peromaneste™

Friday, August 30, 2013, the day the feckless Barack Obama brought to a premature end America’s reign as the world’s sole indispensable superpower—or, alternatively, the day the sagacious Barack Obama peered into the Middle Eastern abyss and stepped back from the consuming void—began with a thundering speech given on Obama’s behalf by his secretary of state, John Kerry, in Washington, D.C. The subject of Kerry’s uncharacteristically Churchillian remarks, delivered in the Treaty Room at the State Department, was the gassing of civilians by the president of Syria, Bashar al-Assad.

Obama, in whose Cabinet Kerry serves faithfully, but with some exasperation, is himself given to vaulting oratory, but not usually of the martial sort associated with Churchill. Obama believes that the Manichaeanism, and eloquently rendered bellicosity, commonly associated with Churchill were justified by Hitler’s rise, and were at times defensible in the struggle against the Soviet Union. But he also thinks rhetoric should be weaponized sparingly, if at all, in today’s more ambiguous and complicated international arena. The president believes that Churchillian rhetoric and, more to the point, Churchillian habits of thought, helped bring his predecessor, George W. Bush, to ruinous war in Iraq. Obama entered the White House bent on getting out of Iraq and Afghanistan; he was not seeking new dragons to slay. And he was particularly mindful of promising victory in conflicts he believed to be unwinnable. “If you were to say, for instance, that we’re going to rid Afghanistan of the Taliban and build a prosperous democracy instead, the president is aware that someone, seven years later, is going to hold you to that promise,” Ben Rhodes, Obama’s deputy national-security adviser, and his foreign-policy amanuensis, told me not long ago.

But Kerry’s rousing remarks on that August day, which had been drafted in part by Rhodes, were threaded with righteous anger and bold promises, including the barely concealed threat of imminent attack. Kerry, like Obama himself, was horrified by the sins committed by the Syrian regime in its attempt to put down a two-year-old rebellion. In the Damascus suburb of Ghouta nine days earlier, Assad’s army had murdered more than 1,400 civilians with sarin gas. The strong sentiment inside the Obama administration was that Assad had earned dire punishment. In Situation Room meetings that followed the attack on Ghouta, only the White House chief of staff, Denis McDonough, cautioned explicitly about the perils of intervention. John Kerry argued vociferously for action.

“As previous storms in history have gathered, when unspeakable crimes were within our power to stop them, we have been warned against the temptations of looking the other way,” Kerry said in his speech. “History is full of leaders who have warned against inaction, indifference, and especially against silence when it mattered most.”

Kerry counted President Obama among those leaders. A year earlier, when the administration suspected that the Assad regime was contemplating the use of chemical weapons, Obama had declared: “We have been very clear to the Assad regime … that a red line for us is we start seeing a whole bunch of chemical weapons moving around or being utilized. That would change my calculus. That would change my equation.”

Despite this threat, Obama seemed to many critics to be coldly detached from the suffering of innocent Syrians. Late in the summer of 2011, he had called for Assad’s departure. “For the sake of the Syrian people,” Obama said, “the time has come for President Assad to step aside.” But Obama initially did little to bring about Assad’s end.

He resisted demands to act in part because he assumed, based on the analysis of U.S. intelligence, that Assad would fall without his help. “He thought Assad would go the way Mubarak went,” Dennis Ross, a former Middle East adviser to Obama, told me, referring to the quick departure of Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak in early 2011, a moment that represented the acme of the Arab Spring. But as Assad clung to power, Obama’s resistance to direct intervention only grew. After several months of deliberation, he authorized the CIA to train and fund Syrian rebels, but he also shared the outlook of his former defense secretary, Robert Gates, who had routinely asked in meetings, “Shouldn’t we finish up the two wars we have before we look for another?”

The current U.S. ambassador to the United Nations, Samantha Power, who is the most dispositionally interventionist among Obama’s senior advisers, had argued early for arming Syria’s rebels. Power, who during this period served on the National Security Council staff, is the author of a celebrated book excoriating a succession of U.S. presidents for their failures to prevent genocide. The book, A Problem From Hell, published in 2002, drew Obama to Power while he was in the U.S. Senate, though the two were not an obvious ideological match. Power is a partisan of the doctrine known as “responsibility to protect,” which holds that sovereignty should not be considered inviolate when a country is slaughtering its own citizens. She lobbied him to endorse this doctrine in the speech he delivered when he accepted the Nobel Peace Prize in 2009, but he declined. Obama generally does not believe a president should place American soldiers at great risk in order to prevent humanitarian disasters, unless those disasters pose a direct security threat to the United States.

Power sometimes argued with Obama in front of other National Security Council officials, to the point where he could no longer conceal his frustration. “Samantha, enough, I’ve already read your book,” he once snapped.

Obama, unlike liberal interventionists, is an admirer of the foreign-policy realism of President George H. W. Bush and, in particular, of Bush’s national-security adviser, Brent Scowcroft (“I love that guy,” Obama once told me). Bush and Scowcroft removed Saddam Hussein’s army from Kuwait in 1991, and they deftly managed the disintegration of the Soviet Union; Scowcroft also, on Bush’s behalf, toasted the leaders of China shortly after the slaughter in Tiananmen Square. As Obama was writing his campaign manifesto, The Audacity of Hope, in 2006, Susan Rice, then an informal adviser, felt it necessary to remind him to include at least one line of praise for the foreign policy of President Bill Clinton, to partially balance the praise he showered on Bush and Scowcroft.

At the outset of the Syrian uprising, in early 2011, Power argued that the rebels, drawn from the ranks of ordinary citizens, deserved America’s enthusiastic support. Others noted that the rebels were farmers and doctors and carpenters, comparing these revolutionaries to the men who won America’s war for independence.

Obama flipped this plea on its head. “When you have a professional army,” he once told me, “that is well armed and sponsored by two large states”—Iran and Russia—“who have huge stakes in this, and they are fighting against a farmer, a carpenter, an engineer who started out as protesters and suddenly now see themselves in the midst of a civil conflict …” He paused. “The notion that we could have—in a clean way that didn’t commit U.S. military forces—changed the equation on the ground there was never true.” The message Obama telegraphed in speeches and interviews was clear: He would not end up like the second President Bush—a president who became tragically overextended in the Middle East, whose decisions filled the wards of Walter Reed with grievously wounded soldiers, who was helpless to stop the obliteration of his reputation, even when he recalibrated his policies in his second term. Obama would say privately that the first task of an American president in the post-Bush international arena was “Don’t do stupid shit.”

Obama’s reticence frustrated Power and others on his national-security team who had a preference for action. Hillary Clinton, when she was Obama’s secretary of state, argued for an early and assertive response to Assad’s violence. In 2014, after she left office, Clinton told me that “the failure to help build up a credible fighting force of the people who were the originators of the protests against Assad … left a big vacuum, which the jihadists have now filled.” When The Atlantic published this statement, and also published Clinton’s assessment that “great nations need organizing principles, and ‘Don’t do stupid stuff’ is not an organizing principle,” Obama became “rip-shit angry,” according to one of his senior advisers. The president did not understand how “Don’t do stupid shit” could be considered a controversial slogan. Ben Rhodes recalls that “the questions we were asking in the White House were ‘Who exactly is in the stupid-shit caucus? Who is pro–stupid shit?’ ” The Iraq invasion, Obama believed, should have taught Democratic interventionists like Clinton, who had voted for its authorization, the dangers of doing stupid shit. (Clinton quickly apologized to Obama for her comments, and a Clinton spokesman announced that the two would “hug it out” on Martha’s Vineyard when they crossed paths there later.)

Syria, for Obama, represented a slope potentially as slippery as Iraq. In his first term, he came to believe that only a handful of threats in the Middle East conceivably warranted direct U.S. military intervention. These included the threat posed by al‑Qaeda; threats to the continued existence of Israel (“It would be a moral failing for me as president of the United States” not to defend Israel, he once told me); and, not unrelated to Israel’s security, the threat posed by a nuclear-armed Iran. The danger to the United States posed by the Assad regime did not rise to the level of these challenges.

