The wreckage of the pandemic surrounds us—with more than half a million people around the world dead, the ranks of the global hungry doubling,
and the most severe economic crisis since the Great Depression raging.
Well before the coronavirus hit, however, the liberal international
order built and led by the United States was becoming less liberal, less
ordered, and less American. The pandemic has accelerated that trend and
aggravated preexisting conditions.
With the United
States and its allies reeling, distracted, and divided by the pandemic,
China’s ambition to become the dominant player in Asia has grown, as has
its desire to reshape international institutions and rules to suit its
power and preferences. The pandemic has also magnified the insecurities
of Chinese leadership, amplifying their worries about economic
sluggishness and social discontent. The result is greater domestic
repression and an even more pugnacious brand of “wolf warrior” diplomacy.
Always attuned to
the weakness of others, Vladimir Putin is losing sight of Russia’s own
weakness. The collapse of the oil market and Putin’s mismanagement of
the pandemic have made Russia’s one-dimensional economy and stagnant
political system even more brittle. A potent counterpuncher, Putin still
sees plenty of opportunities to disrupt and subvert rival countries,
the kind of tactics that can help a declining power sustain its status.
His margin for error, however, is shrinking.
Europe is caught
between an assertive China, a revisionist Russia, an erratic America,
and its own political breakdowns—none more perplexing than Brexit. The
drift in the transatlantic alliance is worsening, with the U.S. looking
for Europe to do more with less say, and Europe fearing that it will
become the grass on which the great-power elephants trample.
The pandemic has
also intensified the Middle East’s disorder and dysfunction. Hard-liners
in both Tehran and Washington pose combatively at the foot of a
dangerous escalatory ladder. Proxy wars in Yemen and Libya spin on. Syria remains a bloody wreck, and Israel’s impending annexation in the West Bank threatens to bury a two-state solution.
As the pandemic’s
wave crests over developing countries, the world’s most fragile
societies will only become more vulnerable. Latin America now faces the
biggest economic decline in the region’s history. Africa, with its
growing cities and daunting food, water, and health insecurities, faces
greater risks than perhaps any other part of the world.
All of these
challenges and uncertainties are further complicated by ongoing
technological disruptions, and by ideological and economic competition.
The pace of
change has outstripped the capacity of faltering, inward-looking leaders
to shape the rules of the road. False information spreads with the same
alacrity as truth; infectious diseases move faster than cures. The same
technologies that unlock so many human possibilities are now being used
by authoritarian leaders to lock in citizens, surveil them, and repress
them.
With the
triumphalism of globalization long behind us, societies struggle with
widening inequality and mercantilist impulses. Democracy has been in
retreat for more than a decade, the compact between citizens and
governments badly frayed. International institutions are beginning to
break—paralyzed by too much bureaucracy, too little investment, and
intense major-power rivalry. Looming above it all is the forbidding
menace of climate change, as our planet gradually suffocates on carbon
emissions.
This moment
screams for leadership to help forge a sense of order—an organizer to
help navigate this complicated mess of challenges, stabilize
geopolitical competition, and ensure at least some modest protections of
global public goods.
But now we are
living through the worst intersection of man and moment in American
history. “America First” really means Trump first, America alone, and
Americans on their own.
The post-pandemic
future of the United States is not preordained. We still get a vote,
and we still get to make some fateful choices. They are more complicated
than those we faced at the end of the Cold War, when our undisputed
primacy cushioned us from our mistakes and sustained our illusions. But
today’s choices are even more consequential than those of 30 years ago.
The United States
must choose from three broad strategic approaches: retrenchment,
restoration, and reinvention. Each aspires to deliver on our interests
and protect our values; where they differ is in their assessment of
American priorities and influence, and of the threats we face. Each is
easy to caricature—and each deserves an honest look.
Retrenchment
It’s not hard to
persuade many Americans—struggling through the human and economic costs
of the pandemic, pained by the open wounds of our racial divides, and
doubtful about the power and promise of the American idea—to pull up our
national drawbridges and retrench. Nor is it hard to make the case that
the prevailing bipartisan foreign-policy consensus fumbled America’s
post–Cold War “unipolar moment”—leaving the U.S. overstretched overseas and underinvested at home.
Proponents of
retrenchment argue that for too long, friends and foes alike were glad
to let the United States underwrite global security
The U.S. may be
first among unequals for now, but the notion that its leaders can
resurrect the era of uncontested American primacy, prevent China’s rise,
or will our diplomatic relationships and tools into exactly their
pre-Trump, pre-pandemic shapes is a mirage.
Retrenchment is
easily distorted as a kind of nativist isolationism or pathological
declinism. It is often portrayed as a Bannonite call to throw overboard a
sense of enlightened self-interest, and focus at long last on the
“self” part. The heart of the argument is far less radical; it’s about
narrowing our concept of vital interests, sharply reducing global
military deployments, shedding outdated alliances, and reining in our
missionary zeal for democracy-building abroad. Retrenchment means
jettisoning our arrogant dismissiveness of nationalism and sovereignty,
and understanding that other powers will continue to pursue spheres of
influence and defend them. And it means acknowledging that the U.S. can
manage threats and adversaries more effectively than it can vanquish
them.
The main risk in
retrenchment lies in taking it too far, or too fast. Any effort to
disentangle the United States from the world comes with complicated
downsides. President Barack Obama’s attempt to shift the terms of
American engagement in the Middle East offers an important caution. His
thoughtful long game met the unsynchronized passions of the region’s
short game, creating significant dislocations and doubts about American
power.
