A Critique of Kissingerism and the Song of Khan Zada (Ch. 13)
Beloved readers,
I seem to have inadvertently jinxed myself - while Chapter 12 was met with the satisfying echo of punctuality, its successor has flirted with the thrill of delay. Summer, in all its exciting chaos, has been an unyielding taskmaster, resulting in this dispatch trailing behind its ideal deadline. So here it is, a little tardy but no less sincere, your latest issue of Ink-uilab.
This month's installment of Ink-uilab features a peculiar assemblage - the enigma of Henry Kissinger, the Shahnameh, and the enchanting, yet controversial, lore of Laurence Hope's India's Love Lyrics.
As ever, I thank you for your unwavering readership and patience. The anticipation of your engagement with this cornucopia of curiosity, despite its late arrival, is what fuels my enthusiasm (and self-imposed monthly deadlines). Your inbox might occasionally find it as an uninvited guest, but I hope it always brings along a worthy, enlightening disruption.
Happy Birthday, Dr. Kissinger.
Dr. Kissinger, the acclaimed scholar, diplomat (and alleged war criminal) who navigated the intricate corridors of international politics as the National Security Advisor and later, the U.S. Secretary of State under Presidents Richard Nixon and Gerald Ford, enjoyed a grand celebration to mark his 100th year. A birthday party lavishly imbued with layers of complexities and contradictions, not unlike the man of the hour himself. Few modern figures have legacies that reverberate through the corridors of time with such an unnerving dissonance as Kissinger.
Ask most American foreign policy hawks (or Yale Grand Strategists) about Henry Kissinger’s legacy and they are likely to present to you a laundry list of his laudatory achievements: pioneering détente with the Soviet Union, orchestrating the opening of relations with the People's Republic of China, handling the Arab-Israeli conflicts through shuttle diplomacy in the Middle East. However, in the gilded halls of the American elite, a peculiar silence pervades when it comes to the contentious aspects of Kissinger's legacy. This was starkly evident during his centennial celebration, where the glitterati chose to extol the contributions of ‘American Metternic’ to foreign policy, conveniently sidestepping the darker alleys of his past. This selective amnesia is symptomatic of a broader societal trend, where the transgressions of the powerful are often cloaked in a shroud of silence.
The shadow of Kissinger's career stretches long and dark, filled with chilling tales of blood and sorrow. Mehdi Hasan, a journalist known for his incisive commentary, marked Kissinger's centennial with a blistering critique, highlighting the many lives lost due to Kissinger's foreign policies and support for brutal dictators and wars. Watch it here:
One of the most forceful diatribes against Kissinger comes from Anthony Bourdain, the traveler, recounter, and celebrity chef. This is unsurprising, as both Kissinger and Bourdain are likely familiar with the art of butchering.
Once you’ve been to Cambodia, you’ll never stop wanting to beat Henry Kissinger to death with your bare hands. You will never again be able to open a newspaper and read about that treacherous, prevaricating, murderous scumbag sitting down for a nice chat with Charlie Rose or attending some black-tie affair for a new glossy magazine without choking. Witness what Henry did in Cambodia – the fruits of his genius for statesmanship – and you will never understand why he’s not sitting in the dock at The Hague next to Milošević. While Henry continues to nibble nori rolls and remaki at A-list parties, Cambodia, the neutral nation he secretly and illegally bombed, invaded, undermined, and then threw to the dogs, is still trying to raise itself up on its one remaining leg.
This narrative is echoed by the late Christopher Hitchens, whose book "The Trial of Henry Kissinger" presents a damning indictment of Kissinger's actions - in Vietnam, Cambodia, Bangladesh, Chile, Cyprus and East Timor - arguing that they amount to war crimes. The book is an exhaustive tirade with extensive evidence and is certainly worth a read. I hear the companion documentary is pretty good too.