Given Obama’s reticence about intervention, the bright-red line he drew for Assad in the summer of 2012 was striking. Even his own advisers were surprised. “I didn’t know it was coming,” his secretary of defense at the time, Leon Panetta, told me. I was told that Vice President Joe Biden repeatedly warned Obama against drawing a red line on chemical weapons, fearing that it would one day have to be enforced.
Ninety minutes later, at the White House, Obama reinforced Kerry’s message in a public statement: “It’s important for us to recognize that when over 1,000 people are killed, including hundreds of innocent children, through the use of a weapon that 98 or 99 percent of humanity says should not be used even in war, and there is no action, then we’re sending a signal that that international norm doesn’t mean much. And that is a danger to our national security.”

It appeared as though Obama had drawn the conclusion that damage to American credibility in one region of the world would bleed into others, and that U.S. deterrent credibility was indeed at stake in Syria. Assad, it seemed, had succeeded in pushing the president to a place he never thought he would have to go. Obama generally believes that the Washington foreign-policy establishment, which he secretly disdains, makes a fetish of “credibility”—particularly the sort of credibility purchased with force. The preservation of credibility, he says, led to Vietnam. Within the White House, Obama would argue that “dropping bombs on someone to prove that you’re willing to drop bombs on someone is just about the worst reason to use force.”

American national-security credibility, as it is conventionally understood in the Pentagon, the State Department, and the cluster of think tanks headquartered within walking distance of the White House, is an intangible yet potent force—one that, when properly nurtured, keeps America’s friends feeling secure and keeps the international order stable.

In White House meetings that crucial week in August, Biden, who ordinarily shared Obama’s worries about American overreach, argued passionately that “big nations don’t bluff.” America’s closest allies in Europe and across the Middle East believed Obama was threatening military action, and his own advisers did as well. At a joint press conference with Obama at the White House the previous May, David Cameron, the British prime minister, had said, “Syria’s history is being written in the blood of her people, and it is happening on our watch.” Cameron’s statement, one of his advisers told me, was meant to encourage Obama toward more-decisive action. “The prime minister was certainly under the impression that the president would enforce the red line,” the adviser told me. The Saudi ambassador in Washington at the time, Adel al-Jubeir, told friends, and his superiors in Riyadh, that the president was finally ready to strike. Obama “figured out how important this is,” Jubeir, who is now the Saudi foreign minister, told one interlocutor. “He will definitely strike.”

Obama had already ordered the Pentagon to develop target lists. Five Arleigh Burke–class destroyers were in the Mediterranean, ready to fire cruise missiles at regime targets. French President François Hollande, the most enthusiastically pro-intervention among Europe’s leaders, was preparing to strike as well. All week, White House officials had publicly built the case that Assad had committed a crime against humanity. Kerry’s speech would mark the culmination of this campaign.

But the president had grown queasy. In the days after the gassing of Ghouta, Obama would later tell me, he found himself recoiling from the idea of an attack unsanctioned by international law or by Congress. The American people seemed unenthusiastic about a Syria intervention; so too did one of the few foreign leaders Obama respects, Angela Merkel, the German chancellor. She told him that her country would not participate in a Syria campaign. And in a stunning development, on Thursday, August 29, the British Parliament denied David Cameron its blessing for an attack. John Kerry later told me that when he heard that, “internally, I went, Oops.”

Obama was also unsettled by a surprise visit early in the week from James Clapper, his director of national intelligence, who interrupted the President’s Daily Brief, the threat report Obama receives each morning from Clapper’s analysts, to make clear that the intelligence on Syria’s use of sarin gas, while robust, was not a “slam dunk.” He chose the term carefully. Clapper, the chief of an intelligence community traumatized by its failures in the run-up to the Iraq War, was not going to overpromise, in the manner of the onetime CIA director George Tenet, who famously guaranteed George W. Bush a “slam dunk” in Iraq.

While the Pentagon and the White House’s national-security apparatuses were still moving toward war (John Kerry told me he was expecting a strike the day after his speech), the president had come to believe that he was walking into a trap—one laid both by allies and by adversaries, and by conventional expectations of what an American president is supposed to do.

Many of his advisers did not grasp the depth of the president’s misgivings; his Cabinet and his allies were certainly unaware of them. But his doubts were growing. Late on Friday afternoon, Obama determined that he was simply not prepared to authorize a strike. He asked McDonough, his chief of staff, to take a walk with him on the South Lawn of the White House. Obama did not choose McDonough randomly: He is the Obama aide most averse to U.S. military intervention, and someone who, in the words of one of his colleagues, “thinks in terms of traps.” Obama, ordinarily a preternaturally confident man, was looking for validation, and trying to devise ways to explain his change of heart, both to his own aides and to the public. He and McDonough stayed outside for an hour. Obama told him he was worried that Assad would place civilians as “human shields” around obvious targets. He also pointed out an underlying flaw in the proposed strike: U.S. missiles would not be fired at chemical-weapons depots, for fear of sending plumes of poison into the air. A strike would target military units that had delivered these weapons, but not the weapons themselves.

Obama also shared with McDonough a long-standing resentment: He was tired of watching Washington unthinkingly drift toward war in Muslim countries. Four years earlier, the president believed, the Pentagon had “jammed” him on a troop surge for Afghanistan. Now, on Syria, he was beginning to feel jammed again.

When the two men came back to the Oval Office, the president told his national-security aides that he planned to stand down. There would be no attack the next day; he wanted to refer the matter to Congress for a vote. Aides in the room were shocked. Susan Rice, now Obama’s national-security adviser, argued that the damage to America’s credibility would be serious and lasting. Others had difficulty fathoming how the president could reverse himself the day before a planned strike. Obama, however, was completely calm. “If you’ve been around him, you know when he’s ambivalent about something, when it’s a 51–49 decision,” Ben Rhodes told me. “But he was completely at ease.”

Not long ago, I asked Obama to describe his thinking on that day. He listed the practical worries that had preoccupied him. 1) “We had UN inspectors on the ground who were completing their work, and we could not risk taking a shot while they were there. 2) A second major factor was the failure of Cameron to obtain the consent of his parliament.”
3) The third, and most important, factor, he told me, was “our assessment that while we could inflict some damage on Assad, we could not, through a missile strike, eliminate the chemical weapons themselves, and what I would then face was the prospect of Assad having survived the strike and claiming he had successfully defied the United States, that the United States had acted unlawfully in the absence of a UN mandate, and that that would have potentially strengthened his hand rather than weakened it.”
4) The fourth factor, he said, was of deeper philosophical importance. “This falls in the category of something that I had been brooding on for some time,” he said. “I had come into office with the strong belief that the scope of executive power in national-security issues is very broad, but not limitless.”

Obama knew his decision not to bomb Syria would likely upset America’s allies. It did. The prime minister of France, Manuel Valls, told me that his government was already worried about the consequences of earlier inaction in Syria when word came of the stand-down. “By not intervening early, we have created a monster,” Valls told me. “We were absolutely certain that the U.S. administration would say yes. Working with the Americans, we had already seen the targets. It was a great surprise. If we had bombed as was planned, I think things would be different today.” The crown prince of Abu Dhabi, Mohammed bin Zayed al-Nahyan, who was already upset with Obama for “abandoning” Hosni Mubarak, the former president of Egypt, fumed to American visitors that the U.S. was led by an “untrustworthy” president. The king of Jordan, Abdullah II—already dismayed by what he saw as Obama’s illogical desire to distance the U.S. from its traditional Sunni Arab allies and create a new alliance with Iran, Assad’s Shia sponsor—complained privately, “I think I believe in American power more than Obama does.” The Saudis, too, were infuriated. They had never trusted Obama—he had, long before he became president, referred to them as a “so-called ally” of the U.S. “Iran is the new great power of the Middle East, and the U.S. is the old,” Jubeir, the Saudi ambassador in Washington, told his superiors in Riyadh.

