India shortly in order to read those papers. These materials, together with other sources that should paint a fuller picture of Aron as a person (not just an intellect), should, Steinmetz-Jenkins hopes, flesh out the project and ground it more in the contours of the global Cold War and Aron’s biography itself.
Beyond this main task of revising the dissertation into a book manuscript, Steinmetz-Jenkins is engaged in two other projects. One longer-term engagement that he hopes to develop eventually as a book project is a global history of the idea of “the end of ideology.” By this Steinmetz-Jenkins means not just Daniel Bell’s most famous formulation of that idea, but rather the idea that a non-utopian system of government was even possible. (Twenty-first century readers might recognize the echoes of Bell’s idea in Francis Fukuyama’s idea of an “end of history,” coined at the end of the Cold War.) With Daniel Bell’s papers now open to researchers at the Archives of Harvard University, Steinmetz-Jenkins is hardly to lack for resources to carry out the project.
Finally, beyond this more conventional second project, Steinmetz-Jenkins is also at work on a book project under contract with Columbia University Press on the relationship of the Left to politics and religion since 9/11. It’s a controversial topic. Recently, Steinmetz-Jenkins notes, reactions to the assault on the French newspaper Charlie Hebdo have proven illustrative of divides on the issue of religion on the Left. Some observers have argued that the attacks, while heinous, are best understood in the context of systemic French Islamophobia and discrimination toward French Muslims, many of whom live in dilapidated banlieues.
Others, however, would argue that this account completely overlooks the importance of Islamist ideology and risks mistaking a global ideological phenomenon for nothing that better apartment blocks and better Metro connections couldn’t fix. Similar debates have only repeated themselves following the Bastille Day massacre in Nice, the murder of several dozen LGBT clubgoers at a Florida nightclub, and numerous individual killings apparently motivated by Islamist ideology everywhere from San Bernardino, California to Bavaria.
In his project, Steinmetz-Jenkins is interested in exploring how different intellectuals who broadly identified with anti-imperialist politics could come to such different conclusions about the proper forms of solidarity (or antipathy) to be accorded to religious movements and religion in the public sphere. Steinmetz-Jenkins is currently pursuing this project as a doctoral fellow at the University of California’s Center for the Study of Religion.
Beyond these endeavors, Steinmetz-Jenkins continues his work as editor of The Immanent Frame, an SSRC-funded blog devoted to secularism, religion, and the public sphere. We ask him what books with a global history focus have caught his attention. He notes that he’s read (and is currently participating in a a review forum of) David Milne’s recent Worldmaking, a history of American diplomacy through the biographies of ten or so important foreign policy thinkers.
Beyond Milne’s work, he recommends Princeton scholar Jan-Werner Müller’s recent What is Populism?, whether read alone or as a counterpoint to John Judis’ The Populist Explosion, another book on Steinmetz-Jenkins’ bookshelf these days. These works not only help make sense of populism as an intellectual tradition with a history, but are also timely at a moment when many states seem in the middle of a populist boom: look no further than the hostile takeover of the Republican Party – and successful election to the Presidency – by Donald J. Trump, the political successes of Alternative for Germany (AfD) across the Atlantic, or the bombastic combination of anti-Americanism, law and order, and nationalism vended by the Philippines’ President Rodrigo Duterte since his election to that office earlier this year.
Our conversation with Daniel Steinmetz-Jenkins has given us a vista not only of the life and work of Raymond Aron, but also of the current directions of intellectual history as a field. Thanks to his work in the archives, it becomes possible to see Raymond Aron within the French liberal revival, yes, but also within a broader frame that brings the United States into the picture and complicates our notions of what, exactly, said liberal revival was. We thank Steinmetz-Jenkins for participating in our conversation, and we wish him the best of luck as he steers The Other Intellectuals to publication.
As Americans debate their choice of President, enthusiasm for long-term ground wars in the Middle East seems at an all-time low. Both candidates debate the merits of drone warfare in distant lands, or even the desirability (and viability) of a ban on Muslims’ entry to the United States, but what does seem unanimous after two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan is that the U.S. role in the region is best handled by some combination of deploying remote force against “them” over “there,” and preventing “them” from coming to “us” “here.” With many debating whether the country can police its own cities in a way that does not reinforce racial injustice or systemic hierarchies, American appetites for reconfiguring foreign societies to police themselves appears to be at an all-time nadir.
Yet even if Americans seek a more reclusive role vis-à-vis the world (or at least societies wracked by civil war and conflict), what remains clear is that the effects of those wars are rebounding into America itself. Beyond the tens of thousands of veterans who cope with some form of PTSD or physical wounds, American immigration authorities have been criticized for not expediting the entry of former Iraqi or Afghan interpreters whose lives are at danger if they remain in their home countries.
These rebounds occur in a darker way, as well. The sniper who murdered five police officers in Dallas this June was a veteran of the war in Afghanistan. One of the many reforms demanded by activists within the Black Lives Matters movement, meanwhile, is closer scrutiny of the ways in which military equipment originally designed for use in Baghdad or Kabul has been repurposed for use against American citizens in St. Louis or Chicago. And with American troops removed absolved from directly occupying the likes of Fallujah or Lashkar Gah, many of the soldiers and ordinary policemen responsible for ensuring order in the streets of post-American Iraq and Afghanistan are graduates of American training programs.
Connections like these, as our most recent guest to the Global History Forum shows, have histories. A postdoctoral fellow in Global American Studies at the Charles Warren Center for Studies in American History at Harvard University, Stuart Schrader explores how the United States exported police expertise around the world of the Cold War, particularly from the late 1950s to the mid-1970s. During those years, USAID (the American foreign development aid agency) not only engaged in now-familiar projects of dam-building, road-building, and food aid in the name of “development.” Modernization was conceived not only in terms of kilowatts and calories, but also in terms of the number of fingerprints, and traffic stops; in terms of the number of professionalized, educated, and uniformed cops walking a beat in Saigon or Jakarta.
But Schrader’s work—which he has revised into a book manuscript provisionally titled American Streets, Foreign Territory—explores not only this under-appreciated aspect of modernization and development aid. It also, as our introduction to it suggests, investigates the ways in which a close examination of policing practices blurs the divide between domestic and foreign territory. It explores the ways in which the streets of Watts or Detroit became coconstituted with those of Tehran or Guatemala City. It explores, in short, the transnational lives of the American state during the context of the Cold War and the 1960s, although the entanglements he reveals are still ongoing.
Toynbee Prize Foundation Executive Director Timothy Nunan spoke with Dr. Schrader by telephone recently to discuss the transnational history of U.S. police advising.
We begin our conversation with Schrader by asking him about his road to the historical profession. Having grown up in New Jersey, Schrader headed to Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, New York, to pursue his undergraduate education. He ended up as an English major, but, he explains, seminars with Professor Robert Brigham related to the Cold War piqued his interest as to the linked nature of U.S. domestic and foreign policy. Brigham, he explains, emphasized in classes that “the domestic activism of Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society was tied to its foreign activism.” In other words, foreign adventurism in Vietnam was best understood not as the betrayal of the liberal mission at home, but rather in terms of an increasingly activist American state integrating and policing realms near and abroad.
Schrader later followed up on these interests by pursuing a PhD in American Studies at New York University. But the line of research that eventually became American Streets, Foreign Territory took some time to mature. “When I started my graduate studies, I thought I would do something that was more traditional in terms of urban studies and community studies. But I continually came across policing as an issue that was ever-present in urban and community life, if not in the scholarship on it.”
In his readings on the subject, moreover, Schrader came across the odd reference that U.S. counterinsurgency programs in South Vietnam were linked to police reform efforts at home. Scholars like Forrest Hylton and Tracy Tullis–trained at NYU in the last fifteen years–along with Christian Parenti had begun to follow up on this line of research. During his time at NYU, moreover, policing became more and more of a subject in national media, suggesting that there was something there.
Following the requisite graduate seminars in New York, he made plans to visit the usual sites on the itinerary of many a historian of U.S. foreign relations: Presidential Libraries like those of John F. Kennedy in Boston; Lyndon Johnson in Austin, Texas, or those of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan in Southern California. The U.S. National Archives in College Park, Maryland, was another natural stop.
But, Schrader notes, he soon began encountering the implicit methodological divisions embedded in archives themselves. Schrader’s intuition from the start had been that if he were really interested in the relationship of police apparatuses abroad and domestic agencies, then he had better devote his attention to files related explicitly to U.S. military planning for domestic emergencies, including large-scale political unrest. These research forays, however, proved less compelling than he had hoped.
And working at College Park, he found himself confronting how to research a topic that seemed to straddle the realms of foreign policy and domestic policy. “At College Park,” he explains, “you have to explain whether you’re looking at civilian policy or military policy.”
Rather than digging in his heels on what he thought he should be looking for, Schrader adopted a different strategy. Doing his best to cover both military and civilian affairs, “I took note of names that kept recurring,” explains Schrader. “That led me to try to determine why certain names were appearing where they were appearing. I found a recurrent list of names and institutions that didn’t seem to be confined to one side or the other of the foreign/domestic divide. That observation in the archive led me to conceive the questions, and engage with the research processes, that would drive my project.”
Once the intertwined nature of “local” police reform efforts in the United States with foreign aid to places like South Vietnam, Iran, Guatemala, and elsewhere became apparent, an entire new set of archives became obviously relevant to the project. Policing in the United States remains a domestic issue, but Schrader came to focus on the Office of Public Safety (OPS), the overseas police assistance arm of the U.S. government during the 1960s and 1970s.
In tracking down these new sources and overcoming the foreign/domestic divide embedded in his prior research approaches, Schrader also came across evidence that the liquid nature of that boundary was appreciated not the least by the people he was studying. Looking into American government papers about Vietnam, for example, Schrader would find references to the Watts Riots, which took place in Los Angeles in August 1965.