And yet, like a paradox wrapped in an enigma, amidst the accusations of war crimes and echoes of atrocities, we encounter the intellectual edifice of Kissingerism. This unique brand of wisdom encompasses his penetrating insights into the philosophy of diplomacy, the role of history, and the nature of high office. One of Kissinger’s sayings is often quoted by professors, intellectuals, and colleagues whom I respect and cite: “High office teaches decision making, not substance. It consumes intellectual capital; it does not create it. Most high officials leave office with the perceptions and insights with which they entered; they learn how to make decisions but not what decisions to make.” In the interest of investing in “intellectual capital,” could I put aside my qualms with Kissinger - the person - and embrace the so-called merits of Kissingerist ideas?
For starters, Kissinger's thoughts on prediction-making, a staple in international relations, are noteworthy and agreeable.
Philip Tetlock, in his masterful book Expert Political Judgment, argues that political phenomena are inherently indeterminate and that experts are far too often wrong in their forecasts. He actually goes so far as to quote Kissinger’s self-deprecating remark in his discussion on defenses raised by those that get forecasts wrong:
The “Politics is Hopelessly Cloudlike” Defense: Experts also have the philosophical option of arguing that, although all preconditions were satisfied and the predicted outcome never came close to occurring and now never will, this failure should not be held against the forecaster. Forecasting exercises are best viewed as lighthearted diversions of no consequence because everyone knows, or else should know, that politics is inherently indeterminate, more cloudlike than clocklike. As Henry Kissinger wryly wrote Daniel Moynihan after the fragmentation of the Soviet Union, “Your crystal ball worked better than mine.” Here is a concession that concedes nothing.
Nonetheless, even with this profound insight, Kissinger's mastery of Realpolitik did not protect him from making monumental strategic misjudgments. His advocacy for NATO's enlargement, which led to a direct confrontation of the U.S. with Russia, his support for the 2003 Iraq invasion, his opposition to the Iran nuclear deal in 2015, and his inability to foresee China's ascension as a formidable adversary—all these missteps are stark indicators of Kissinger's strategic oversights.. Most recently, he gross misread the conflict in Ukraine, a mistake he admitted to in retrospect. Nevertheless, these instances of flawed judgment do not deter him from continuing to make bold predictions, often with disturbing indifference to their potential consequences.
Kissinger's conviction, as articulated in his oft-cited classic ‘Diplomacy’ (1994), that "The study of history offers no manual of instructions that can be applied automatically; history teaches by analogy, shedding light on the likely consequences of comparable situations," serves as another intriguing aspect of his worldview. This belief in the instructive power of history resonates with my professor John Gaddis' assertion that ‘history is a compass, not a map’ suggesting that it can provide a direction but not a detailed path. To illustrate this notion further, let's turn to the Persian historic-epic, Shahnameh.
The Shahnameh could indeed be perceived as a historical compass. Its author, Firdausi highlights a prescient realization that throughout history the quest for wisdom is man’s chief concern. Unlike epics such as Gilgamesh, Manas, or the Iliad, the Shahnameh does not revolve around a single hero. Instead, it is a sweeping epic that celebrates the achievements of different characters throughout the annals of the Persian Empire. Beyond conveying a sense of continuity, the text highlights the complexity of human nature and the importance (or lack thereof) of individuals in the grand narrative of history.
I posit that Firdausi challenges the Carlylean great man theory, instead arguing that while kings are important – they are not impervious. The Shahnameh instills humility in prospective and current leaders. It instills in its readers the realization that regardless of their greatness, they are insignificant compared to divine power or the illustrious Persian rulers of the past. Farr (roughly trans. glory) can be given, and just as easily it can be taken away. But could a leader have derived his knowledge from any other (crisper) Persianate history? Unlike other texts in the genre, Firdausi does not present specific practical advice on running a government. Rather, the leadership insights derived from the chronicles are ambiguous lessons such as the value of infrastructure or the role of honour. In sharp contrast to Machiavelli and Erasmus who lace political advice with historic exemplars, Firdausi composes a rich treatise of history intertwined with value judgements.