Obama’s decision caused tremors across Washington as well. John McCain and Lindsey Graham, the two leading Republican hawks in the Senate, had met with Obama in the White House earlier in the week and had been promised an attack. They were angered by the about-face. Damage was done even inside the administration. Neither Chuck Hagel, then the secretary of defense, nor John Kerry was in the Oval Office when the president informed his team of his thinking. Kerry would not learn about the change until later that evening. “I just got fucked over,” he told a friend shortly after talking to the president that night. (When I asked Kerry recently about that tumultuous night, he said, “I didn’t stop to analyze it. I figured the president had a reason to make a decision and, honestly, I understood his notion.”)

The next few days were chaotic. The president asked Congress to authorize the use of force—the irrepressible Kerry served as chief lobbyist—and it quickly became apparent in the White House that Congress had little interest in a strike. When I spoke with Biden recently about the red-line decision, he made special note of this fact. “It matters to have Congress with you, in terms of your ability to sustain what you set out to do,” he said. Obama “didn’t go to Congress to get himself off the hook. He had his doubts at that point, but he knew that if he was going to do anything, he better damn well have the public with him, or it would be a very short ride.” Congress’s clear ambivalence convinced Biden that Obama was correct to fear the slippery slope. “What happens when we get a plane shot down? Do we not go in and rescue?,” Biden asked. “You need the support of the American people.”

Amid the confusion, a deus ex machina appeared in the form of the Russian president, Vladimir Putin. At the G20 summit in St. Petersburg, which was held the week after the Syria reversal, Obama pulled Putin aside, he recalled to me, and told the Russian president “that if he forced Assad to get rid of the chemical weapons, that that would eliminate the need for us taking a military strike.” Within weeks, Kerry, working with his Russian counterpart, Sergey Lavrov, would engineer the removal of most of Syria’s chemical-weapons arsenal—a program whose existence Assad until then had refused to even acknowledge.

The arrangement won the president praise from, of all people, Benjamin Netanyahu, the Israeli prime minister, with whom he has had a consistently contentious relationship. The removal of Syria’s chemical-weapons stockpiles represented “the one ray of light in a very dark region,” Netanyahu told me not long after the deal was announced.

John Kerry today expresses no patience for those who argue, as he himself once did, that Obama should have bombed Assad-regime sites in order to buttress America’s deterrent capability. “You’d still have the weapons there, and you’d probably be fighting isil” for control of the weapons, he said, referring to the Islamic State, the terror group also known as isis. “It just doesn’t make sense. But I can’t deny to you that this notion about the red line being crossed and [Obama’s] not doing anything gained a life of its own.”

Obama understands that the decision he made to step back from air strikes, and to allow the violation of a red line he himself had drawn to go unpunished, will be interrogated mercilessly by historians. But today that decision is a source of deep satisfaction for him.

“I’m very proud of this moment,” he told me. “The overwhelming weight of conventional wisdom and the machinery of our national-security apparatus had gone fairly far. The perception was that my credibility was at stake, that America’s credibility was at stake. And so for me to press the pause button at that moment, I knew, would cost me politically. And the fact that I was able to pull back from the immediate pressures and think through in my own mind what was in America’s interest, not only with respect to Syria but also with respect to our democracy, was as tough a decision as I’ve made—and I believe ultimately it was the right decision to make.”

This was the moment the president believes he finally broke with what he calls, derisively, the “Washington playbook.”

“Where am I controversial? When it comes to the use of military power,” he said. “That is the source of the controversy. There’s a playbook in Washington that presidents are supposed to follow. It’s a playbook that comes out of the foreign-policy establishment. And the playbook prescribes responses to different events, and these responses tend to be militarized responses. Where America is directly threatened, the playbook works. But the playbook can also be a trap that can lead to bad decisions. In the midst of an international challenge like Syria, you get judged harshly if you don’t follow the playbook, even if there are good reasons why it does not apply.”

I have come to believe that, in Obama’s mind, August 30, 2013, was his liberation day, the day he defied not only the foreign-policy establishment and its cruise-missile playbook, but also the demands of America’s frustrating, high-maintenance allies in the Middle East—countries, he complains privately to friends and advisers, that seek to exploit American “muscle” for their own narrow and sectarian ends. By 2013, Obama’s resentments were well developed. He resented military leaders who believed they could fix any problem if the commander in chief would simply give them what they wanted, and he resented the foreign-policy think-tank complex. A widely held sentiment inside the White House is that many of the most prominent foreign-policy think tanks in Washington are doing the bidding of their Arab and pro-Israel funders. I’ve heard one administration official refer to Massachusetts Avenue, the home of many of these think tanks, as “Arab-occupied territory.”

For some foreign-policy experts, even within his own administration, Obama’s about-face on enforcing the red line was a dispiriting moment in which he displayed irresolution and naïveté, and did lasting damage to America’s standing in the world. “Once the commander in chief draws that red line,” Leon Panetta, who served as CIA director and then as secretary of defense in Obama’s first term, told me recently, “then I think the credibility of the commander in chief and this nation is at stake if he doesn’t enforce it.” Right after Obama’s reversal, Hillary Clinton said privately, “If you say you’re going to strike, you have to strike. There’s no choice.”

“Assad is effectively being rewarded for the use of chemical weapons, rather than ‘punished’ as originally planned.” Shadi Hamid, a scholar at the Brookings Institution, wrote for The Atlantic at the time. “He has managed to remove the threat of U.S. military action while giving very little up in return.”

Even commentators who have been broadly sympathetic to Obama’s policies saw this episode as calamitous. Gideon Rose, the editor of Foreign Affairs, wrote recently that Obama’s handling of this crisis—“first casually announcing a major commitment, then dithering about living up to it, then frantically tossing the ball to Congress for a decision—was a case study in embarrassingly amateurish improvisation.”

Obama’s defenders, however, argue that he did no damage to U.S. credibility, citing Assad’s subsequent agreement to have his chemical weapons removed. “The threat of force was credible enough for them to give up their chemical weapons,” Tim Kaine, a Democratic senator from Virginia, told me. “We threatened military action and they responded. That’s deterrent credibility.”

History may record August 30, 2013, as the day Obama prevented the U.S. from entering yet another disastrous Muslim civil war, and the day he removed the threat of a chemical attack on Israel, Turkey, or Jordan. Or it could be remembered as the day he let the Middle East slip from America’s grasp, into the hands of Russia, Iran, and isis.

I first spoke with Obama about foreign policy when he was a U.S. senator, in 2006. At the time, I was familiar mainly with the text of a speech he had delivered four years earlier, at a Chicago antiwar rally. It was an unusual speech for an antiwar rally in that it was not antiwar; Obama, who was then an Illinois state senator, argued only against one specific and, at the time, still theoretical, war. “I suffer no illusions about Saddam Hussein,” he said. “He is a brutal man. A ruthless man … But I also know that Saddam poses no imminent and direct threat to the United States or to his neighbors.” He added, “I know that an invasion of Iraq without a clear rationale and without strong international support will only fan the flames of the Middle East, and encourage the worst, rather than best, impulses of the Arab world, and strengthen the recruitment arm of al-Qaeda.”

This speech had made me curious about its author. I wanted to learn how an Illinois state senator, a part-time law professor who spent his days traveling between Chicago and Springfield, had come to a more prescient understanding of the coming quagmire than the most experienced foreign-policy thinkers of his party, including such figures as Hillary Clinton, Joe Biden, and John Kerry, not to mention, of course, most Republicans and many foreign-policy analysts and writers, including me.

Since that first meeting in 2006, I’ve interviewed Obama periodically, mainly on matters related to the Middle East. But over the past few months, I’ve spent several hours talking with him about the broadest themes of his “long game” foreign policy, including the themes he is most eager to discuss—namely, the ones that have nothing to do with the Middle East.