Conversely, North Vietnamese commanders would later explain the 1968 Tet Offensive by saying that “we learned from Detroit to go to the cities.” (Detroit, like Watts, was the site of major riots in the mid-1960s.) Before these references to African-American rebellions vis-à-vis Vietnam, the intellectual W.E.B. Du Bois fretted over the coming American-led global order by noting that “colonies are the slums of the world,” kept poor and exploited by a stretched web of social, political, and economic relations, and policed intensively, just like the African-American urban neighborhoods he had investigated early in his career. In short, actors on all sides of color and colonial lines understood the implicit connection between domestic policing and colonial interventions abroad.
Some would have written these references off as trivia. Not Schrader. “I paused on that strangeness–why is this here? What is the work that this reference is doing?” he reflects. He decided to treat these cognitive connections—and the governing strategies linked with them—as not peripheral, but rather central to American practices of exercising power abroad during the 1960s. Rather than viewing leaps across the foreign/domestic divide as peripheral to the American state in the world, Schrader’s project views them as central.
Readers might question whether this approach is really so new. As early as the 1950s, the German-American political theorist Hannah Arendt wrote about the “imperial transmission belts” that allowed imperial practices once used only in the exceptional space of colonies to migrate back to domestic cores. Arendt’s contemporary Aimé Césaire and, later, the French philosopher Michel Foucault commented on the “boomerang effect,” whereby (often illiberal) foreign practices re-enter domestic space.
Historians of U.S. foreign relations have lately become keenly attuned to these processes, too: readers might recall our discussion with Northwestern University historian Daniel Immerwahr about the ways in which ideas about “community development” moved from the TVA to Japanese internment camps to postcolonial India, then back to urban policy and the rhetoric of Black Power movements.
Yet Schrader’s work is far more than a paint-by-numbers application of the “boomerang effect.” Schrader articulates skepticism toward the idea of the “boomerang effect” insofar as it risks reifying a separation between the foreign and domestic spheres, whereby identifying the leap between the two spheres–rather than their constant and massive interaction–is presented as the novel move, methodologically speaking.
Further, sometimes, discussions of a transmission belt also tend to support the notion of a liberal domestic sphere and an illiberal imperial sphere. As in the case of tear gas, the supposed domestic application of police technologies was used to legitimize their foreign use in theaters like Vietnam. Further, the ways supposedly objective, standardized, and replicable practices of professional policing acquired new tones when re-inserted into a U.S. domestic sphere makes it difficult to view Schrader’s work as mere application of the boomerang principle.
This emphasis on fluidity matters for Schrader’s broader intervention, which is to show how the United States achieved hegemony across much of the Third World in a way that aimed to maximize its legitimacy. Whereas late-nineteenth century European colonial empires relied to a greater or lesser extent on explicit logics of race and “civilization” to justify their rule over foreign populations, Schrader argues, twentieth century imperial projects turned to new registers of development and security to justify their presence in former colonial territories, which recapitulated race management in a new idiom (a theme that Schrader’s work shares with that of Robert Vitalis, a recent guest to the Global History Forum). This is where institutions like OPS come in.
Schrader’s project shows not only how practices like police advising accomplished this former goal, but how they constituted, he argues, “a new regime of racialized power in the United States. We have all kinds of terms for this: racism without racists, colorblind racism, and so on. I’m trying to understand this change in terms of global practices and global experiments.” In other words, American Streets, Foreign Territory examines how the process of creating a “racial order without racists” shared concerns, institutions, and personnel with the U.S. project of creating an “empire without imperialists abroad.”
Having discussed some of the major methodological interventions of his work, we shift the conversation to discuss the concrete narrative of American Streets, Foreign Territory. A crucial theme of Schrader’s manuscript is the transformation, as much domestically as abroad, of policemen from the unwashed “Keystone Kops” figures they were at the beginning of the twentieth century to the much more professionalized, educated, and technologically advanced force they represent at the beginning of the twenty-first century.
Today, police officers in the United States are (generally) equipped with dashboard computers and access to digitized drivers’ and criminal registries, and are mandated to follow standardized procedures for conducting stops. However, it’s important to understand that until the mid-twentieth century, policing was not nearly as professionalized an operation. In many cities, police departments functioned de facto as part of Democratic Party machines. Beat cops were employed to enforce machine rule at the precinct level, and graft and corruption were rife in many a department. Many cops were illiterate, and requirements for college degrees, or even a high school diploma, were uncommon. In some Midwestern cities—later to become hotbeds for police reform efforts—gangsters even infiltrated the police departments and then employed ex-cons to turn the departments into para-criminal institutions themselves. As one police reformer, Lear Reed, reflected, “Police plus politics equals parasites.”
Reformers like Reed, as well as one of his disciples, Byron Engle, sought to change this. Engle, a sharpshooter, favored standardized training regimens for marksmanship and instituted new riot-control training for police officers in Kansas City. Similar reformers elsewhere instituted educational requirements, standardized protocols, and standardized uniforms for cops. Particularly at the time of the Great Migration—when millions of African-Americans migrated from the rural south to northern industrial centers—existing procedural requirements were transformed to be less overtly racially intrusive, though more to avoid scandal or riots than out of concern for civil rights. The match between procedure and actual practice, of course, was loose. Finally, figures like Reed, under the influence of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, instituted programs aimed at combatting Black or Communist “subversion.”
From the start, such programs were highly mobile. Engle took a leave of absence of several years from the Kansas City Police Department to engage in police training missions to Japan following World War II, while the U.S. occupied the country. Thanks to Engle’s advising, Schrader explains, “save for the color of fabric, the new forces in Japan dressed like officers back home, even with rain gear designed for visibility, like Engle’s former colleagues wore.” And much of the gear that cops carried with them, like nightsticks and handcuffs, were introduced to many a Japanese police officer’s belt, as well. Police academies, too, were modeled on those existing in Kansas City.
In other words, American figures like Engle may have been products of specific domestic contexts, like those of Midwestern police departments confronting machine politics, mass Black migration, and the perceived threat of labor and Communism. But the practices they pioneered could quickly go global as the frontal edges U.S. power abroad, especially in locations where U.S. officials perceived those left-wing threats to be powerful. Once there, moreover, they became the pieces in a serially replicable package of police reform that (save for a different shade of navy or olive fabric) could easily be transported to new settings. Culturally specific pieces of police gear, like the “prisoner rope” that Japanese cops formerly used to arrest criminals, were gone. Over time, the standard gear of a police officer or police department in the U.S.-managed world became more and more uniform, from typewriters to fingerprinting kits to walkie-talkies. These patterns of global reorganization were, moreover, preceded by interlinked domestic efforts among police departments concentrated in the Midwest, from Kansas City to St. Louis to Wichita. And after a few years, Engle departed Japan for Turkey to teach countersubversive policing techniques. He never returned to the Kansas City police department. Instead, his return to the United States placed him in CIA headquarters.
Schrader explains that as the Soviet challenge and national liberation wars replaced the Japanese and Germans as challengers to U.S. power on the world scene, U.S. police advising efforts grew in scale and professionalization themselves. Beginning in South Vietnam, in 1955, U.S. police and criminology experts began working for a program to provide aid to South Vietnamese police officers. French efforts to maintain their control of a Indochinese colony had gone poorly, and U.S. experts were convinced that part of the reason was that European colonial regimes were too militarized, secretive, and despotic. By replacing colonial officers with broad punitive powers with professionalized indigenous police forces, the U.S. could prevent Communist infiltration of the Third World while also improving on European techniques. The need to do so became all the more obvious when Soviet First Secretary Nikita Khrushchev declared the USSR’s support for national liberation struggles in January 1961. The history of South Vietnam, however, indicates how elusive success in this program would be.
Soon, the “development” of post-colonial societies was taken to encompass not only the construction of dams, or the introduction of new strains of rice, but also the institution of police departments armed and equipped by U.S. trainers. By the 1960s in particular, trainers would be sent to U.S. allies around the world, where they would provide aid and instruction in the use of gear like binoculars, walkie-talkies, tear gas, standardized forms (for the processing of perpetrators), and so on.
Such trainers were not engaged in operations themselves—that is, U.S. police trainers were not out policing the streets of Jakarta or Seoul themselves. Instead, they trained foreign cops to do that work themselves—thus, empire without imperialists. Foreign police officers also frequently traveled to police academies and training centers built expressly for such “North-South” transfers, the most famous being the International Police Academy located in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, DC.
The institution at the center of it all—and of Schrader’s narrative—was the Office of Public Safety, an office within the United States Agency for International Aid (AID) that existed from 1962 to 1974, which consolidated dispersed activities under AID’s predecessor agency ongoing since the mid-1950s. Byron Engle moved from the shadows of the CIA to a public role as the leader of OPS. It’s crucial to emphasize that while the story that Schrader tells is to some extent inescapably connected with U.S. military aid abroad, OPS was distinct from Pentagon efforts to modernize foreign militaries or intelligence agencies themselves. Many OPS advisers—the men sent to Tehran, Jakarta, or Guatemala City to train police officers and foreign police trainers themselves—had a background in the U.S. military, true. And while archival regulations make the (possible) CIA backgrounds of certain trainers hard to determine, the idea that OPS was only a CIA front is not substantiated by the evidence.
Instead, Schrader suggests, OPS’s role in expanding American control overseas—call it empire or governance—was more subtle. It’s true that often, informal contacts between local police forces, OPS trainers, and clandestine CIA agents at the U.S. Embassies led to U.S.-initiated crackdowns on local labor organizers or leftist movements. A loose lip by an Iranian or Uruguayan police sergeant about their monitoring of a potential Fedayan or Tupamaros cell could become a tip to the “defense attaché” at the Embassy, which could then lead to clandestine action.
