The connection between foreign policy and morality is surprisingly poorly examined. It is not wanting in words or assertions. On the second anniversary of the Iraq invasion we will read and hear millions of them on the moral authority of the UN, intervention in the affairs of sovereign states, democratic governments deceiving their citizens—and many other questions with a moral content.
But there has been little attempt to spell out general and coherent positions on these questions, to relate particular circumstances to general principles, or to acknowledge and confront the difficulty of discussing moral issues in the peculiar conditions and circumstances of international politics. What follows is a tentative attempt to do some of those things.
There are two widely held and sharply contrasting views on the subject. The first, in its extreme version, is that morality in foreign policy is like snakes in Iceland: there ain't any. A more moderate version allows for some minor role for morality. But essentially, foreign policy and international politics are seen as necessarily amoral activities. In academic circles, this view is associated with the "realist" school.
The second widely held belief is that there is only one morality, and that it applies in all circumstances. There is no distinction between the standards that states should be held to and those that apply to individuals, or between those that apply in domestic politics and those that apply in international politics. This view is often held by small "l" liberals, which is why they tend to lead frustrated lives and spend much of their political energy expressing anger and disappointment at the failure of governments, especially their own, to live up to accepted moral standards in their international behaviour—to be, among other things, compassionate, generous, forgiving, humane, honest, tolerant and consistent in their treatment of others. As we have seen recently, this is a view of things that can also be found among conservative and religious groups who believe that the values they hold should prevail universally, and that their government's foreign policy should be dedicated to ensuring that they do.
These two views are not straw men. Each has a long intellectual pedigree, representing in simplified form a central tradition of thought about the behaviour of states in their relationships with each other.
Those who maintain that international politics is an amoral activity can quote Thucydides from 2,500 years ago, to the effect that in relations between states, "the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must." They can quote Machiavelli in the 16th century or Hobbes in the 17th century.
If those seem too remote in time, they can quote the University of Chicago realist, Hans Morgenthau, the most influential teacher in the field of international politics in the last century: "Man's aspiration for power over other men, which is of the very essence of politics, implies the denial of what is the very core of Judeo-Christian morality—respect for man as an end in himself. The power relation is the very denial of that respect; for it seeks to use man as a means to the end of another man. This denial is particularly flagrant in foreign policy; for the civilising influence of law, morality, and mores are less effective here than they are in the domestic political scene."
The essence of the realist argument is simple: international politics is of necessity power politics. There being no international government, no enforceable law and hardly any sense of community or common identity, anarchy prevails. As Hobbes laconically observed, when there is no agreement as to which suit is trumps, clubs are always trumps.
The second view—that there is, or should be, no problem in passing judgement on the behaviour of states, because the same moral standards apply to them as to individuals—also has a distinguished ancestry. It is to be found in the work of Immanuel Kant at the end of the 18th century. It was represented by the dissenting radicals and Liberal free traders of Victorian England, men like Richard Cobden and John Bright. It was a strong, though not exclusive, component in the make-up of William Gladstone. And it was, and is, a core belief of American Wilsonian liberals. When he took the US into the first world war in 1917, Wilson made that explicit: "We are at the beginning of an age in which it will be insisted that the same standards of conduct and responsibility for wrong shall be observed among nations and their governments that are observed among the individual citizens of civilised states."
Hedley Bull, Australia's leading scholar of these matters, summed up the views of this school: "For the Kantians it was only at a superficial… level that international politics was about relations among states at all; at a deeper level it was about relations among human beings of which states were composed. The ultimate reality is the community of mankind, which existed potentially, even if it did not exist actually."
The problem remained: how to get from here to there, from the existing selfish power politics to an enlightened order in which morality would prevail? Nineteenth-century liberals put their faith in two processes: at home a gradual reform of the state, giving a progressively greater democratic voice to the people at the expense of selfish and bellicose interests; and abroad the establishment of international free trade, whereby intercourse between the peoples of the world would increase, ignorance would be dispelled and interdependence would create strong bonds. As Richard Cobden summed it up: "As little intercourse as possible between governments, as much connection as possible between the nations of the world." This is a belief that is still alive and well as the core assumption of many NGOs.
In the meantime, to reduce the danger and damage caused by the existing state, liberals for the most part—with some striking exceptions driven by moral outrage—advocated a minimalist foreign policy, almost a kind of British isolationism; and this when Britain was the dominant state in the world system.