“isis is not an existential threat to the United States,” he told me in one of these conversations. “Climate change is a potential existential threat to the entire world if we don’t do something about it.” Obama explained that climate change worries him in particular because “it is a political problem perfectly designed to repel government intervention. It involves every single country, and it is a comparatively slow-moving emergency, so there is always something seemingly more urgent on the agenda.”

At the moment, of course, the most urgent of the “seemingly more urgent” issues is Syria. But at any given moment, Obama’s entire presidency could be upended by North Korean aggression, or an assault by Russia on a member of nato, or an isis-planned attack on U.S. soil. Few presidents have faced such diverse tests on the international stage as Obama has, and the challenge for him, as for all presidents, has been to distinguish the merely urgent from the truly important, and to focus on the important.

My goal in our recent conversations was to see the world through Obama’s eyes, and to understand what he believes America’s role in the world should be. This article is informed by our recent series of conversations, which took place in the Oval Office; over lunch in his dining room; aboard Air Force One; and in Kuala Lumpur during his most recent visit to Asia, in November. It is also informed by my previous interviews with him and by his speeches and prolific public ruminations, as well as by conversations with his top foreign-policy and national-security advisers, foreign leaders and their ambassadors in Washington, friends of the president and others who have spoken with him about his policies and decisions, and his adversaries and critics.

Over the course of our conversations, I came to see Obama as a president who has grown steadily more fatalistic about the constraints on America’s ability to direct global events, even as he has, late in his presidency, accumulated a set of potentially historic foreign-policy achievements—controversial, provisional achievements, to be sure, but achievements nonetheless: the opening to Cuba, the Paris climate-change accord, the Trans-Pacific Partnership trade agreement, and, of course, the Iran nuclear deal. These he accomplished despite his growing sense that larger forces—the riptide of tribal feeling in a world that should have already shed its atavism; the resilience of small men who rule large countries in ways contrary to their own best interests; the persistence of fear as a governing human emotion—frequently conspire against the best of America’s intentions. But he also has come to learn, he told me, that very little is accomplished in international affairs without U.S. leadership.

Obama talked me through this apparent contradiction. “I want a president who has the sense that you can’t fix everything,” he said. But on the other hand, “if we don’t set the agenda, it doesn’t happen.” He explained what he meant. “The fact is, there is not a summit I’ve attended since I’ve been president where we are not setting the agenda, where we are not responsible for the key results,” he said. “That’s true whether you’re talking about nuclear security, whether you’re talking about saving the world financial system, whether you’re talking about climate.”

One day, over lunch in the Oval Office dining room, I asked the president how he thought his foreign policy might be understood by historians. He started by describing for me a four-box grid representing the main schools of American foreign-policy thought. One box he called isolationism, which he dismissed out of hand. “The world is ever-shrinking,” he said. “Withdrawal is untenable.” The other boxes he labeled realism, liberal interventionism, and internationalism. “I suppose you could call me a realist in believing we can’t, at any given moment, relieve all the world’s misery,” he said. “We have to choose where we can make a real impact.” He also noted that he was quite obviously an internationalist, devoted as he is to strengthening multilateral organizations and international norms.

I told him my impression was that the various traumas of the past seven years have, if anything, intensified his commitment to realist-driven restraint. Had nearly two full terms in the White House soured him on interventionism?

“For all of our warts, the United States has clearly been a force for good in the world,” he said. “If you compare us to previous superpowers, we act less on the basis of naked self-interest, and have been interested in establishing norms that benefit everyone. If it is possible to do good at a bearable cost, to save lives, we will do it.”

If a crisis, or a humanitarian catastrophe, does not meet his stringent standard for what constitutes a direct national-security threat, Obama said, he doesn’t believe that he should be forced into silence. He is not so much the realist, he suggested, that he won’t pass judgment on other leaders. Though he has so far ruled out the use of direct American power to depose Assad, he was not wrong, he argued, to call on Assad to go. “Oftentimes when you get critics of our Syria policy, one of the things that they’ll point out is ‘You called for Assad to go, but you didn’t force him to go. You did not invade.’ And the notion is that if you weren’t going to overthrow the regime, you shouldn’t have said anything. That’s a weird argument to me, the notion that if we use our moral authority to say ‘This is a brutal regime, and this is not how a leader should treat his people,’ once you do that, you are obliged to invade the country and install a government you prefer.”

“I am very much the internationalist,” Obama said in a later conversation. “And I am also an idealist insofar as I believe that we should be promoting values, like democracy and human rights and norms and values, because not only do they serve our interests the more people adopt values that we share—in the same way that, economically, if people adopt rule of law and property rights and so forth, that is to our advantage—but because it makes the world a better place. And I’m willing to say that in a very corny way, and in a way that probably Brent Scowcroft would not say.

“Having said that,” he continued, “I also believe that the world is a tough, complicated, messy, mean place, and full of hardship and tragedy. And in order to advance both our security interests and those ideals and values that we care about, we’ve got to be hardheaded at the same time as we’re bighearted, and pick and choose our spots, and recognize that there are going to be times where the best that we can do is to shine a spotlight on something that’s terrible, but not believe that we can automatically solve it. There are going to be times where our security interests conflict with our concerns about human rights. There are going to be times where we can do something about innocent people being killed, but there are going to be times where we can’t.”

If Obama ever questioned whether America really is the world’s one indispensable nation, he no longer does so. But he is the rare president who seems at times to resent indispensability, rather than embrace it. “Free riders aggravate me,” he told me. Recently, Obama warned that Great Britain would no longer be able to claim a “special relationship” with the United States if it did not commit to spending at least 2 percent of its GDP on defense. “You have to pay your fair share,” Obama told David Cameron, who subsequently met the 2 percent threshold.

Part of his mission as president, Obama explained, is to spur other countries to take action for themselves, rather than wait for the U.S. to lead. The defense of the liberal international order against jihadist terror, Russian adventurism, and Chinese bullying depends in part, he believes, on the willingness of other nations to share the burden with the U.S. This is why the controversy surrounding the assertion—made by an anonymous administration official to The New Yorker during the Libya crisis of 2011—that his policy consisted of “leading from behind” perturbed him. “We don’t have to always be the ones who are up front,” he told me. “Sometimes we’re going to get what we want precisely because we are sharing in the agenda. The irony is that it was precisely in order to prevent the Europeans and the Arab states from holding our coats while we did all the fighting that we, by design, insisted” that they lead during the mission to remove Muammar Qaddafi from power in Libya. “It was part of the anti–free rider campaign.”

The president also seems to believe that sharing leadership with other countries is a way to check America’s more unruly impulses. “One of the reasons I am so focused on taking action multilaterally where our direct interests are not at stake is that multilateralism regulates hubris,” he explained. He consistently invokes what he understands to be America’s past failures overseas as a means of checking American self-righteousness. “We have history,” he said. “We have history in Iran, we have history in Indonesia and Central America. So we have to be mindful of our history when we start talking about intervening, and understand the source of other people’s suspicions.”

In his efforts to off-load some of America’s foreign-policy responsibilities to its allies, Obama appears to be a classic retrenchment president in the manner of Dwight D. Eisenhower and Richard Nixon. Retrenchment, in this context, is defined as “pulling back, spending less, cutting risk, and shifting burdens to allies,” Stephen Sestanovich, an expert on presidential foreign policy at the Council on Foreign Relations, explained to me. “If John McCain had been elected in 2008, you would still have seen some degree of retrenchment,” Sestanovich said. “It’s what the country wanted. If you come into office in the middle of a war that is not going well, you’re convinced that the American people have hired you to do less.” One difference between Eisenhower and Nixon, on the one hand, and Obama, on the other, Sestanovich said, is that Obama “appears to have had a personal, ideological commitment to the idea that foreign policy had consumed too much of the nation’s attention and resources.”
I asked Obama about retrenchment. “Almost every great world power has succumbed” to overextension, he said. “What I think is not smart is the idea that every time there is a problem, we send in our military to impose order. We just can’t do that.”