But OPS’ techniques were influential in less obvious ways, such as traffic control. Enforcing exported traffic regulations like those taught at Northwestern University’s Traffic Institute not only trained police officers in the art of crowd control, but also licensed them to engage in control of individual drivers, ticketing citizens for traffic violations, thus bringing them into the reach of a state increasingly interested in monitoring and indexing its citizens. Here, too, technologies like National Identity Cards played an important role.
The point, then, is that while OPS and pre-OPS police advising complemented and abetted headline activities, such as coups in Iran, Guatemala, and Chile, it also enabled police departments to come into much more intimate contact with populations, all the while reminding Iranians, Indonesians, South Vietnamese, and others, of the specific kinds of orderly behavior expected of them as citizens.
Other forms of U.S. police expertise and technology migrating to counterinsurgency settings and back, however, were more violent and sinister. One chapter of American Streets, Foreign Territories explores the case of tear gas—more specifically, CS, a kind of tear gas perfected by the 1960s to largely supplant its predecessor, CN. (CN acted marginally more quickly than CS, but produced less debilitating symptoms than CS.) The US and South Vietnamese militaries began deploying CS in Vietnam during the Johnson Administration. The most common usage was to incapacitate opposition forces to make them easier to destroy via conventional munitions.
The Johnson Administration contended with criticism that the use of CS violated international law regarding the use of chemical weapons, even as it was also supplying it more quietly via OPS to many other countries. (Observers will recall the invocation of norms against the use of chemical weapons vis-à-vis U.S. President Barack Obama’s declaration of a “red line” on the Syrian government’s use of chemical weapons.)
Whether the military deployment of CS violated such agreements, however, is something Schrader leaves to the international lawyers. What interests him instead is the way in which the Johnson Administration legitimized its use of CS in South Vietnam. In order to justify his policy and pronounce it legal, LBJ explained in 1965 that CS was already being widely used against crowds and riots in America (it wasn’t). Arguments predicated on the existence of a liberal domestic sphere, in other words, justified spaces of exception in the foreign sphere.
Perversely, however, the established use of CS in Vietnam subsequently legitimized its actual use against protesting populations in the United States, on the grounds that it had worked for “crowd control” in South Vietnam. Again, it hadn’t—as noted, the primary use of CS was as an incapacitating agent prior to killing with conventional weapons. Still, the use of CS not only against crowds but also to incapacitate “seditious” groups inside closed spaces expanded within the United States. Police officers frequently deployed the gas to “gas out” Black nationalist and Black Muslim safe houses, and tear gas continually migrated out again to US-backed scenes of counter-rebellion in Rhodesia, South Africa, Israel, Panama, and Iran.
The point, as Schrader shows in this and other lines of analysis in American Streets, Foreign Territory, is that domestic and foreign spheres have to be understood as connected with one another. The use, real or fictional, of a particular technology of order in one or the other sphere legitimized its migration (and adaption) to the other. And frequently, its advertised use (“crowd control”) was quite different from its actual application.
What is more sinister, however, argues Schrader (expanding on the work of University of Wisconsin-Madison scholar Rob Nixon) is how these new modes of policing changed the very temporality of policing and order in the United States itself. The use of tear gas was legitimized on the grounds that deaths resulting from massive violence against crowds had grown unacceptable by the late 1960s. However, rather than reducing deaths when police intervened against crowds (the advertised purpose of CS), tear gas empowered police departments to engage in more preventative kinds of policing—gassing out a Black Panthers safe house before a protest action even took place.
While beyond the bounds of this summary of Schrader’s work, he also reminds us that the 1960s and 1970s saw the elaboration of today’s headline-grabbing practices—“broken windows,”“stop and frisk,” etc.—in policing, often with disastrous consequences for Black populations that these practices racialized as predisposed toward crime. Central to Schrader’s analysis is the context of counterinsurgency in which debates around these practices originally unfolded.
Schrader’s work does not cover the entire history of U.S. overseas police advising. A revised U.S. Foreign Assistance Act banned USAID from providing police aid, and OPS was shuttered in 1974. However, US aid to foreign police operations did not stop then. At the center of Johnson’s War on Crime was a new agency, the Law Enforcement Assistance Administration, which coördinated best practices, training, and technical assistance between the federal government and the states. Soon it enabled police repertoires and training to be coordinated across borders when concerned with skyjacking, terrorism, and narcotics control. At the moment of the closing of OPS, narcotics control became a key focus for US law enforcement, which empowered the new Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) and the State Department’s Office of Drug Interdiction to engage in their own operations, particularly in Latin America, that continued the counterinsurgency mission OPS had stewarded.
Many XPSAs (ExPublic Security Advisors) found employment in these agencies, particularly after the funding granted to them surged under the Reagan Administration. Other XPSAs found employment as private security contractors and advisors to governments like Saudi Arabia and white-ruled Rhodesia. More broadly, the U.S. federal government also began contracting services on a much wider scale in the 1970s, allowing for those XPSAs who had not signed on in Riyadh or Salisbury as “mercs” (mercenaries) to take on assignments with new agencies on an ad hoc basis.
Schrader consciously ends his story at the moment of OPS’s dissolution, but he notes that the archives lead him to think that many core themes in U.S. police advising changed following the 1970s. Whereas security assistance had been internalized within a development agency for the period he studies, the linkage between development and security weakened over this period, as the criterion of security came to overpower development goals. Policing inevitably involved the implicit threat or explicit use of violence, and the social order it produced was thought crucial for societies to modernize and become model members of a U.S.-dominated world order. But when modernization did not occur fast enough, many conservative thinkers were apt to discard it as a goal. In the final chapters of his work, Schrader traces how intellectuals and on-the-ground practitioners undermined the stated US commitment to development by insisting on the impossibility of development absent the nebulous condition of security. The result was a new framing of the objects of foreign assistance: the individualized rational actor who demonstrated eligibility for assistance by conforming to social order, rather than the collectivity that participated in producing social order helped by a modicum of external assistance.
By the 1980s and the War on Drugs, however, Schrader sees a shift in the terms of U.S. engagement with the rest of the world (and perhaps Latin America in particular) when it comes to the connection between poverty and crime. By the 1980s, he argues, the commitment of U.S. advising operations had shifted from forming stable post-colonial regimes to protecting U.S. domestic space. There was no contradiction perceived if the quest to clamp down on the supply of cocaine or crack to U.S. domestic consumers meant an increase in violence or disorder in Central American theaters. The goal of policing operations was no longer to reproduce fractally some imaginary of an orderly U.S. domestic situation, but rather, if necessary, to deploy violence outside the U.S. domestic space to ensure the maintenance of order at home. As Schrader explains, “the key shift was from seeing poverty as producing crime, to seeing crime as producing poverty.”
And outside of the field of U.S. history, he notes that he has learned much about the inflection of the social sciences with state power from works like David Price’s Cold War Anthropology and Joy Rohde’s Armed with Expertise. Both of these recent books, he notes, show how social science knowledge became crucial for U.S. policymakers engaged in a global Cold War who were hoping to perfect counterinsurgency.
These latter works, like Schrader’s, correspond to a larger shift in the writing of national histories—something that Schrader sees as perhaps the core takeaway of American Streets, Foreign Territory. While he sees himself as indebted to his own training in American Studies, he hopes that readers take away from a reading of his book “the idea that being able to write a history of U.S. politics, culture, or any institution within the bounds of the nation-state is hard to sustain.”
As he learned from his time navigating the archives, and following the transnational life of tear gas, “one of the things I am trying to accomplish is to show how necessary it is to keep the unboundedness of U.S. governance in mind. We can’t keep telling the same stories that we tell without paying close attention to their wide geographic setting.” Transnationalism cannot be its own justification as a methodology, in other words, but rather matters because it was inherent to U.S. state-making and governance formations in the twentieth century.
Readers interested in pursuing these themes further need not wait long, however. As of writing, Schrader is completing final revisions for the book version of American Streets, Foreign Territory, which is under contract with the University of California Press. We warmly thank Dr. Schrader for joining us in conversation, and we look forward to seeing his work on shelves soon.
The centrality of anti-Westernism as a subject of global debate is underlined with every new terrorist attack on the West today. Both the attack on a nightclub in Orlando, Florida, as well as attacks in France and Germany over the summer engendered many civilization-oriented questions in the minds of people, as also happened in the case of 9/11 and Pearl Harbor. At the same time, Islamophobia as a major problem in the Western world is continuously affecting the daily lives of people. Even reading a book written in Arabic on an airplane can cause an awkward situation due to constant paranoia about terrorist attacks, as more than one passenger has discovered.
Following the historical roots of the political impact of anti-Western sentiments, we come across “a clash of civilizations” discourse which argues that conflict between Islam and the West is a result of a conservative reaction and response of Muslims towards both Western modernity and imperialism. However, the argument that Islam is incompatible with the Western modernization process raises question marks about why major non-Muslim societies as India, Japan, and China, as well as some European and American intellectuals also came forward with harsh critiques of the Western civilizational mission.
Non-Muslim communities and other religions have historically been disenchanted with European colonization and its claims that the white race and Christianity were somehow superior. This disenchantment makes us question whether anti-Westernism is a derivative of anti-colonial critiques or whether it represents a distinctively religious reaction to modernity. Such wider analysis is crucial in order to understand why anti-Western ideas persist in current times.
Ottoman pan-Islamism and Japanese pan-Asianism play a vital role in deciphering the influence of anti-Western ideas on global history. Both Ottoman Turkey and Japan struggled with the ideas about Western “the standards of civilization” around the same time. Do the events and ideological currents in these two empires help us understand anti-Westernisms today?