But such a minimalist approach to bringing about a moral transformation of international affairs—waiting patiently for democracy, education and trade to do their work—has not been the only response of those who hold this liberal view of morality. Others have believed that a determined effort of will should be made by democratic states to speed up the process, using not only "world opinion" but their power to do so: that is, in effect, using power politics to put an end to power politics. This is what Woodrow Wilson attempted to do in 1919, by committing the authority and power of the victorious democracies to install a new international moral order. It is what George Bush claims to be attempting today, using US economic and military power to do the job.
I believe that both these opposing views are seriously flawed. As for the first—that foreign policy is essentially an amoral activity—the realist analysis that underpins it has been indispensable in countering illusions and maintaining a sharp distinction between "is" and "ought," at a time when many have tried to brush it aside.
But realists usually go further than that and make two related assumptions that are false. The first is that since in a state of international anarchy the foreign policies of all states are necessarily dominated by a concern with security, those policies are essentially similar in moral terms. The second is that since it is the state of anarchy that is the crucial determinant, the internal conditions of states are largely irrelevant to the shaping of foreign policy.
The first of these assumptions receives its popular echo in the worldly-wise cynicism that "they're all the same," all selfishly pursuing their own interest. Well, yes, they do all pursue what they understand to be their interests, and when they believe these interests to be endangered, they will all show great ruthlessness in defending them. In the second world war, to take a troubling example, the British killed many more civilians in their bombing of German cities than were ever killed by the German Blitz on Britain, and in the last five months of the war, US raids killed 900,000 Japanese civilians—even before the atom bombs were dropped. But when all that is acknowledged, the moral difference between a world dominated by a victorious Nazi Germany and one dominated by the US and Britain would have been huge.
Similarly, in the cold war it is true that both the US and the Soviet Union were pursuing their own national interests. But the moral difference between the interests of an imperfect democracy and a Stalinist dictatorship was huge. Even though it is true that all states are concerned to protect and further their own interests, those interests often differ in relevant ways and they are not morally "all the same."
As for the second realist assumption—that the internal conditions of states are irrelevant to their international behaviour—its falsity was surely exposed by the experience of dealing with two totalitarian regimes in the last century. It was precisely the assumption made by Neville Chamberlain (a conservative realist, not a sentimental liberal) that there was a continuity between the foreign policy of the Weimar Republic and that of Nazi Germany—that despite his histrionics, Adolf Hitler was a politician with whom one could cut a deal—which led British policy astray. More recently we have seen the same assumption of continuity at work in relation to Soviet and post-Soviet Russian policy in the utterances of leading realists like Henry Kissinger ("the fateful rhythm of Russian history"), and Zbigniew Brzezinski ("the imperial impulse… remains strong and even appears to be strengthening"). In other words, Russia is Russia is Russia, regardless of changes in regime. It was this assumption, more than anything else, that underlay the eastward expansion of Nato in the 1990s. But then what exactly was the point of working to bring about the downfall of the Soviet system? The fact is that while there are constant elements in the foreign policy of Russia, as there are in that of any great power, there are also significant differences between the policies of a Stolypin, a Stalin and a Putin.
The second, liberal, approach to foreign policy maintains that the same morality applies to states as to individuals. It is true that in thinking of states we normally personify them. We speak of "France" doing this or "Indonesia" doing that, and pass moral judgements on their actions. We do the same with other collective entities such as companies, churches and political parties. We expect certain standards of behaviour for such entities—law-abidingness, honesty, fairness, respect for competitors and so on. We might even expect a certain level of generosity and compassion from them. But there are limits to what we expect. If compassion were to become the guiding principle of a bank, it would go bust.
The case is similar with states, which essentially exist to promote and protect their own interests and those of their citizens. Their morality is limited to what is compatible and consistent with that purpose. The standard is different and lower than it is for individuals. Camillo Cavour, the statesman who helped bring about the unification of Italy in the 19th century, remarked, "If we were to do for ourselves what we are doing for Italy, we should be great rogues."
A related point is that those who conduct foreign policy are in the position of agents or trustees, not principals. As in the case of trustees, their first and overriding responsibility is not to give expression to their own moral views or preferences, but to secure the interests of those they serve. If they feel that the two conflict, their proper course is to resign. This is the force of the blunt dictum of Martin Wight, the English realist: "A foreign minister is chosen and paid to look after the interests of his country, and not to be a delegate for the human race."
Also bearing on this is the distinction made by Max Weber in his essay, "Politics as a Vocation," between two fundamentally different maxims concerning ethical conduct. There is, first, what he terms "the ethic of ultimate ends," which decrees absolute and unconditional fidelity to principle. Then there is "the ethic of responsibility," which decrees that one has a responsibility to take into account the foreseeable consequences of one's actions and to trim one's sails accordingly. The ethic of responsibility, Weber maintained, is the one appropriate to political life.