But once he decides that a particular challenge represents a direct national-security threat, he has shown a willingness to act unilaterally. This is one of the larger ironies of the Obama presidency: He has relentlessly questioned the efficacy of force, but he has also become the most successful terrorist-hunter in the history of the presidency, one who will hand to his successor a set of tools an accomplished assassin would envy. “He applies different standards to direct threats to the U.S.,” Ben Rhodes says. “For instance, despite his misgivings about Syria, he has not had a second thought about drones.” Some critics argue he should have had a few second thoughts about what they see as the overuse of drones. But John Brennan, Obama’s CIA director, told me recently that he and the president “have similar views. One of them is that sometimes you have to take a life to save even more lives. We have a similar view of just-war theory. The president requires near-certainty of no collateral damage. But if he believes it is necessary to act, he doesn’t hesitate.”

Those who speak with Obama about jihadist thought say that he possesses a no-illusions understanding of the forces that drive apocalyptic violence among radical Muslims, but he has been careful about articulating that publicly, out of concern that he will exacerbate anti-Muslim xenophobia. He has a tragic realist’s understanding of sin, cowardice, and corruption, and a Hobbesian appreciation of how fear shapes human behavior. And yet he consistently, and with apparent sincerity, professes optimism that the world is bending toward justice. He is, in a way, a Hobbesian optimist.

The contradictions do not end there. Though he has a reputation for prudence, he has also been eager to question some of the long-standing assumptions undergirding traditional U.S. foreign-policy thinking. To a remarkable degree, he is willing to question why America’s enemies are its enemies, or why some of its friends are its friends. He overthrew half a century of bipartisan consensus in order to reestablish ties with Cuba. He questioned why the U.S. should avoid sending its forces into Pakistan to kill al-Qaeda leaders, and he privately questions why Pakistan, which he believes is a disastrously dysfunctional country, should be considered an ally of the U.S. at all. According to Leon Panetta, he has questioned why the U.S. should maintain Israel’s so-called qualitative military edge, which grants it access to more sophisticated weapons systems than America’s Arab allies receive; but he has also questioned, often harshly, the role that America’s Sunni Arab allies play in fomenting anti-American terrorism. He is clearly irritated that foreign-policy orthodoxy compels him to treat Saudi Arabia as an ally. And of course he decided early on, in the face of great criticism, that he wanted to reach out to America’s most ardent Middle Eastern foe, Iran. The nuclear deal he struck with Iran proves, if nothing else, that Obama is not risk-averse. He has bet global security and his own legacy that one of the world’s leading state sponsors of terrorism will adhere to an agreement to curtail its nuclear program.

“Dropping bombs on someone to prove that you’re willing to drop bombs on someone is just about the worst reason to use force.”

It is assumed, at least among his critics, that Obama sought the Iran deal because he has a vision of a historic American-Persian rapprochement. But his desire for the nuclear agreement was born of pessimism as much as it was of optimism. “The Iran deal was never primarily about trying to open a new era of relations between the U.S. and Iran,” Susan Rice told me. “It was far more pragmatic and minimalist. The aim was very simply to make a dangerous country substantially less dangerous. No one had any expectation that Iran would be a more benign actor.”

I once mentioned to Obama a scene from The Godfather: Part III, in which Michael Corleone complains angrily about his failure to escape the grasp of organized crime. I told Obama that the Middle East is to his presidency what the Mob is to Corleone, and I started to quote the Al Pacino line: “Just when I thought I was out—”

“It pulls you back in,” Obama said, completing the thought.

The story of Obama’s encounter with the Middle East follows an arc of disenchantment. In his first extended spree of fame, as a presidential candidate in 2008, Obama often spoke with hope about the region. In Berlin that summer, in a speech to 200,000 adoring Germans, he said, “This is the moment we must help answer the call for a new dawn in the Middle East.”

The next year, as president, he gave a speech in Cairo meant to reset U.S. relations with the world’s Muslims. He spoke about Muslims in his own family, and his childhood years in Indonesia, and confessed America’s sins even as he criticized those in the Muslim world who demonized the U.S. What drew the most attention, though, was his promise to address the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which was then thought to be the central animating concern of Arab Muslims. His sympathy for the Palestinians moved the audience, but complicated his relations with Benjamin Netanyahu, the Israeli prime minister—especially because Obama had also decided to bypass Jerusalem on his first presidential visit to the Middle East.

When I asked Obama recently what he had hoped to accomplish with his Cairo reset speech, he said that he had been trying—unsuccessfully, he acknowledged—to persuade Muslims to more closely examine the roots of their unhappiness.

“My argument was this: Let’s all stop pretending that the cause of the Middle East’s problems is Israel,” he told me. “We want to work to help achieve statehood and dignity for the Palestinians, but I was hoping that my speech could trigger a discussion, could create space for Muslims to address the real problems they are confronting—problems of governance, and the fact that some currents of Islam have not gone through a reformation that would help people adapt their religious doctrines to modernity. My thought was, I would communicate that the U.S. is not standing in the way of this progress, that we would help, in whatever way possible, to advance the goals of a practical, successful Arab agenda that provided a better life for ordinary people.”

Through the first flush of the Arab Spring, in 2011, Obama continued to speak optimistically about the Middle East’s future, coming as close as he ever would to embracing the so-called freedom agenda of George W. Bush, which was characterized in part by the belief that democratic values could be implanted in the Middle East. He equated protesters in Tunisia and Tahrir Square with Rosa Parks and the “patriots of Boston.”

“After decades of accepting the world as it is in the region, we have a chance to pursue the world as it should be,” he said in a speech at the time. “The United States supports a set of universal rights. And these rights include free speech, the freedom of peaceful assembly, the freedom of religion, equality for men and women under the rule of law, and the right to choose your own leaders … Our support for these principles is not a secondary interest.”

But over the next three years, as the Arab Spring gave up its early promise, and brutality and dysfunction overwhelmed the Middle East, the president grew disillusioned. Some of his deepest disappointments concern Middle Eastern leaders themselves. Benjamin Netanyahu is in his own category: Obama has long believed that Netanyahu could bring about a two-state solution that would protect Israel’s status as a Jewish-majority democracy, but is too fearful and politically paralyzed to do so. Obama has also not had much patience for Netanyahu and other Middle Eastern leaders who question his understanding of the region. In one of Netanyahu’s meetings with the president, the Israeli prime minister launched into something of a lecture about the dangers of the brutal region in which he lives, and Obama felt that Netanyahu was behaving in a condescending fashion, and was also avoiding the subject at hand: peace negotiations. Finally, the president interrupted the prime minister: “Bibi, you have to understand something,” he said. “I’m the African American son of a single mother, and I live here, in this house. I live in the White House. I managed to get elected president of the United States. You think I don’t understand what you’re talking about, but I do.” Other leaders also frustrate him immensely. Early on, Obama saw Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, the president of Turkey, as the sort of moderate Muslim leader who would bridge the divide between East and West—but Obama now considers him a failure and an authoritarian, one who refuses to use his enormous army to bring stability to Syria. And on the sidelines of a NATO summit in Wales in 2014, Obama pulled aside King Abdullah II of Jordan. Obama said he had heard that Abdullah had complained to friends in the U.S. Congress about his leadership, and told the king that if he had complaints, he should raise them directly. The king denied that he had spoken ill of him.

In recent days, the president has taken to joking privately, “All I need in the Middle East is a few smart autocrats.” Obama has always had a fondness for pragmatic, emotionally contained technocrats, telling aides, “If only everyone could be like the Scandinavians, this would all be easy.”

The unraveling of the Arab Spring darkened the president’s view of what the U.S. could achieve in the Middle East, and made him realize how much the chaos there was distracting from other priorities. “The president recognized during the course of the Arab Spring that the Middle East was consuming us,” John Brennan, who served in Obama’s first term as his chief counterterrorism adviser, told me recently.