Our most recent guest on the Global History Forum, Associate Professor Cemil Aydın (University of North Carolina), takes up this issue in his earlier book The Politics of Anti-Westernism in Asia: Visions of World Order in Pan-Islamic and Pan-Asian Thought (Columbia University Press, Global and International History Series, 2007). The book offers a global history perspective on the roots of modern anti-Western critiques with a comparative focus on the Ottoman and Japanese experience in order to understand the importance of pan-Islamism and pan-Asianism in international history.
Aydın argues that modern anti-Western discourse developed out of a crisis of a single Eurocentric global order in the late 19th century, and that it did not reflect a traditionalist rejection of modernity in non-European societies. He also emphasizes how Asian and Ottoman intellectuals and reformers played an important role in universalizing the Western-rooted model of modernity and subsequently transforming this idea into a tool to criticize the Western “civilizing mission.” Thus, Aydın’s book occupies an important place in the examination of the historical roots of anti-Western ideologies while illuminating the international history of non-Western perspective.
The Editor-at-Large of the Toynbee Prize Foundation, Fatma Aladağ (TPF), recently had the opportunity to interview Cemil Aydın (CA) to discuss his path to writing The Politics of Anti-Westernism in Asia, some of the arguments of his book, the contemporary impact of anti-Western discourses on the world agenda, and his intellectual plans for the near future.
TPF: Welcome to the Global History Forum Professor Aydin!
CA: Thank you!
TPF:Could you tell us about where you were born and raised? Where did you do your undergraduate work?
CA: I grew up in Istanbul in the 1980s, and started my undergraduate education at Boğaziçi University in 1987. I was lucky to have a set of amazing professors at both the Political Science and International Relations department, my concentration, and at History department. Boğaziçi University’s curriculum allowed us to take classes from different departments, which was not the case in other Turkish universities at that time.
During the period from 1987 to 1991, Turkey was re-entering into a multi-party democracy after the 1980 military coup. There was a vibrant intellectual life in Istanbul, both at the university campuses and café houses. Eurocentrism was one of the debates, coinciding with Turkey’s official application for membership to European Union. At the same time, Turkey was connected to the politics in the Middle East and South Asia from the Iran-Iraq War to the Afghan resistance to the Soviet invasion. Thus, reading Edward Said’s Orientalism in that context was very powerful as I could try to interpret what Said was saying in light of the new Western media discourse on Arabs, Muslims and Islam. Even though I was not reading any race theory, there was a sense of linking Orientalism with the re-racialization of Muslims and Arabs in Western media. Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait and the first Gulf War was in my senior year. More important for our generation was the genocide against Bosnian Muslims just at the end of the Cold War. The publication of Samuel Huntington’s article on the “Clash of Civilizations“ around the time of that genocide both coincided with my MA work at Istanbul University.
TPF:When did your interest in becoming a historian develop?
CA: After my undergraduate degree in 1991, I first went to Malaysia with a fellowship to do MA work in Islamic and Middle Eastern studies for a year. That was an amazing experience because, for my generation growing up in Turkey, Southeast Asia was not in our mental map. That was a good cultural shock for me, and I had a chance to travel in places like Thailand and Indonesia as well. This experience convinced me that my education was thoroughly Eurocentric and I need to expand my horizon towards other parts of the world. Upon my return to Istanbul, I did an MA in Ottoman intellectual history to try to understand how 19th century Ottoman intellectuals conceptualized the globalizing world and Europe and the West.
It was after this MA that I decided to start a Ph.D. in comparative global history, with a focus on Ottoman and Japanese intellectual history. When I started my Ph.D. at Harvard, I began to focus on both Japanese and Ottoman/Middle Eastern studies to try to think about the experiences of the Muslim Middle East and East Asia comparatively and in terms of their connections. This comparative study led to my first book on Pan-Asianism and Pan-Islamism.
TPF: How did the story of global history start in your academic life?
CA: I think I experienced a global turn in my research interests after my MA thesis on Ottoman intellectual history, in which I focused on 19th century Ottoman intellectuals dealing with the Eurocentric international order and their view of Enlightenment and modernity. I did realized that globalization actually coincided with some sorts of regionalization. As the world was globalizing, there were these pan-national identities and ideologies like pan-Islamism, pan-Asianism, and pan-Africanism, and I was trying to make sense of them. There is something paradoxical that as the Ottoman Empire tried to be inclusive by eliminating distinctions between Muslims, Christians and Jews, and it tried to be part of the European Empires, yet the Muslimness of the Ottoman Empire became more important. Eventually, around the World War I, the empire ended up being identified with the imagined Muslim World – at least in terms of global perceptions.
There was something similar about China and Japan as well. These empires were trying to strengthen themselves and modernize, but while this was happening, the question of East-West, Asia-West, white race-yellow race, Islam-West or Islam-Christianity was becoming more crucial. So, with that realization, I started to immerse in a comparative study of East Asia and the Muslim Middle East and that’s how I got into global history. In other words, my research included these three regions; first, Europe and the West; second, the Islamicate world and the Ottoman Empire; and third, East Asia, Japan and the “yellow race.” So, to think about these three traditional historical fields, in the context of the last two hundred years, required some sorts of global history training or approach. When I started my Ph.D. program I was in search for methodologies and ideas about transnational and global history.
TPF: You went to University of Tokyo as a part of your Ph.D. at Harvard. What motivated you to visit Japan?
CA: In my Ph.D. program, I initially did three years of course work and exams before I started my field research. My fields were Japanese History, Ottoman History and German History, as well as Arabic and Middle East. In that context, I was lucky that Professor Akira Iriye was teaching at Harvard at that time; he is a pioneer of global history. Moreover, my advisors Andrew Gordonand Cemal Kafadar were also interested in global history. And I was lucky to have a colleagues and friends like [Toynbee Prize Foundation President] Dominic Sachsenmaier, who was at Harvard as a visiting Ph.D. student and then later as a post-doctoral fellow.
As a result, I had the chance to write a project about both the Ottoman Empire and Japan. Eventually my Ph.D. ended up being mostly on Japan and pan-Asianism. I went to Japan and focused on how Japanese pan-Asianists looked upon the Islamic World, Muslim societies and India. I wrote more on Okawa Shumei, who as a leading pan-Asianist also became a founding figure in Japan’s Islamic Studies establishment. There was a great interest among Japanese pan-Asianists in the Middle East, Ottoman Turkey and India as well. And I was trying to understand why Japanese pan-Asianists were interested in both India and the imagined Muslim World, what they do with it, what kind of arguments they developed about it. As someone familiar with the debate surrounding Orientalism, I also wanted to understand how Japanese scholarship of Asia and the Middle East compared to European Oriental Studies.
TPF: Today, however, you work at University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill. What was your transition from the Turkish to American academic atmosphere like?
CA: One important aspect of American history departments that I appreciated was its coverage of the global. Perhaps it was not like that fifty years ago. Fifty percent of a good history departments in universities like Harvard or North Carolina is still devoted to America and Europe. But the other fifty percent covers Latin America, Middle East, Asia and Africa. That is an impressive achievement of history departments as they developed in America in the last forty years. This interest in covering different parts of the world encourages and allows a new focus on world and global history. I later found out that some of my mentors in global history and generations before me, such as Ross Dunn, Terry Burke, John Voll and Richard Bulliet actually fought this battle of re-orienting American history education away from a singular focus on Western story toward global history and world history. This may have started in the 1980s, but it was already underway 1990s, and it is strongly visible in today’s history departments all over North America.
TPF: What would you say about the main differences or similarities between Turkish academia and American academia?
CA: In a Turkish history department, unfortunately, we don’t expect to see a professor of African History, or scholar of China or India. I think this is a big problem. In many of the Turkish history departments, more than half of the professors would still be teaching just Ottoman and Turkish history; and I don’t understand why Turkish university student do not have a chance to learn about the rest of the world (except Europe)! However, that is not unique to Turkey as German, French, Italian, Iranian or Indian history departments may also have the same problem.
This all meant that it was a great advantage for me that in Harvard’s History Department, I could find professors, graduate students working on the different parts of the world and when they wanted to talk to each other – of course – global history emerges naturally in that framework. We used to complain that it is still the historians of Asia, Africa and the Middle East who are trying to talk to historians of Europe and the US, and there is less curiosity on the part of Europeanists or Americans to talk to us about the rest of the world, but this may be changing. At my current university, UNC-Chapel Hill, global history is now an institutional track of both undergraduate and graduate education.
TPF: Now, if we go back to your book that you wrote after your dissertation: How did a dissertation on Pan-Asianism turn into a comparative work of global history, and included Pan-Islamism?
CA: Initially, I wrote my dissertation on Japanese pan-Asianism. However, for the book project, I combined my research on Japan’s Pan-Asianism with Ottoman pan-Islamism in a global context. So, the book is dealing with one major puzzle about both the Japanese and the Ottoman Empires. Both were ruled by imperial elites whose main concern was to strengthen the empire, establish its sovereignty and legitimacy in the international arena, and to make it a part of a club of powerful European empires. From the perspective of these elites, the world would be an imperial world and both the Ottomans and Japanese would be part of it. In other words, imperialism did not seem something that should be opposed.
My puzzle was how race and racism became a question for the Japanese and the Ottoman elites. Istanbul and Tokyo were not necessarily anticolonial, and they could accept that Russia, Britain, France rule over Muslims and Asians as long as these European empires also allowed them to rule over their own subjects. So, I then realized that this imperial world in the late 19th and early 20th century has an irrational aspect and it was overcome by the logic and language of race and geopolitics.
TPF: What do you mean by this?
CA: The Ottoman elite began to worry about the so-called “Eastern Question” and its impact on diplomacy and discourse. But the Eastern Question was also about racism against Muslims, which affected the rights and struggles of all the Muslims in the colonies of the Britain, Russia, Dutch, and French empires. At the same time, the way European empires categorized and talked about Muslims in India, Algeria or Central Asia began to closely affect the Ottoman Empire’s legitimacy and sovereignty. As a result, the issue of Muslim peril and Pan-Islamism became closely connected with how European elites and publics perceived the Ottoman Empire. I need to note that Muslimness became racial in the late 19th century. That is an interesting turning point of world history; the formation of an imperial world order in the second half of the 19th century produced and faced the challenge of racial and geopolitical perception of global humanity.