This harks back to a broader question of historiography, the debate between falsifiable factualism and interpretation: by separating the temporal and political conditions from the decisions made, are we obscuring history for the sake of generalizable 'lessons'? Are we attempting to extract leadership lessons from a historic epic like the Shahnameh, futile if we accept Leo Tolstoy's view in War and Peace that “A king is history’s slave?” If this is true, and some trans-historic force (be it farr, deterministic karma, or Hegelian materialism) dictates decision-making, then extracting rulership lessons from a historic epic like the Shahnameh futile act. Questioning this precedent indicts Yale’s flagship grand strategy program. Is the reading of the history particularly different from the ideas of collegiate Grand Strategists parroting Kissingerisms, Isiah Berlin’s dialectic between the fox and hedgehog, or ExxonMobil executives studying Tzu’s Art of War?
Now, let's delve into the intricate maze that is Realpolitik, a central component of Kissinger's ideology. often celebrated as the harbinger of Realpolitik, he followed an approach to foreign affairs that prioritized realistic assessments and consideration of power dynamics over moral or ethical principles.
While Kissinger’s Realpolitik has been frequently portrayed as devoid of moral considerations, this portrayal may be an oversimplification or even a caricature of the rich tapestry that formed Kissinger's intellectual architecture.
As elucidated in John Bew’s Realpolitik: A History, Kissinger's conceptualization of Realpolitik was in many ways, an antithesis to the traditional perception of the term:
Kissinger’s intellectual formation bore the imprint of an eclectic range of influences and experiences. From inception, it also included a strong dose of what I have described so far as anti-realpolitik. Much has been made of the time he spent in his native Germany, returning as an American soldier, in the final stages of the Second World War, under Fritz Kraemer — a fellow German American, who recognized his intellectual talents — with the 84th Division in Bensheim. Kraemer later broke with Kissinger in the détente era because of his belief that the moral component to the Cold War had not been emphasized sufficiently during Kissinger’s tenure.
An intriguing example of Realpolitik comes from one of my favorite books, F.M. Cornford’s "Microcosmographia Academica" (1908), a guide for young academics to navigate through the rigid university politics of Cambridge.
The pamphlet, subtitled “A Guide For The Young Academic Politician,” offers guidance to the novitiate academic (who is “neither less than twenty-five years old, nor more than thirty”) to rise through the ranks of Cambridge’s rigid academic politic. Rather than offering advice on how to live or lead in a noble court, Cornford's work focuses on how to survive and thrive in the academic world. Well, is the life of a 20th-century English academic of the classics so much different from that of a medieval prince vying for power? You have a gaggle of wide-eyed courtiers (pupils), a luxurious court lavished with food and wine (formal hall), and an oil painting of yourself in an Early Gothic Revivalist castle.
For Cornford, a classicist, quotes from Plato are liberally used and much like Machiavelli or Erasmus, he uses appeals to authority to validate his lessons. He adopts a straightforward tone, drawing on his familiarity with political academia, to direct his ambitious postulant down the right path. Stylistically, the Microcosmographia is beautiful in its near-Wittgensteinian approach. It has enumeration and clearly categorized chapters. It presents simple, actionable principles such as "The (Thin End of the) Wedge" and "The Dangerous Precedent" and is riddled with short aphorisms such as “Remember this: the men who get things done are the men who walk up and down King's Parade, from two to four, every day of their lives.”
Re: The Thin End of the Wedge. Here’s the obligatory Yes Minister interlude:
Beyond simply offering a candid and often humorous look at the academic world and the people who inhabit it, it offers fresh advice to a young actor motivated to rise within the system. Cornford presents advice on how to deal with rivals, how to manage one's finances, and how to make the most of one's opportunities. His targets are many and varied, ranging from the self-important pedant to the idle gossip. He takes aim at those who are excessively proud of their learning, those who are more concerned with petty squabbles than with the pursuit of knowledge, and those who are content to rest on their laurels rather than strive for further greatness. Cornford's pragmatism, expressed through his succinct aphorisms, delves into survival strategies in an intensely political environment, and isn't dissimilar from the ideologies that pervade international diplomacy.