But what sealed Obama’s fatalistic view was the failure of his administration’s intervention in Libya, in 2011. That intervention was meant to prevent the country’s then-dictator, Muammar Qaddafi, from slaughtering the people of Benghazi, as he was threatening to do. Obama did not want to join the fight; he was counseled by Joe Biden and his first-term secretary of defense Robert Gates, among others, to steer clear. But a strong faction within the national-security team—Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and Susan Rice, who was then the ambassador to the United Nations, along with Samantha Power, Ben Rhodes, and Antony Blinken, who was then Biden’s national-security adviser—lobbied hard to protect Benghazi, and prevailed. (Biden, who is acerbic about Clinton’s foreign-policy judgment, has said privately, “Hillary just wants to be Golda Meir.”) American bombs fell, the people of Benghazi were spared from what may or may not have been a massacre, and Qaddafi was captured and executed.

But Obama says today of the intervention, “It didn’t work.” The U.S., he believes, planned the Libya operation carefully—and yet the country is still a disaster.

Why, given what seems to be the president’s natural reticence toward getting militarily ensnarled where American national security is not directly at stake, did he accept the recommendation of his more activist advisers to intervene?

“The social order in Libya has broken down,” Obama said, explaining his thinking at the time. “You have massive protests against Qaddafi. You’ve got tribal divisions inside of Libya. Benghazi is a focal point for the opposition regime. And Qaddafi is marching his army toward Benghazi, and he has said, ‘We will kill them like rats.’

“Now, option one would be to do nothing, and there were some in my administration who said, as tragic as the Libyan situation may be, it’s not our problem. The way I looked at it was that it would be our problem if, in fact, complete chaos and civil war broke out in Libya. But this is not so at the core of U.S. interests that it makes sense for us to unilaterally strike against the Qaddafi regime. At that point, you’ve got Europe and a number of Gulf countries who despise Qaddafi, or are concerned on a humanitarian basis, who are calling for action. But what has been a habit over the last several decades in these circumstances is people pushing us to act but then showing an unwillingness to put any skin in the game.”
“Free riders?,” I interjected.
“Free riders,” he said, and continued. “So what I said at that point was, we should act as part of an international coalition. But because this is not at the core of our interests, we need to get a UN mandate; we need Europeans and Gulf countries to be actively involved in the coalition; we will apply the military capabilities that are unique to us, but we expect others to carry their weight. And we worked with our defense teams to ensure that we could execute a strategy without putting boots on the ground and without a long-term military commitment in Libya.

“So we actually executed this plan as well as I could have expected: We got a UN mandate, we built a coalition, it cost us $1 billion—which, when it comes to military operations, is very cheap. We averted large-scale civilian casualties, we prevented what almost surely would have been a prolonged and bloody civil conflict. And despite all that, Libya is a mess.”

Mess is the president’s diplomatic term; privately, he calls Libya a “shit show,” in part because it’s subsequently become an isis haven—one that he has already targeted with air strikes. It became a shit show, Obama believes, for reasons that had less to do with American incompetence than with the passivity of America’s allies and with the obdurate power of tribalism.

“When I go back and I ask myself what went wrong,” Obama said, “there’s room for criticism, because I had more faith in the Europeans, given Libya’s proximity, being invested in the follow-up,” he said. He noted that Nicolas Sarkozy, the French president, lost his job the following year. And he said that British Prime Minister David Cameron soon stopped paying attention, becoming “distracted by a range of other things.” Of France, he said, “Sarkozy wanted to trumpet the flights he was taking in the air campaign, despite the fact that we had wiped out all the air defenses and essentially set up the entire infrastructure” for the intervention. This sort of bragging was fine, Obama said, because it allowed the U.S. to “purchase France’s involvement in a way that made it less expensive for us and less risky for us.” In other words, giving France extra credit in exchange for less risk and cost to the United States was a useful trade-off—except that “from the perspective of a lot of the folks in the foreign-policy establishment, well, that was terrible. If we’re going to do something, obviously we’ve got to be up front, and nobody else is sharing in the spotlight.”

Obama also blamed internal Libyan dynamics. “The degree of tribal division in Libya was greater than our analysts had expected. And our ability to have any kind of structure there that we could interact with and start training and start providing resources broke down very quickly.”

Libya proved to him that the Middle East was best avoided. “There is no way we should commit to governing the Middle East and North Africa,” he recently told a former colleague from the Senate. “That would be a basic, fundamental mistake.”

President Obama did not come into office preoccupied by the Middle East. He is the first child of the Pacific to become president—born in Hawaii, raised there and, for four years, in Indonesia—and he is fixated on turning America’s attention to Asia. For Obama, Asia represents the future. Africa and Latin America, in his view, deserve far more U.S. attention than they receive. Europe, about which he is unromantic, is a source of global stability that requires, to his occasional annoyance, American hand-holding. And the Middle East is a region to be avoided—one that, thanks to America’s energy revolution, will soon be of negligible relevance to the U.S. economy.

It is not oil but another of the Middle East’s exports, terrorism, that shapes Obama’s understanding of his responsibilities there. Early in 2014, Obama’s intelligence advisers told him that isis was of marginal importance. According to administration officials, General Lloyd Austin, then the commander of Central Command, which oversees U.S. military operations in the Middle East, told the White House that the Islamic State was “a flash in the pan.” This analysis led Obama, in an interview with The New Yorker, to describe the constellation of jihadist groups in Iraq and Syria as terrorism’s “jayvee team.” (A spokesman for Austin told me, “At no time has General Austin ever considered isil a ‘flash in the pan’ phenomenon.”)

Advisers recall that Obama would cite a pivotal moment in The Dark Knight, the 2008 Batman movie, to help explain not only how he understood the role of isis, but how he understood the larger ecosystem in which it grew. “There’s a scene in the beginning in which the gang leaders of Gotham are meeting,” the president would say. “These are men who had the city divided up. They were thugs, but there was a kind of order. Everyone had his turf. And then the Joker comes in and lights the whole city on fire. isil is the Joker. It has the capacity to set the whole region on fire. That’s why we have to fight it.”

The rise of the Islamic State deepened Obama’s conviction that the Middle East could not be fixed—not on his watch, and not for a generation to come.

On a rainy Wednesday in mid-November, President Obama appeared on a stage at the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation (apec) summit in Manila with Jack Ma, the founder of the Chinese e-commerce company Alibaba, and a 31-year-old Filipina inventor named Aisa Mijeno. The ballroom was crowded with Asian CEOs, American business leaders, and government officials from across the region. Obama, who was greeted warmly, first delivered informal remarks from behind a podium, mainly about the threat of climate change.

Obama made no mention of the subject preoccupying much of the rest of the world—the isis attacks in Paris five days earlier, which had killed 130 people. Obama had arrived in Manila the day before from a G20 summit held in Antalya, Turkey. The Paris attacks had been a main topic of conversation in Antalya, where Obama held a particularly contentious press conference on the subject.

The traveling White House press corps was unrelenting: “Isn’t it time for your strategy to change?” one reporter asked. This was followed by “Could I ask you to address your critics who say that your reluctance to enter another Middle East war, and your preference of diplomacy over using the military, makes the United States weaker and emboldens our enemies?” And then came this imperishable question, from a CNN reporter: “If you’ll forgive the language—why can’t we take out these bastards?” Which was followed by “Do you think you really understand this enemy well enough to defeat them and to protect the homeland?”
As the questions unspooled, Obama became progressively more irritated. He described his isis strategy at length, but the only time he exhibited an emotion other than disdain was when he addressed an emerging controversy about America’s refugee policy. Republican governors and presidential candidates had suddenly taken to demanding that the United States block Syrian refugees from coming to America. Ted Cruz had proposed accepting only Christian Syrians. Chris Christie had said that all refugees, including “orphans under 5,” should be banned from entry until proper vetting procedures had been put in place.