TPF: Could you explain more how “Muslimness” intersected with this rise in racial consciousness?
CA: Islam was not just a religious or faith tradition by 1890s and the early twentieth century. Being Muslim became very similar to being black, yellow or white. And the Ottoman Empire was worried about this, because it directly challenged its legitimacy to become an acceptable good empire ruling over Christian subjects. As the Muslims in Africa and Asia were seen as inferior in terms of a lack of civilization that required the Western “civilizing mission” or the “white man’s burden,” the Ottoman Empire was also seen as a bad empire, because it was ruled by a Muslim Sultan and Caliph. Abdul Hamid II, for example, became an “evil figure” in European imagination and the Ottoman Empire became what [William] Gladstone called “anti-human specimen of humanity.”
Before I get to the comparison, I also noticed that extraordinary new connections emerged between the Ottoman Empire and Muslims in Asia. The Ottoman Empire was an empire primarily in Europe first and then went to the Middle East – and it never ruled over India, Afghanistan, Indonesia or Malaysia. Around 1890s and 1900s, however, Muslims in India, Indonesia or Afghanistan began to see their destiny as connected to the destiny of Ottoman Empire. Indian Muslims closely followed all the developments in the Balkans, Bulgarian nationalism, Serbian rebellion, Ottoman-Russian War or even the war in Crete.
I was very surprised not only why these new connections emerged between the Ottoman Empire and Indian Muslims, but also how they did when they did. This was partly about the power of new transportation and communication technologies in the age of steamship, telegraph and printing. And yet, the racialization of Muslims had something to do the crisis of empires in general. And I see something very similar happening in Japan with regard to ideas of the “yellow race,” Asian civilization and Japan’s connection to the rest of Asia. So, even though Japanese elites – then allies of the British Empire –defeated China and treated Chinese like Europeans were treating China, Japan became a symbol of the Asian “yellow race” after Russo-Japanese War. Their victory became seen as a first victory of an Asian-Eastern race against the white Western race. In fact, that war in 1905 was a truly imperial war and Britain was an ally of the Japanese Empire. I was very surprised about why Indian or Turkish nationalists began to interpret that war as a racial conflict. So, my research turned into comparative study of Japan and Ottoman Empire dealing with this question of race and geopolitics.
TPF: What motivated you to write this book along the way?
CA: Before I finished my Ph.D., September 11 happened in America. It was my last year as a graduate student. I had a fellowship in a room at the Center for International Affairs at Harvard. And Samuel Huntington, the man who wrote about “Clash of Civilizations,” had an office in that center situated just across my office. I was very struck by people who were interpreting September 11 in terms of clash of civilizations, as clash between Islam and the United States’ Christianity. Suddenly, the debates I was hearing in the corridors of the Center for International Affairs and in the broader public seemed very similar to idea of clash of civilizations I was writing about in the context of Pan-Islamist and Pan-Asian thought from 1905 to the 1920s or 1945.
TPF:What kind of examples can you give about the “clash of civilizations” discourse?
CA: First, I should note that there were many other historical actors who talked about the “clash of civilizations” during the period from 1905 to the 1920s. And the good example is the Ottoman Empire’ declaration of Jihad against Russia, Britain, France and Dutch, but not against Italy, Austria-Hungry and Germany. Japanese empire also declared their own jihad on behalf of Asia and the yellow race against the whites in 1941 after Pearl Harbor. I was struck by why Japan and Ottoman Empire became so involved in question of clash of civilizations and clash between races. The Ottomans did it in World War I, the Japanese did it in World War II. Ottoman and Japanese elites regretted their holy war declarations after defeat, and tried to forget about it.
In short, the same people who declared jihad in 1914 actually established the Turkish Republic, then blamed Enver Pasha or a couple of extremists. Figures like Atatürk and İsmet İnönü, the founders of secular Republic, were military officers of the Ottoman Army who were fighting for jihad because they grew up with ideas of Pan-Islamism. The same thing is true for Japanese pan-Asianism. This was not a crazy idea advocated by ultra-nationalists. Pan-Asianism seemed like a realist geopolitical idea embraced by very Westernized Japanese elites during the 1930s. These elites also abandoned pan-Asianism after WWII, and then blamed some so called “extremists” for it at the Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal. So, at the end of the book, I was trying to tell people that the Ottoman pan-Islamism and Japanese pan-Asianism actually were not anti-Western, and were part of a dominant geopolitical and racial ideas about the international order. But I was also trying to understand the long-term connections that existed from Enver Pasha and Tojo Hideki to Samuel Huntington or George Bush.
TPF:So, is not the title of the book—“The Politics of Anti-Westernism”—misleading?
CA: Yes, inside the book I argue that neither pan-Asianism nor pan-Islamism was truly anti-Western and anti-modern. In fact, the main intention of Ottoman and Japanese elites was to try to belong to the European Eurocentric imperial settings. They were perceived as anti-Western and anti-modern within Europe, but in terms of content, they were not. In this sense, imperial-era Pan-Islamism and Pan-Asianism were also very different than late Cold War Islamism or radicalism. Even though my earlier book covered history until 1945, I have been aware of the present concerns about explaining the re-emergence of Pan-Islamism or Islamism in the 1980s. Pan-Islamism gained a new meaning during the 1980s, coinciding with the rise of Iranian and Saudi-sponsored projects of pan-Islamism. Meanwhile, the racism against Muslims in Serbia and all over Europe that led to the genocide in Bosnia in the 1990s prompted a defensive mobilization of Muslim publics to help the Bosnian resistance.
There are, of course, long-term connection between Ottoman era Pan-Islamism of the 1890s to the Iranian-Saudi era Pan-Islamisms of the 1980s. And this connection continues in European racism against Muslims as well. I think we are still experiencing this irrational imagination that all the Muslims are united and they belong to an “Islamic world.” So, I was trying make sense of the present by looking at the past experiences of the Ottoman and Japanese Empires.
TPF:I also wonder about the methodological challenges you faced while writing this book! What kind of archives and sources did you use to compare history of these two empires?
CA: Because I work mainly on intellectual history, there are so many journals and magazines and texts available in the libraries of Harvard, Istanbul and Tokyo. So, I read these texts and I tried to contextualize them. Part of my job was to detect the key ideas and concepts and see the evolution of these concepts and ideas. I also examined how these ideas are used by political elites.
While doing that, I did not just carry out a comparative study, but attempted to do a connected study. So, I focused on what Japanese Asianists said and wrote about the Ottomans and Muslims, and vice versa. What did the Muslims in the Middle East write about China and Japan? There, I think that inter-Asian connection are important and that is one of the ironies and paradoxes of late 19th and early 20th centuries. Even though we see this period as the period of Western hegemony, it also coincided with the peak of inter-Asian connections. There were more connections between Turkey, Iran, Egypt and China, or India, Japan in the 1890s than ever happened in history. The more Egyptians, Arabs, Persians or Turks were Westernizing, they were also writing more about India, China and Japan; similarly, more and more Japanese and Chinese began to think about Arabs, Muslims, and Turks as their fellow Asians after 1880s.
In sum, by examining who wrote these texts and what they did about their ideas, I had to contextualize the boom of inter-Asian intellectual and political connections from the 1880s to the 1940s. In addition, I also looked at the actuals encounters among different intellectuals and political leaders from Asia. They were equally important and increasing thanks to steamships, telegraphs, journalism. So in many cases, global history became a very useful methodology for me to make sense of these connections and going beyond the area studies of Middle East, Islam and East Asian field, because historical actors were more transnational and mobile than these areas studies assumed.
TPF: If we return back to the details of your book, we see that reformist intellectuals in the Ottoman Empire and Japan during the Tanzimat Period and Meiji Restoration Period desired to attain the same “universal modernization” as Europeans had. How did these elites reconcile their beliefs and traditions with this type of modernization, given European modernizers’ claims about the superiority of the white race and Christianity? How did these elites manage public opinion?
CA: How non-European intellectuals talked back against European claims of civilizational superiority was an important part of my research, although I wrote less about it. I focused more on geopolitics and race, but there are two very important things happening in the late nineteenth century in this context of inter imperial geopolitical conflicts, rivalries and alliances. One is a new intellectual construction of the idea of Islamic civilization or Asian civilization, and the second one is the new way of thinking about Islam, Buddhism and Hinduism as world religions. There are parallels and differences in the way how this happened in the context of the Muslim West Asia and non-Muslim East Asia.
Let me start with the differences; because East Asia was primarily racialized by skin color, via yellow race, skin color racism became easier to overcome in the long-term after World War II. Its irrationality can be more clearly seen today. However, racism against Muslims was not primarily based on skin color, although having a brown skin was an often used attribution for Muslims. To racialize a group of people through their religion, Islam, made anti-Muslim racism similar to anti-Semitism—Jews were also racialized through their religion.
Racialization based on their faith tradition had to be rejected by Muslim intellectuals, because, simply speaking, nobody wants to be inferior. So they responded and talked back by multiple arguments about Islam’s civility, and comparability to or even superiority over Christianity. They talked back against the European Orientalism, but also Muslims talked to each other. In that process, Muslim modernists created a new understanding of Islam as a civilized, universal religion that is better than the ideas about Christianity advocated by missionaries. So, there emerged a new conceptualization of Islam in relation to polemics against Christian missionaries as well as Orientalists.
TPF: Can you provide an example of how this worked in practice?