The danger implicit in an approach based on the "ethic of ultimate ends" is that by ruling out compromise, it will either immobilise, or, if an actor feels powerful enough, lead to a messianic, crusading policy to ensure that the one true good prevails. In the name of pure virtue, it will tend to rule out an accommodating approach to different interests, values and institutions. And, as we have witnessed recently, when such an approach is adopted by some actors it will tend to produce its mirror image in others and harden the whole climate of international affairs.
Where does this leave us? In my view it leads to the conclusion that the morality that is appropriate and can be sustained in the soiled, selfish and dangerous world of power politics is a modest one, whose goal is not perfection but decency. It is, more often than not, a morality of the lesser evil, of prudence. Edmund Burke referred to prudence as "the god of this lower world"—the world, that is, of public affairs—and he was right.
Prudence does not mean timidity. In some circumstances it demands firmness, even boldness in dealing with problems early, while they are still manageable (in 1936, for example, rather than in 1939). But in a system composed of a large number of independent and conflicting wills, uncertain intelligence, deadly weapons, different cultures and no universally recognised authority, it does require modesty—modesty of ends, of means and of rhetoric. Not only does strident and extravagant rhetoric—and we have heard a fair amount of it recently—raise the international temperature, but the fact that it cannot be lived up to is one of the main causes of public cynicism about foreign policy. A more careful, qualified and intellectually responsible rhetoric might be less inspirational, but it would have a longer shelf life and avoid a great deal of disillusion and embarrassment.
A prudential ethic places importance on those most mundane of virtues—order and stability. These do not, of course, guarantee a satisfactory state of affairs. They do not constitute a sufficient condition for anything. But they are a necessary condition for everything whose achievement requires a degree of predictability and continuity: a system of justice, for example, or sustainable commercial relations.
Prudence requires that one is often prepared to settle for half a loaf. Compromise is usually an intellectual vice, but, except in the most extreme of cases dealing with evil, it is a political virtue, especially where the alternative is usually a resort to force.
Prudence requires doing everything one can to anticipate the possibility of unintended consequences in a complex environment of autonomous actors. And the more ambitious one's policies, the greater the scope for such consequences, as we have recently witnessed.
Prudence requires care in the setting of precedents that may come home to haunt one—in 20 or 30 years' time, China may be quoting the precedents now being set to justify its behaviour. And prudence should encourage us to reflect on why it is that some rules have withstood the test of time so well; those, for instance, forbidding intervention in the internal affairs of other sovereign states, even for the best of motives.
Prudence also requires resisting the impulse to claim the right to double standards—one for other people, a different one for oneself, usually on the ground that one represents higher values or has special responsibilities. To insist on the right to double standards—as neoconservatives like Robert Kagan have explicitly done—or to operate blatantly in terms of them, is to undermine one's own moral position and to store up trouble in the form of resentment and lack of credibility. And moral equivalence is a charge that should be resorted to with great care if it is not to become simply a device for stifling debate.
That said, it is also true that prudential ethics requires that, in making policy, discrimination takes precedence over consistency. This is for two reasons. First, a country pursues a number of goals which have moral worth: among them justice, peace, freedom, security, prosperity and stability. Unless one believes that all these ends are necessarily and always in harmony with each other, then choices have to be made concerning priorities and balance among goals.
Second, the order of that hierarchy, the position of any one goal in it, will vary from occasion to occasion as circumstances change. In any set of circumstances, what is gained in terms of one goal has to be measured in terms of what is endangered or sacrificed in terms of another. Judgement is involved, not merely the automatic application of a general principle.
As Isaiah Berlin has written: "If… the ends of men are many and not all of them are compatible with each other, then the possibility of conflict… can never be wholly eliminated from human life. The necessity of choosing between absolute claims is then an inescapable characteristic of the human condition."
Not hypocrisy or double standards, but "an inescapable characteristic of the human condition." I believe that the problem is particularly acute in the realm of international politics.
One last word on the prudential ethic. It should not be equated with moral relativism. There is no contradiction involved in, on the one hand, holding firm beliefs concerning what constitutes the good and, on the other, believing that promoting what is good may require patience and compromise in dealing with those who have different views.
This will strike many readers as very general. I therefore end with three specific examples of the prudential ethic.