This rhetoric appeared to frustrate Obama immensely. “When I hear folks say that, well, maybe we should just admit the Christians but not the Muslims; when I hear political leaders suggesting that there would be a religious test for which person who’s fleeing from a war-torn country is admitted,” Obama told the assembled reporters, “that’s not American. That’s not who we are. We don’t have religious tests to our compassion.”

Air Force One departed Antalya and arrived 10 hours later in Manila. That’s when the president’s advisers came to understand, in the words of one official, that “everyone back home had lost their minds.” Susan Rice, trying to comprehend the rising anxiety, searched her hotel television in vain for CNN, finding only the BBC and Fox News. She toggled between the two, looking for the mean, she told people on the trip.

Later, the president would say that he had failed to fully appreciate the fear many Americans were experiencing about the possibility of a Paris-style attack in the U.S. Great distance, a frantic schedule, and the jet-lag haze that envelops a globe-spanning presidential trip were working against him. But he has never believed that terrorism poses a threat to America commensurate with the fear it generates. Even during the period in 2014 when isis was executing its American captives in Syria, his emotions were in check. Valerie Jarrett, Obama’s closest adviser, told him people were worried that the group would soon take its beheading campaign to the U.S. “They’re not coming here to chop our heads off,” he reassured her. Obama frequently reminds his staff that terrorism takes far fewer lives in America than handguns, car accidents, and falls in bathtubs do. Several years ago, he expressed to me his admiration for Israelis’ “resilience” in the face of constant terrorism, and it is clear that he would like to see resilience replace panic in American society. Nevertheless, his advisers are fighting a constant rearguard action to keep Obama from placing terrorism in what he considers its “proper” perspective, out of concern that he will seem insensitive to the fears of the American people.

The frustration among Obama’s advisers spills over into the Pentagon and the State Department. John Kerry, for one, seems more alarmed about isis than the president does. Recently, when I asked the secretary of state a general question—is the Middle East still important to the U.S.?—he answered by talking exclusively about isis. “This is a threat to everybody in the world,” he said, a group “overtly committed to destroying people in the West and in the Middle East. Imagine what would happen if we don’t stand and fight them, if we don’t lead a coalition—as we are doing, by the way. If we didn’t do that, you could have allies and friends of ours fall. You could have a massive migration into Europe that destroys Europe, leads to the pure destruction of Europe, ends the European project, and everyone runs for cover and you’ve got the 1930s all over again, with nationalism and fascism and other things breaking out. Of course we have an interest in this, a huge interest in this.”

When I noted to Kerry that the president’s rhetoric doesn’t match his, he said, “President Obama sees all of this, but he doesn’t gin it up into this kind of—he thinks we are on track. He has escalated his efforts. But he’s not trying to create hysteria … I think the president is always inclined to try to keep things on an appropriate equilibrium. I respect that.”

Obama modulates his discussion of terrorism for several reasons: He is, by nature, Spockian. And he believes that a misplaced word, or a frightened look, or an ill-considered hyperbolic claim, could tip the country into panic. The sort of panic he worries about most is the type that would manifest itself in anti-Muslim xenophobia or in a challenge to American openness and to the constitutional order.

The president also gets frustrated that terrorism keeps swamping his larger agenda, particularly as it relates to rebalancing America’s global priorities. For years, the “pivot to Asia” has been a paramount priority of his. America’s economic future lies in Asia, he believes, and the challenge posed by China’s rise requires constant attention. From his earliest days in office, Obama has been focused on rebuilding the sometimes-threadbare ties between the U.S. and its Asian treaty partners, and he is perpetually on the hunt for opportunities to draw other Asian nations into the U.S. orbit. His dramatic opening to Burma was one such opportunity; Vietnam and the entire constellation of Southeast Asian countries fearful of Chinese domination presented others.

In Manila, at APEC, Obama was determined to keep the conversation focused on this agenda, and not on what he viewed as the containable challenge presented by isis. Obama’s secretary of defense, Ashton Carter, told me not long ago that Obama has maintained his focus on Asia even as Syria and other Middle Eastern conflicts continue to flare. Obama believes, Carter said, that Asia “is the part of the world of greatest consequence to the American future, and that no president can take his eye off of this.” He added, “He consistently asks, even in the midst of everything else that’s going on, ‘Where are we in the Asia-Pacific rebalance? Where are we in terms of resources?’ He’s been extremely consistent about that, even in times of Middle East tension.”

After Obama finished his presentation on climate change, he joined Ma and Mijeno, who had seated themselves on nearby armchairs, where Obama was preparing to interview them in the manner of a daytime talk-show host—an approach that seemed to induce a momentary bout of status-inversion vertigo in an audience not accustomed to such behavior in their own leaders. Obama began by asking Ma a question about climate change. Ma, unsurprisingly, agreed with Obama that it was a very important issue. Then Obama turned to Mijeno. A laboratory operating in the hidden recesses of the West Wing could not have fashioned a person more expertly designed to appeal to Obama’s wonkish enthusiasms than Mijeno, a young engineer who, with her brother, had invented a lamp that is somehow powered by salt water.
“Just to be clear, Aisa, so with some salt water, the device that you’ve set up can provide—am I right?—about eight hours of lighting?,” Obama asked.
“Eight hours of lighting,” she responded.
Obama: “And the lamp is $20—”
Mijeno: “Around $20.”
“I think Aisa is a perfect example of what we’re seeing in a lot of countries—young entrepreneurs coming up with leapfrog technologies, in the same ways that in large portions of Asia and Africa, the old landline phones never got set up,” Obama said, because those areas jumped straight to mobile phones. Obama encouraged Jack Ma to fund her work. “She’s won, by the way, a lot of prizes and gotten a lot of attention, so this is not like one of those infomercials where you order it, and you can’t make the thing work,” he said, to laughter.

The next day, aboard Air Force One en route to Kuala Lumpur, I mentioned to Obama that he seemed genuinely happy to be onstage with Ma and Mijeno, and then I pivoted away from Asia, asking him if anything about the Middle East makes him happy.

“Right now, I don’t think that anybody can be feeling good about the situation in the Middle East,” he said. “You have countries that are failing to provide prosperity and opportunity for their people. You’ve got a violent, extremist ideology, or ideologies, that are turbocharged through social media. You’ve got countries that have very few civic traditions, so that as autocratic regimes start fraying, the only organizing principles are sectarian.”

He went on, “Contrast that with Southeast Asia, which still has huge problems—enormous poverty, corruption—but is filled with striving, ambitious, energetic people who are every single day scratching and clawing to build businesses and get education and find jobs and build infrastructure. The contrast is pretty stark.”

In Asia, as well as in Latin America and Africa, Obama says, he sees young people yearning for self-improvement, modernity, education, and material wealth.

“They are not thinking about how to kill Americans,” he says. “What they’re thinking about is How do I get a better education? How do I create something of value?”

He then made an observation that I came to realize was representative of his bleakest, most visceral understanding of the Middle East today—not the sort of understanding that a White House still oriented around themes of hope and change might choose to advertise. “If we’re not talking to them,” he said, referring to young Asians and Africans and Latin Americans, “because the only thing we’re doing is figuring out how to destroy or cordon off or control the malicious, nihilistic, violent parts of humanity, then we’re missing the boat.”

Obama’s critics argue that he is ineffective in cordoning off the violent nihilists of radical Islam because he doesn’t understand the threat. He does resist refracting radical Islam through the “clash of civilizations” prism popularized by the late political scientist Samuel Huntington. But this is because, he and his advisers argue, he does not want to enlarge the ranks of the enemy. “The goal is not to force a Huntington template onto this conflict,” said John Brennan, the CIA director.

Both François Hollande and David Cameron have spoken about the threat of radical Islam in more Huntingtonesque terms, and I’ve heard that both men wish Obama would use more-direct language in discussing the threat. When I mentioned this to Obama he said, “Hollande and Cameron have used phrases, like radical Islam, that we have not used on a regular basis as our way of targeting terrorism. But I’ve never had a conversation when they said, ‘Man, how come you’re not using this phrase the way you hear Republicans say it?’ ” Obama says he has demanded that Muslim leaders do more to eliminate the threat of violent fundamentalism. “It is very clear what I mean,” he told me, “which is that there is a violent, radical, fanatical, nihilistic interpretation of Islam by a faction—a tiny faction—within the Muslim community that is our enemy, and that has to be defeated.”