CA: Well, one of the most powerful books in the late 19th century, the Spirit of Islam, was written by an Indian Shia pan-Islamist, (pro-Ottoman but also pro-British intellectual) named Sayyid Amir Ali. Writing a book like that, and simplifying and represent the “spirit of Islam” for a Western audience, was completely new. Before late nineteenth century, Muslims did not talk on behalf of an essentialized and globalized Islam. Only in that context of imperial globalization and racialization that many Muslim intellectuals began to imagine that Islam was a united religion and compatible with progress, science and modernity. Islam was also supposed to be universal and capable of responding to Christian apologetics. So, pan-Islamism became the new way of thinking about Islam. A new notion of global Islamic civilization also linked story of Istanbul, Baghdad, Delhi and Andalus together to create a story of the Golden Age of Islam and its decline. These intellectuals such as Syed Ahmad Khan, Mohammad Abduh, Jamaluddin Afghani, Namık Kemal, Shakib Arslan, and Rashid Rida were extremely important for creating a new way of talking about Islam and Islamic civilization, and they had a long lasting effect that persists until today. Similar things happened for Buddhism and Hinduism in late 19th century.
TPF: We see the defense of the Ottoman Empire against the West. They sent bureaucrats to Orientalist congresses and reformed their military and administration to prove that the compatibility of Islam with modern civilization during the nineteenth century. However, European politicians and intellectuals insisted that the East could never be integrated into the “international system” because of racial, cultural, and geographical factors. They utilized a “civilizing mission” discourse to colonize non-Westerns countries. Can we not then say that the challenge of non-Western societies to Europeans was a reaction to the West’s own actions?
CA: Yes. European racial thinking was also weakening the imperial visions and legitimacy. Colonized societies like Indian Muslims wanted more dignity and equality and more rights within British Empire. In fact, in the earlier period, many of the Muslims were not necessarily against the Empire. For example, Sayyid Ahmad Khan, one of the leading Muslim intellectuals in India, wanted to reform the British Empire in India and Muslims at the same time to make them compatible.
Could the British Empire be more inclusive and allow Muslims, Hindus, Christians to have the same or similar rights? I think there is an amnesia about that racialized imperial moment in 1880s and 1890s when many colored people of the European empires above all wanted to reform their particular empire, not to abolish it or end it. After all, there were more Muslims and Hindus in the British Empire than Christians. So, for the Muslims under imperial rule, critiques of the Western empires associated with Pan-Islamism was a kind of challenge to imperial racial thinking and discrimination, but not necessarily anti-imperial.
Critiques of the European empires by Japanese and Ottoman imperial elites had differences from the critiques expressed by colonized subjects, because these were sovereign political entities and they had autonomy. Their discontent was about unequal treatment in international law and in international power politics. Even when a wealthy Ottoman and Japanese elite member traveled to Europe, they were also subjected to the same type of racial discourses and discrimination. The Ottoman Empire ruled over Greeks, Armenians, and other Christians, and anti-Ottoman Christian nationalism often demonized the Muslim dynasty that ruled over them, as barbarian infidels ruling over civilized Christians.
TPF: Yet at the same time, these “Muslim dynasties” were seen as potential protectors of Indian Muslims or Dutch or French Muslim subjects.
CA: Precisely. It is still fascinating that, in the early Abdul Hamid II period in late 1870s, there emerged a connection between the destiny of the Ottoman Empire and destiny of the colonized Muslims in India. This is a development that requires global political and intellectual history to make sense of it! In the 1840s and 1850s, there was no such connection. When, for example, Indian Muslims and Hindus rebelled against the British rule in 1857, the Ottoman Empire did not side with the rebellion. They supported their British allies.
TPF:But Japan also had a strong relation with Britain, right?
CA: Yes, Although Japan always sided with Britain until the mid-1920s, what Tokyo should do vis-à-vis Asian and yellow race identity was an important debate for the Japanese public. Only in the late 1930s did the Japanese government pragmatically embrace pan-Asian ideas and discourses. However, before the 1930s, Japanese intellectuals and elites knew that their yellow race mattered in the way they were treated and perceived, or in the way they were discriminated, but they did not have to do something geopolitical and military against the West because of this. Japan’s revolt against the Eurocentric world order had more to do with their failures in the Manchurian incident than their belief in a “clash of civilizations,” but that belief in conflict among white race and colored races shaped their policies and propaganda in the context of Japan’s own imperial crisis in mid-1930s. In short, I don’t think that there is any natural rejection of modernity or Western culture in Pan-Asianism as well as in Pan-Islamism. These were not traditional responses to modernization or Western hegemony.
TPF: Since some Pan-Asianists or Pan-Islamists support continued connection with the West while others support breaking all links with Europeans, can we say there are different groups within Pan-Asianism and Pan-Islamism?
CA: There are, of course, different and competing varieties of both Pan-Islamism and Pan-Asianism. However, I want to note a historical rupture in this context. Because pan-Islamism after 1970s is associated with Islamism, conservatism or ultra-nationalism, we are mistaken attributing that kind of conservatism to early pan-Islamism. That’s very wrong! The early pan-Islamists were not traditionalists, or conservative. For example, they did not try to impose Sharia on all the subjects of the Ottoman Empire. Indian pan-Islamists also did not want Islamic law to be only law in whole British India and impose their values on Hindus. On the contrary, Pan-Islamism was very proud of Tanzimat reforms and Ottoman cosmopolitanism. There were no vision of a Cold War style Islamic state in early pan-Islamism as they were still imperial projects, and comfortable with existing empires.
So, in Turkey for example, there remains the assumption that pan-Islamism is an internationalism of only the Islamists, but there was no Islamists in the 1910s. The Second Constitutional Period Pan-Islamists were radically different than Islamism in the Muslim Brotherhood of Egypt or Jemaat-e-Islami of Pakistan. It has no similarity with Hizb ut-Tahrir, Al-Qaeda or Taliban as there was no fundamentalism among Pan-Islamists in the early twentieth century. In the early twentieth century, one could be pan-Islamic and a cultural Westernizer or positivist at the same time. I think a great example would be Celal Nuri İleri, who wrote a book on “Ittihad-i Islam” (Muslim Unity) and he is known as pro-Westerners and almost Darwinist in Turkish intellectual history. Ahmed Rıza, who was a follower of August Comte, could advocate civilizational, geopolitical Muslim solidarity against European racism and imperialism. We need, in short, to distinguish Cold War Islamism from imperial-era pan-Islamism.
TPF: What are the relations between religion and Ottoman Pan-Islamism or Japanese Pan-Asianism? While Pan-Islamism focuses on the Muslim world, Pan-Asianism comprises diverse religions, especially Buddhism. What was the role of religion during this period?
CA: That’s a very important question! That may be explaining some of the unique and peculiar aspects of pan-Islamism. It is a geopolitical or racial thinking based on religious affiliation. In the case of Asianism, Asia is a continent and you can attribute Asia a civilization, but not a single religion. Within Asia, there are multiple religious traditions as Hinduism, Buddhism, Daoism, Confucianism and Muslims. If you have three levels of thinking on Asianism, you can think that geopolitics is pan-Asianism, civilization is an Asian civilization, race is yellow as well as the brown race but religion could be multiple.
For pan-Islamism, all of these were actually referring to Islam as a primary marker, so civilization is Islamic civilization, religion is Islam and geopolitics is the Muslim world. Overall, these three layers constituted the basis of Western racial thinking on Muslims in the imperial era, in the sense that Muslims were seen as members of a threatening Muslim world, belonging a completely different civilization and practicing an inferior religion. That means that the racial otherness and inferiority of a Muslim is confirmed on three levels as a civilization, as a geopolitical political affiliation and as a religion. That may be one of the reasons why pan-Islamism survived longer than Pan-Asianism and Pan-Africanism.
Pan-Islamism might be similar to pan-Buddhism, but pan-Buddhism was not the main framework for geopolitics. So, in terms of similarities between pan-Buddhism and pan-Islamism, one thing is clear; both Muslim and Buddhist intellectuals were empowered in the age of globalization. Both had a chance to connect, talk and formulate a response to missionary Christianity and Western thought on behalf of a Buddhist and Islamic tradition. For example Buddhist were different up to 1880s and 1890s, and different branches of Buddhism in Sri Lanka, India, Thailand, China and Japan were not always in touch with each other. In 1880s and 1890s, Buddhists were traveling, talking each other and they were also reading and responding to European and American scholarship on Buddhism. As a result, in 1893 Buddhists appeared as this kind of united front in Chicago World’s Parliament of Religions defending Buddhism as a civilized, rational, global religion in relation to Christianity.
Something similar happened with Islam. We often mistakenly assume that Islam was always a monolithic, universal religion, but there were many different lineages, and traditions of diverse interpretations, but eventually in the 1880s and 1890s there was a shift in terms of perceiving Islam as a world religion. And that’s thanks to a global context of Muslims being empowered by connectivity but also under attack of imperial racism and Christian missionaries.
TPF: When we look at the present, how ought we to understand Pan-Islamism in the twenty-first century? How can we understand terrorist attacks and Islamophobia in the anti-Western context?
CA: After World War II, racism based on skin color fell out of fashion—not immediately, but gradually. One could say that Adolf Hitler gave racism a bad name by treating Europeans with racial thinking and also exposing all the destructive aspects of racism within the European continent. So, together with the idea of white supremacy, gradually the idea of racial distinctions became unfashionable in politics.
However, something unique happened about the idea of the Muslim world, because Muslimness was not seen as racism based on skin color. Europeans did not think that their prejudices against Muslims was racial. As a result, they assumed that they do not like Muslims because of the problems inherent in their religion. The other important aspect of it is that colonialism in the Middle East and Muslim societies never fully ended. There was long period of wars from 1948 to the late 1960s from the wars surrounding Palestine to the Algerian War of Independence, where the issue of Islam and the West were continued to be played it out. For example, when the French Empire was fighting against Algerian nationalism, French figures argued that they were fighting against pan-Islamism and defending Western civilization against Islamic fanaticism.