The first is the Catholic tradition of the theory of just war, stretching from Augustine in the 4th century through Thomas Aquinas in the 13th century, to the present (see Robert Skidelsky's analysis in Prospect, December 2004). That tradition accepts that it is futile to assume that war can be abolished. Just war theory has been concerned with the more modest goal of laying down conditions concerning when it is and is not legitimate to resort to it (jus ad bellum); and to make war less savage, by establishing rules concerning its conduct (jus in bello). Thus resorting to force must have a just cause, in that it is resorted to in response to injustice, is authorised by a competent authority, and is motivated by right intention. It must meet four prudential tests in that it must be expected to produce a preponderance of good over evil, have a reasonable chance of success, be a last resort and be expected to result in a state of peace. The requirements of jus in bello are that when force is resorted to, it must be discriminate (distinguishing between justifiable targets and the innocent) and proportional (limited to what is necessary).
Given the frequency and ferocity of war in the Christian world over the centuries, it has to be conceded that the influence of just war theory has been limited. How limited we really do not know, since it is impossible to tell whether, and to what extent, matters would have been even worse in its absence. It is improbable however that such a doctrine, backed by the considerable authority of the Roman Catholic church, has had no effect on behaviour.
My second example involves the liberal approach to the question of power. The most quoted maxim concerning power, one particularly favoured by liberals, is Lord Acton's dictum: "Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely." The trouble is that Acton never said that. What he said was that "Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely." The difference is vital. If power necessarily corrupts, then the only way to avoid being corrupted is to have nothing to do with it—which will leave one untainted but also ineffective. This has been the choice made by many liberals in our time. If, on the other hand, power only tends to corrupt, then one can work to minimise that tendency while retaining the means to effective action.
That is what classical liberalism—the liberalism of Locke and America's founding fathers—was concerned to do: to constitutionalise power, to distribute and separate it, to balance it. Liberals did so recognising that what threatens liberty is not power as such, but an unbalanced concentration of it.
In the international arena, the concept of the "balance of power" represents the same concern, in this case to ensure the security and independence of states. One of the curious features of the current crisis has been the inability of some very smart Americans to appreciate that it is the same concern that animated the authors of their constitution—whom they revere—that today leads other governments, even those with a long record of friendship with the US, to attempt to balance US power. The suspicion is directed not so much at America as a country or culture as at America as an unbalanced power, which, if unchecked, will be a corrupted and corrupting force.
My last example of the prudential ethic is drawn from an essay, "A Few Words on Non-Intervention," by John Stuart Mill in which he reflects on Britain's reputation in the late 19th century as a selfish bully in terms which anticipate much of what is said about the US today. Mill believed that the hostility and suspicion was unjustified, but added: "It is foolish attempting to despise all this—persuading ourselves that it is not our fault… Nations, like individuals, ought to suspect some fault in themselves when they find that they are generally worse thought of than they deserve."
He moves on to discuss the use of force for ideological purposes, again in terms which have a striking relevance today: "We have heard… lately about being willing to go to war for an idea. To go to war for an idea, if the war is aggressive, not defensive, is as criminal as to go to war for territory or revenue; for it is as little justified to force our ideas on other people, as to compel them to submit to our will in other respects."
This brings Mill to his main concern, the matter of intervention in the affairs of other sovereign states. He begins by making a distinction between "civilised nations" and "barbarians"—a distinction few would have the confidence to make today—and insisting that different rules apply to the two: "the rules of ordinary international morality imply reciprocity. But barbarians will not reciprocate. They cannot be depended on for observing the rules."
The more difficult case is that involving intervention in the affairs of "civilised" states. Here, Mill says, the key distinction is whether an intervention is made to end a tyranny imposed from without by a foreign government or by one imposed from within by a native government. In the former case of "a people struggling against a foreign yoke, or a native tyranny upheld by foreign arms," outside intervention can be justified. For "a government which needs foreign support to enforce obedience from its own citizens, is one which ought not to exist."
In the latter case of a purely native tyranny, on the other hand, Mill believes that outside intervention is very rarely justified. Why? Because "there can seldom be anything approaching to assurance that intervention, even if successful, would be for the good of people themselves. The only test possessing any real value, of people's having become fit for popular institutions, is that they, or a sufficient portion of them to prevail in the contest, are willing to brave labour and danger for their liberation."
Mill's essay is an example of the prudential ethic at work—making distinctions and qualifications, taking careful account of circumstances, weighing costs and benefits, principles and interests, in ways that are rarely matched in the current debate. It is a depressing thought that today many would dismiss Mill as an anti-American for making the points he does.
The characteristic fault of realism is that it believes the application of a morality to foreign policy to be negligible, if not entirely irrelevant. The characteristic fault of liberalism is that it considers the application of morality to foreign policy to be easy. In fact it is both necessary and difficult. And as the balance shifts between a world vertically divided into sovereign states and a world horizontally connected by interdependence, it is likely to become even more necessary and more difficult.