The question then arises - is Realpolitik only beneficial to the (near) hegemon? It's a nuanced issue that depends largely on the context. While Realpolitik has been often employed in a purely pragmatic and power-oriented manner, it can also be infused with an element of idealism, a perspective that Kissinger espoused. Nevertheless. Kissinger's writings exhibit a strong streak of American exceptionalism, intertwined with a Realpolitik perspective, which he believed was uniquely American rather than European. As observed by David Mack, former deputy assistant secretary of state for Near East Affairs, Kissinger saw the United States as "the last best hope of the world", even as he advocated for a greater infusion of cynicism and realism. Bew argues in a prescient essay:
“In looking at how we have used and abused realpolitik in the English-speaking world—throughout the First and Second World Wars, through the Cold War and in the 9/11 era—we have what I call a “window into the soul” of the Anglo-American worldview. It has been used both positively and pejoratively, depending on who is using it and in what context. Realpolitik is not, as is often assumed, as old as statecraft itself. Nor is it part of a seamless creed stretching back to Thucydides and running through Machiavelli, Cardinal Richelieu and Thomas Hobbes, up to Hans Morgenthau, George Kennan and Henry Kissinger.”
Finally then, how do we engage with Realpolitik? it's essential to consider the balance between the pragmatism associated with Realpolitik, and moralism. In my opinion, while moderation and flexibility are indeed valuable, the dismissal of all moral considerations is perilous. Nevertheless, I posit that the key lies in maintaining an appearance of pragmatism while safeguarding one's ethical principles. In the delicate dance of negotiation, it is always beneficial to at least appear pragmatic in all negotiations. Flexibility is a virtue. One must aim to be a pragmatist on paper, but not at heart.
As always, some verses, in parting:
Adela Florence Nicolson, known to the world by her masculine pseudonym, Laurence Hope, was a poetess who defied the conventions of her time. Born in England in 1865, she spent the majority of her life in India, a country that left an indelible imprint on her soul and found its way into her verses. Her work, particularly the collection "India's Love Lyrics," is a testament to her deep love for India and its rich tapestry of cultures. Yet, she uniquely cloaked her original work under the guise of translations and adopted a male pseudonym, Laurence Hope, blurring the lines between cultural appreciation and appropriation.
Adela's work was unique in that she presented her poems as translations of Indian poets. This claim, however, was a clever ruse. The poems were not translations but her own original work, a fact she concealed to lend an air of exotic authenticity to her verses. Further, her use of a male pen-name was a conscious choice, a means to ensure her work was taken seriously in an era where female authors were often dismissed or overlooked. This pseudonym allowed her to explore themes of love, longing, and passion with an intensity and frankness that might have been considered unseemly for a woman of her time.
The deceit endemic to her craft where she misled readers about the origins of her work, drew significant controversy. However, to solely focus on this would be a disservice to her poetry. Her collection, while wrapped in British exoticism of Indian culture, exhibits a depth and breadth of immense calibre. It encompasses a variety of styles (such as Sufi mysticism and northeastern folk) that mimic genuine poets and their tones, a feat not easily accomplished.
Her life and work are reminiscent of the British women in the Raj, who often played a significant role in understanding, synthesizing, and propagating the ideas of India. As Ram Guha discusses in his 2022 book "Rebels Against the Raj" these women often served as key cultural intermediaries, bridging the gap between the British and Indian societies.
Her works were not just profound but also lyrically beautiful, which contributed to their lasting appeal. Some verses were set to music, becoming hugely popular and ensuring her work's survival well into the 1930s. One such piece is the enchanting "Kashmiri Love Song", the opening lines of which – "Pale hands I loved, Beside the Shalimar" – painted a vivid, romantic image of the East. The song was even performed by many, including Rudolph Valentino in 1923, and even appears in an Agha Shahid Ali ghazal.
I present to you the Song of Khan Zada, from India’s Love Lyrics:
As one may sip a Stranger's Bowl
You gave yourself but not your soul.
I wonder, now that time has passed,
Where you will come to rest at last.
You gave your beauty for an hour,
I held it gently as a flower.
You wished to leave, told me so,
I kissed your feet and let you go.
Goodnight America,
BM
(All errors are my own and a by-product of editing this on a very rickety DC Metro towards Greenbelt)