More importantly, in the context of Gamal Abdel Nasser’s war with Yemen, Saudi Arabia gradually revived earlier pan-Islamic networks against Nasser’s Pan-Arabism. It is very complex story, but that is part of my next book. King Faisal of Saudi Arabia emerged almost like an Abdul Hamid II of the Cold War. He made Mecca and Medina centers of pan-Islamic networking and he really wanted to defeat Nasser’s challenge to Saudi legitimacy, and created a global network of Muslim internationalism.
TPF: You mentioned the 1980s as a turning point, though, no?
CA: Only in the 1980s, after the Soviet Invasion of Afghanistan, and after Egypt seemed to betraying the Palestinian cause at Camp David, and after the Iranian revolution, do we see pan-Islamism resurfacing in world politics, especially in the competition between Iran and Saudi Arabia. It is in the 1980s that we see some vision of pan-Islamism re-emerging with newer ideas of Cold War era Islamist political projects. Anti-Western fundamentalist versions of Al-Qaeda or other are coming out of the crisis of the 1990s in the region. Today’s new delusional versions of Pan-Islamism, as seen in ISIS’ self-declared Caliphate, do not look anything like in the late Ottoman Empire or even Faisal’s 1970s Saudi version. If ISIS fundamentalists were to see the Ottoman Caliph Abdul Hamid II, they will probably declare him as infidel and try execute him, because, for example, Abdulhamid was listening to opera music and had no problem with Western culture. So, there is an ironic repetition of some of the slogans of pan-Islamism and Caliphate, but in terms of context, it is completely different. None of the pan-Islamists of 1890s to 1920s could recognize Al-Qaeda or ISIS even as familiar Muslims.
TPF: In that context, what do you think about Pan-Asianism?
CA: For pan-Asianism, we do not see that kind of a revival in the post-World War II period, although there were still ideas of Asian unity, civilization, and solidarity in the context of the Bandung Conference. We might see the Bandung Conference as a last gathering of ideas and figures from imperial-era Pan-Asianism or Pan-Islamism. After the Bandung Conference, some ideas and memories of Pan-Asianism still survived in terms of an identity discourse, but there is no significant geopolitical Pan-Asianism in today’s world.
TPF: We have come to the end of our conversation but I want to ask that what are your plans for the near future? What have you been working on, recently?
In addition to that, I also completed a manuscripts on this question of idea of the Muslim world and why pan-Islamism persisted and survived up to today in different forms. (The Idea of the Muslim World: A Global History, Harvard University Press, Spring 2017, forthcoming). I was initially planning to actually write the story of pan-Islamism, pan-Asianism and pan-Africanism after WW2, but after I started my research, I frequently faced this question: Why was it that, among these three different non-European, anti-Western pan-nationalisms, only pan-Islamism seem to persist and even revived. Thus, I tried to explain why the idea of the Muslim world as a geopolitical concept persisted through decolonization up to today.
TPF: We are looking forward to read them! Also, what have you been reading recently?
CA: I like reading recently on international law, but I also try to read more on gender in world history. There was always a weakness in my previous scholarship about incorporating gender as a methodology and it is not simply history of women, but thinking about history in gendered terms. I want to read more theoretically in my future books and want to be more aware of that. I am married to a feminist scholar of Islam and get her suggestions for a reading list on gender and feminism.
We at the Toynbee Prize Foundation were very happy have the opportunity to read and discuss on Cemil Aydın’s The Politics of Anti-Westernism in Asia: Visions of World Order in Pan-Islamic and Pan-Asian Thought, published by Columbia University Press, as well as his forthcoming The Idea of the Muslim World: A Global History. Aydın’s book illuminates us on how anti-Western and later Islamophobic discourses as global issue in our era that influence social order and political decisions taken in various countries can be associated with pan-Asianism and pan-Islamism of the past. We would like to thank Professor Aydın for his contributions to the Global History Forum and wish him the best of luck in his future projects.
Revolution, what revolution? In the spring of 2011, protests and revolutions rocked much of North Africa and the Middle East. Improbably, the immolation of a Tunisian fruit vendor triggered the collapse of regimes not only in Tunis but also in Cairo, the heart of the Arab World. Whether the cause was Twitter or deeper-seated socioeconomic dysfunction, protests cascaded throughout the region, leading to regime collapse in Sana’a, a civil war and eventual regime overthrow in Tripoli, and Armageddon in Syria.
Against this gruesome background, Algeria—Africa’s largest country since the partition of Sudan in 2011—remained relatively calm. Anti-regime protests forced an end to a state of emergency that had existed since 1992. But President Abdelaziz Bouteflika not only stayed in power but managed to establish, in 2012, a record as the longest-serving head of state in Algerian history. The stability was all the more surprising given that Algeria had descended into civil war in 1991 once the ruling FLN (from the French Front de Libération Nationale) effectively cancelled elections that would have delivered Islamist parties to power.
Yet Algeria’s position as a stable authoritarian regime in a region rocked by the mutual learning processes of one “Arab Street” from the other is ironic, since, as University of British Columbia historian Jeffrey Byrne shows in his recent book, Mecca of Revolution: Algeria, Decolonization & The Third World Order, the country’s identity was from its founding deeply tied up with its identity as a “pilot state” for anti-colonial revolution. After all, Algeria gained its independence from France in the first place through combination of guerrilla warfare against the French military and the deft diplomacy of twenty- and thirty-something diplomats-cum-revolutionaries operating between Peking, Moscow, and the United Nations. From 1962–1965, when revolutionary Ahmed Ben Bella served as President of the young republic, Algiers was on the itinerary of every self-respecting revolutionary group out there, from Nelson Mandela’s African National Congress to Yasser Arafat’s Palestinian Liberation Organization to European Trotskyists. No less than Frantz Fanon, the Martinique-born Afro-Caribbean intellectual who was the psychologist of colonization and decolonization par excellence, used Algeria as the basis for his works like The Wretched of the Earth.
What happened? How did an avowedly revolutionary state and champion of Third World solidarity become one of the Arab World’s most entrenched authoritarian regimes post-2011—all the while never officially disavowing its revolutionary credentials? In Mecca of Revolution, Byrne argues that the trajectory of the Algerian cause was symptomatic of bigger shifts within the Third World more broadly. Originally, he explains, anti-colonial movements like the FLN were forced by virtue of their colonial oppressors to operate within an “open” international society of liberation movements liaising with one another, as well as their (often stubborn) patrons in Peking, Cairo, and Moscow.
Paradoxically, however, once these movements gained power through the vehicle of the post-colonial nation-state, they turned toward a “closed” vision of international society centered around states, not transnational movements like the FLN, ANC, or PLO. Even the post-colonial or anti-colonial forms of internationalism that self-proclaimed revolutionary states embraced, moreover, like the Organization for African Unity or the G-77, took the nation-state for granted as the default form of political organization. Byrne’s, in short, is a rich and demanding story constructed on the basis of painstaking work in Algerian, Yugoslav, and European and American archives. The Toynbee Prize Foundation’s Executive Director Timothy Nunan recently sat down with Professor Byrne to discuss it, beginning with Byrne’s own personal journey to writing Mecca of Revolution. Continue reading →
Thanks to the haze of time, the first great age of globalization during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century can sometimes seem like a golden age. It’s true that we live in an age of unprecedentedly inexpensive air travel, cell phones and Skype often replacing long travel to business meetings, and financial management tools making it easier to speculate on the ups and downs of the S&P or Nikkei, the ruble or the euro. But perhaps as we find ourselves bogged down by the kinks in this new post-1970s world of re-globalization–the passport checks, the baggage fees, the broken connections–it’s all the easier to reimagine the world of high imperialism, a lost golden age. Chroniclers like Stefan Zweig and John Maynard Keynes chronicled the time as an age in which
The inhabitant of London could order by telephone, sipping his morning tea in bed, the various products of the whole earth, in such quantity as he might see fit, and reasonably expect their early delivery upon his doorstep; he could at the same moment and by the same means adventure his wealth in the natural resources and new enterprises of any quarter of the world, and share, without exertion or even trouble, in their prospective fruits and advantages; or he could decide to couple the security of his fortunes with the good faith of the townspeople of any substantial municipality in any continent that fancy or information might recommend. He could secure forthwith, if he wished it, cheap and comfortable means of transit to any country or climate without passport or other formality, could despatch his servant to the neighboring office of a bank for such supply of the precious metals as might seem convenient, and could then proceed abroad to foreign quarters, without knowledge of their religion, language, or customs, bearing coined wealth upon his person, and would consider himself greatly aggrieved and much surprised at the least interference.
There was perhaps no more potent symbol of this world of ultra-connectivity than the Suez Canal, built in what was still Ottoman Egypt in 1869 and connecting the Red Sea with the Mediterranean. The Canal increased world trade. It also soon became a vital strategic artery for the British Empire, since it made the “passage to India” via intermediary stations like Suez and Aden far shorter than the former trip around the Cape of Good Hope. So powerful was the imaginary of the Canal as one of the crucial changes of the epoch that, when Henry Morton Stanley finally located David Livingstone (of “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”) on the shores of Lake Tanganyika in 1871, the Canal was the first thing that came to Stanley’s mind when Livingstone asked him what had changed in the world during his many years out of contact with the Western world.