There are bigger
structural questions too. Even if the U.S. accepted its relative decline
and shrank its external ambitions, where’s the rising ally to whom
America can pass the baton, as the British did to the U.S. after World
War II? However sclerotic some of our alliances have become, how
confident are American leaders that they can shape our fate better
without them? Isn’t there a danger of the United States becoming an
island power in a world inhospitable to islands—with China gradually
dominating the Eurasian landmass, Russia a weakening accomplice, and
Europe an isolated appendage?
And would an
America retrenching in hard power still be able to play the organizing
role on issues like climate change, nuclear nonproliferation, and global
trade, which no other country can play right now?
Restoration
A case can be
made that American diffidence, not hubris, is the original sin. Warts
and all, U.S. global leadership ushered in an era of unprecedented peace
and prosperity. We give it up at our peril. Retrenchers subscribe to
the diplomat George Kennan’s view that the sooner the U.S. sheds its
paternalistic altruism and becomes just another big country, the better
off it will be. Restorationists believe that consigning America to such a
role, in an otherwise rudderless world, would be a fatal mistake.
They argue that
after the collapse of the Soviet Union, the U.S. failed to take full
advantage of its primacy. American leaders naively enabled the rise of
our future rivals, thinking they’d be satisfied with a seat at our
table, rather than displacing us at its head. The U.S. slowed NATO’s
expansion to pacify Russian anxieties, only to see an ever more
revanchist Russia get back on its feet, and welcomed China into the
World Trade Organization as a “responsible stakeholder,” yet failed to
hold it to account when it continued to behave irresponsibly, breaking
the rules while the American middle class broke its back.
Restorationists
argue that America suffers most not when it does too much, but tries too
little. They believe that U.S. leaders feared the uncertain slippery
slope of intervention abroad far more than the certain waves of human
tragedy that would flow absent American action. They see “leading from
behind” as an oxymoron and think the U.S. failed to appreciate how much
emerging democracies depended on America, and how methodically
authoritarians would contest the democratic model.
Although the
United States may no longer enjoy unrivaled dominance, power
differentials still lean significantly in our favor. Despite our
self-inflicted wounds, we still have the world’s strongest military,
most influential economy, most expansive alliance system, and most
potent soft power.
Restorationists
worry about the risk of overreaction to relative American decline. The
contest with China is not another Cold War to avoid, but one to fight
with confidence and win. The U.S. should reject any return to a world of
closed spheres of influence—and be clear-eyed about the rise of
techno-authoritarianism, and push back hard with a new concert of
democracies. And although we might need to rebalance our foreign-policy
tools and avoid the excesses of the post-9/11 era, the risks of slashing
our defense budgets and our global military posture outweigh the
rewards.
For critics, Saturday Night Live’s “More Cowbell”
sketch—admittedly not your standard foreign-policy analogy—embodies the
restorationist view. To paraphrase the immortal words of the producer
Bruce Dickinson: The world has a fever, and the only prescription is
more U.S. leadership, however discordant and self-involved we can
sometimes be, and however fatigued our bandmates might be with our prima
donna act.
The promised
cure, however, leaves many questions unanswered. Do the American people
have the stomach and resources right now for a cosmic struggle with
authoritarianism or
There lies an alternative between breaking up the band and resigning ourselves to the perpetual din of the cowbell.
We live in a new
reality: America can no longer dictate events as we sometimes believed
we could. The Trump administration has done more damage to American
values, image, and influence than any other in my lifetime. And our
nation is more divided by political, racial, and economic tensions than
it has been in generations. But even so, assuming we don’t keep digging
the hole deeper for ourselves at home and abroad, we remain in a better
position than any other major power to mobilize coalitions and navigate
the geopolitical rapids of the 21st century.
We can’t afford
to just put more-modest lipstick on an essentially restorationist
strategy, or, alternatively, apply a bolder rhetorical gloss to
retrenchment. We must reinvent the purpose and practice of American
power, finding a balance between our ambition and our limitations.
First and
foremost, American foreign policy must support domestic renewal. Smart
foreign policy begins at home, with a strong democracy, society, and
economy. But it has to end there too—with more and better jobs, greater
security, a better environment, and a more inclusive, just, and
resilient society.
The well-being of
the American middle class ought to be the engine that drives our
foreign policy. We’re long overdue for a historic course correction at
home. We need to push for more inclusive economic growth—growth that
narrows gaps in income and health. Our actions abroad must further that
goal, rather than hamper it. Prioritizing the needs of American workers
over the profits of corporate America is essential. Leaders must do a
far better job of ensuring that trade and investment deals reflect those
imperatives.
That doesn’t mean
turning our back on trade or global economic integration, however.
Supply chains in some sectors with national-security implications will
require diversification and redundancy to make them sturdier, but policy
makers shouldn’t disrupt global supply chains that benefit American
consumers and fuel emerging markets. An improved economic approach might
involve elements of industrial policy, focusing more government support
on science, technology, education, and research. That ought to be
complemented by reform of our broken immigration system.
A second major
priority for a reinvented foreign policy involves grand global
challenges—climate change, global health insecurity, the proliferation
of weapons of mass destruction, and the revolution in technology. All of
those problems directly affect the health, security, and prosperity of
Americans. None of them can be solved by the United States on its own.
All will require cooperation.
Read more at: https://carnegieendowment.org/2020/07/14/united-states-needs-new-foreign-policy-pub-82295