Sure, the opening of the Canal made it easier for passengers—that is, especially if they were white, wealthy, British, or best, all three—to travel around the world, often unencumbered by passport checks. But our popular memory of the Canal often forgets the fact that building a giant channel of water in the middle of the Egyptian desert obstructed the migratory routes of Bedouin tribes who formerly moved from east to west. More fundamentally, the very opening of the Canal and the transformation of the region into a giant transportation hub gave rise to new worries about the movement of slaves, prostitutes, Muslim “fanatics,” or disease across the region. Contemporary fears that cholera originated in India led to the imposition of quarantine and disease control regimes along the shores of the Red Sea. At the same time, shipping titans and imperial bureaucrats debated the wisdom of dividing shipping routes’ staffing between Asians (for the hot and sticky days of shipping through the Indian Ocean, supposedly unbearable for the “white race”) and Europeans (so as to avoid the problem of Asian or Arab crews outstaying their welcome in Southampton or the London docklands). The Canal channeled as much as it connected.
Huber’s work is, then, valuable not only as an intervention into the field of Middle Eastern Studies, relying as it does on British, French, and Egyptian archives. It constitutes a welcome foray into the broader conversation about the history of globalization and the history of the late nineteenth century as a time not only of increasing connectivity, but also of increasing channelling—that is, processes and institutions whereby migration of goods and people is cordoned off, classified, or restricted, often relying on distinctions of race, sex, or level of civilization. In order to discuss Channelling Mobilities more with Dr. Huber, Toynbee Prize Foundation Executive Director Dr. Timothy Nunan (TN) made use of the twenty-first century’s aforementioned telephonic tools to speak with Dr. Huber (VH) across oceans–fitting, given that telegraphic cables were just one of many pieces of infrastructure to cross the Suez Canal during the period her book studies. Continue reading →
Pittsburgh, in case you haven’t heard, is on the rise.
But don’t take it from us. The Economist Intelligence Unit has ranked Pittsburgh as the most livable city in the United States. Zagat calls it the #1 food city in the United States. Money magazine names it one of the best places to live in the Northeast United States. Travel and Leisure magazine calls it one of the places to visit in the United States. The former steel city located at the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers in western Pennsylvania appeals, it seems, to a wide variety of audiences. The Huffington Post calls it one of several cities that aspiring techies should consider moving to. And startup founders who leave Silicon Valley or New York’s “Silicon Alley” for the more affordable setting of Pittsburgh, and its top research universities, might find themselves moving in next to retirees, as well, as Kiplinger magazine has selected it as a top location to retire. (These, and more of the myriad accolades Pittsburgh has garnered, are exhaustively catalogued by VisitPITTSBURGH, the tourism agency of Allegheny County, where Pittsburgh is located).
Pittsburgh, in short, seems like an island of prosperity and success in North America’s Rust Belt, a region more commonly associated with economic involution, plant shutdowns, and “ruin porn” than food trucks and hipsters. How did it avert the fate of post-industrial economic decline that blighted many a Youngstown, Ohio, Gary, Indiana, or Elkhart, Indiana? Yet perhaps the better question to ask might be why Pittsburgh embraced a post-industrial future as avidly as it did. After all, many other cities in the Rust Belt, particularly those in neighboring Canada, retained their steel factories far longer than did Pittsburgh, all the while managing a transition to white-collar employment far more successfully than did their southern cousins of Youngstown, Gary, or Elkhart. When one casts their field of vision across the horizons of Lake Erie or Lake Huron to the smokestacks and chimneys of Canada, the trajectory and choices involved in the transition of the Rust Belt from the 1940s to today looks quite different. Such a narrative frame casts into question the narrative of inevitable de-industrialization, and makes clear how post-industrialism was as much as policy choice as it was a historical inevitability.
Such is the intervention of Tracy Neumann, an Assistant Professor in the Department of History at Wayne State University in Detroit, in her recent book Remaking the Rustbelt: The Postindustrial Transformation of North America (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016). In the book, Neumann compares and contrasts the trajectory of two North American steel towns, Pittsburgh and Hamilton, Ontario, showing how de-industrialization was as much the result of a set of policy choices embraced by civic elites as it was a historical inevitability. Even before the decade of the 1970s most commonly associated with de-industrialization, policy elites in both Pittsburgh and Hamilton drew on a limited set of post-industrial urban visions as they sought to plot out what a city built more on services, rather than manufacturing—on briefcases than lunch pails—would look like.
Drawing on a number of city, provincial and state, and national archives in the United States and Canada, Neumann shows how in spite of a shared vision of post-industrial flourishing, the very different institutional settings in which Hamilton’s and Pittsburgh’s civic elites operated created a very different set of policy outcomes. Unfettered by federal or state restrictions, Pittsburgh’s corporate leaders and Democratic mayors were able to rapidly transform their city into what they envisioned would be a Mecca for white-collar workers—causing, in the process, immense pain and dislocation for the city’s actual, rather than desired, residents. In Canada, meanwhile, civic leaders in Hamilton aspired to a similarly service industry-oriented future for their city, but remained captive to provincial policies that channeled post-industrial growth toward Toronto. In Neumann’s telling, the global structure of economic change matters—but so, too, do institutions and the menu of policy choices with which elected officials and corporate elites imagine themselves presented.
At a moment when many Americans and Canadians, and other denizens of a North Atlantic Rust Belt are posing the question of whether the move from pig iron to management consulting—or, for many, from stable lifetime employment to a McJob—Neumann’s book comes as a welcome entry into the conversation. More broadly, however, Remaking the Rustbelt provides an example of how Americanists are writing urban history in a transnational and global key. Readers interested in what, exactly, the relationship of post-industrialism to “neoliberalism” in the United States will find much of value in Neumann’s work, but so, too, will scholars studying how processes of global change find their way to the ground across regions through the grinders and gears of policymaking. That makes it a valuable contribution whether the pair of cities one is interested is Pittsburgh and Hamilton, El Paso and Ciudad Juarez, or Mumbai and Dubai. The Executive Director of the Toynbee Prize Foundation, Timothy Nunan (TPF), recently had the opportunity to sit down with Tracy Neumann (TN) to discuss Remaking the Rust Belt, some of the arguments of the book, and what she has in store following the June release of her first monograph. Continue reading →
If you’ve been following the news about race-related campus protests this academic year, it can sometimes be hard to keep them straight. In the autumn, students at Yale’s Silliman College demanded the removal of a College Master following his wife’s e-mail to students encouraging students to use their own judgment when it came to potentially insensitive Halloween costumes, rather than following guidelines issued by Yale administrators. In the winter, students at Oberlin College, a liberal arts college in Ohio, issued a sweeping manifesto to the President demanding significant investment in African and African-American Studies as well as the appointment of more black faculty members. And this spring, students at Princeton University occupied the President’s office to demand the removal of former U.S. (and Princeton University) President Woodrow Wilson’s name from the university’s public policy school. Those demands led to the removal of a “celebratory” mural from the wall of a residential college also named after Wilson, but visitors to the New Jersey campus will still find themselves walking by the Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs.
These debates about how American universities today deal with race – whether they should scrub buildings of the names of white supremacists, or invest more in programs in African-American Studies and professionalization programs for faculty of color – are unlikely to end anytime soon. However, as the work of our most recent guest to the Global History Forum, Robert Vitalis (University of Pennsylvania), suggests, the very structure of these debates may obscure an important history in the making of universities and the structure of academic knowledge today. While coming to terms with the racist legacy of individual Presidents or college donors may be a necessary task, as Vitalis shows in his new book, White World Order, Black Power Politics. In it, he shows that race was actually quite core to many disciplines, but especially international relations of the kind taught at the Wilson School and sister institutions in the United States long before African-American protest movements challenged existing structures of power.
To put Vitalis’ argument most provocatively, for many decades, the “international” in “international relations” was synonymous with “interracial.” And while many individual scholars of international relations, and other disciplines, held racist views, this obscures the larger point that the discipline of international relations itself was itself centrally concerned with race relations – meaning, how to manage the relationship of the supposedly superior white race around the world with “Negros” everywhere from the tropics of African to the alleys of Harlem. Textbooks on “international relations” discussed colonial policy in the same chapter as debates about mulattos and the anatomy of black prisoners. In other words, debates over whether or not to retain or remove the name of a Woodrow Wilson from a school of public policy barely begin to get at what a critique of academic disciplines informed by race would look like. Even if temples of learning named after Wilson and John Calhoun are eventually renamed, the curricula taught within them remains awaiting serious scrutiny of its racially entangled past.
It might sound like a big case to make–especially for those whose memories of International Relations 101 classes are marked more by moments of dozing off in between the Melian Dialogue of Thucydides and Kenneth Waltz’s Man, the State, and War. But by and large, Vitalis succeeds at his task. To find out why, the Executive Director of the Toynbee Prize Foundation, Dr. Timothy Nunan, recently sat down with Vitalis to discuss his road to writing the book, the book itself, and his journey as a political scientist into the worlds of intellectual history and African-American history. Continue reading →
The Pacific is an area largely understudied by historians, yet it is “an ocean covering more than a third of the Earth’s surface” and has “over 25,000 islands”, to borrow the words of the late Australian historian Greg Dening. In the past thirty years or so, a growing number of historians have shifted their attention to the Pacific. This includes such well-known scholars as Greg Dening, Anne Salmond, Gregory T. Cushman and Toynbee Prize Foundation Trustee David Armitage.
Our most recent guest to the Global History Forum, Professor David Igler, numbers among the dozens of scholars who believe that the importance of Pacific Ocean and significance of environmental history. David Bruce Igler is a historian of the American West , President of the Pacific Coast Branch of the American Historical Association, and Professor of History and currently Chair of History Department at the University of California, Irvine.
The prize-winning monograph draws on hundreds of documented voyages, some painstakingly recorded by participants, some only known by their archeological remains or indigenous memory. This leads to a window into the commercial, cultural, and ecological upheavals following the initial contact period, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Do industrial development and environmental transformation often happened in the same time? What makes Professor Igler shift from American history to Pacific history? Can humans have a dialogue with the Ocean? Professor Igler and Tiger Li, Editor-at-Large for the Toynbee Prize Foundation, discuss these questions in the following interview.