He then offered a critique that sounded more in line with the rhetoric of Cameron and Hollande. “There is also the need for Islam as a whole to challenge that interpretation of Islam, to isolate it, and to undergo a vigorous discussion within their community about how Islam works as part of a peaceful, modern society,” he said. But he added, “I do not persuade peaceful, tolerant Muslims to engage in that debate if I’m not sensitive to their concern that they are being tagged with a broad brush.”

In private encounters with other world leaders, Obama has argued that there will be no comprehensive solution to Islamist terrorism until Islam reconciles itself to modernity and undergoes some of the reforms that have changed Christianity.

Though he has argued, controversially, that the Middle East’s conflicts “date back millennia,” he also believes that the intensified Muslim fury of recent years was encouraged by countries considered friends of the U.S. In a meeting during apec with Malcolm Turnbull, the new prime minister of Australia, Obama described how he has watched Indonesia gradually move from a relaxed, syncretistic Islam to a more fundamentalist, unforgiving interpretation; large numbers of Indonesian women, he observed, have now adopted the hijab, the Muslim head covering.

Why, Turnbull asked, was this happening?
Because, Obama answered, the Saudis and other Gulf Arabs have funneled money, and large numbers of imams and teachers, into the country. In the 1990s, the Saudis heavily funded Wahhabist madrassas, seminaries that teach the fundamentalist version of Islam favored by the Saudi ruling family, Obama told Turnbull. Today, Islam in Indonesia is much more Arab in orientation than it was when he lived there, he said.
“Aren’t the Saudis your friends?,” Turnbull asked.
Obama smiled. “It’s complicated,” he said.

Obama’s patience with Saudi Arabia has always been limited. In his first foreign-policy commentary of note, that 2002 speech at the antiwar rally in Chicago, he said, “You want a fight, President Bush? Let’s fight to make sure our so-called allies in the Middle East—the Saudis and the Egyptians—stop oppressing their own people, and suppressing dissent, and tolerating corruption and inequality.” In the White House these days, one occasionally hears Obama’s National Security Council officials pointedly reminding visitors that the large majority of 9/11 hijackers were not Iranian, but Saudi—and Obama himself rails against Saudi Arabia’s state-sanctioned misogyny, arguing in private that “a country cannot function in the modern world when it is repressing half of its population.” In meetings with foreign leaders, Obama has said, “You can gauge the success of a society by how it treats its women.”
His frustration with the Saudis informs his analysis of Middle Eastern power politics. At one point I observed to him that he is less likely than previous presidents to axiomatically side with Saudi Arabia in its dispute with its archrival, Iran. He didn’t disagree.

“Iran, since 1979, has been an enemy of the United States, and has engaged in state-sponsored terrorism, is a genuine threat to Israel and many of our allies, and engages in all kinds of destructive behavior,” the president said. “And my view has never been that we should throw our traditional allies”—the Saudis—“overboard in favor of Iran.”

But he went on to say that the Saudis need to “share” the Middle East with their Iranian foes. “The competition between the Saudis and the Iranians—which has helped to feed proxy wars and chaos in Syria and Iraq and Yemen—requires us to say to our friends as well as to the Iranians that they need to find an effective way to share the neighborhood and institute some sort of cold peace,” he said. “An approach that said to our friends ‘You are right, Iran is the source of all problems, and we will support you in dealing with Iran’ would essentially mean that as these sectarian conflicts continue to rage and our Gulf partners, our traditional friends, do not have the ability to put out the flames on their own or decisively win on their own, and would mean that we have to start coming in and using our military power to settle scores. And that would be in the interest neither of the United States nor of the Middle East.”

One of the most destructive forces in the Middle East, Obama believes, is tribalism—a force no president can neutralize. Tribalism, made manifest in the reversion to sect, creed, clan, and village by the desperate citizens of failing states, is the source of much of the Muslim Middle East’s problems, and it is another source of his fatalism. Obama has deep respect for the destructive resilience of tribalism—part of his memoir, Dreams From My Father, concerns the way in which tribalism in post-colonial Kenya helped ruin his father’s life—which goes some distance in explaining why he is so fastidious about avoiding entanglements in tribal conflicts.

“It is literally in my DNA to be suspicious of tribalism,” he told me. “I understand the tribal impulse, and acknowledge the power of tribal division. I’ve been navigating tribal divisions my whole life. In the end, it’s the source of a lot of destructive acts.”

While flying to Kuala Lumpur with the president, I recalled a passing reference he had once made to me about the Hobbesian argument for strong government as an antidote to the unforgiving state of nature. When Obama looks at swathes of the Middle East, Hobbes’s “war of all against all” is what he sees. “I have a recognition that us serving as the Leviathan clamps down and tames some of these impulses,” Obama had said. So I tried to reopen this conversation with an unfortunately prolix question about, among other things, “the Hobbesian notion that people organize themselves into collectives to stave off their supreme fear, which is death.”

Ben Rhodes and Joshua Earnest, the White House spokesman, who were seated on a couch to the side of Obama’s desk on Air Force One, could barely suppress their amusement at my discursiveness. I paused and said, “I bet if I asked that in a press conference my colleagues would just throw me out of the room.”

“I would be really into it,” Obama said, “but everybody else would be rolling their eyes.”
Rhodes interjected: “Why can’t we get the bastards?” That question, the one put to the president by the CNN reporter at the press conference in Turkey, had become a topic of sardonic conversation during the trip.
I turned to the president: “Well, yeah, and also, why can’t we get the bastards?”
He took the first question.
“Look, I am not of the view that human beings are inherently evil,” he said. “I believe that there’s more good than bad in humanity. And if you look at the trajectory of history, I am optimistic.
“I believe that overall, humanity has become less violent, more tolerant, healthier, better fed, more empathetic, more able to manage difference. But it’s hugely uneven. And what has been clear throughout the 20th and 21st centuries is that the progress we make in social order and taming our baser impulses and steadying our fears can be reversed very quickly. Social order starts breaking down if people are under profound stress. Then the default position is tribe—us/them, a hostility toward the unfamiliar or the unknown.”
He continued, “Right now, across the globe, you’re seeing places that are undergoing severe stress because of globalization, because of the collision of cultures brought about by the Internet and social media, because of scarcities—some of which will be attributable to climate change over the next several decades—because of population growth. And in those places, the Middle East being Exhibit A, the default position for a lot of folks is to organize tightly in the tribe and to push back or strike out against those who are different.
“A group like isil is the distillation of every worst impulse along these lines. The notion that we are a small group that defines ourselves primarily by the degree to which we can kill others who are not like us, and attempting to impose a rigid orthodoxy that produces nothing, that celebrates nothing, that really is contrary to every bit of human progress—it indicates the degree to which that kind of mentality can still take root and gain adherents in the 21st century.”
So your appreciation for tribalism’s power makes you want to stay away?, I asked. “In other words, when people say ‘Why don’t you just go get the bastards?,’ you step back?”
“We have to determine the best tools to roll back those kinds of attitudes,” he said. “There are going to be times where either because it’s not a direct threat to us or because we just don’t have the tools in our toolkit to have a huge impact that, tragically, we have to refrain from jumping in with both feet.”

I asked Obama whether he would have sent the Marines to Rwanda in 1994 to stop the genocide as it was happening, had he been president at the time. “Given the speed with which the killing took place, and how long it takes to crank up the machinery of the U.S. government, I understand why we did not act fast enough,” he said. “Now, we should learn from that. I actually think that Rwanda is an interesting test case because it’s possible—not guaranteed, but it’s possible—that this was a situation where the quick application of force might have been enough.”

He related this to Syria: “Ironically, it’s probably easier to make an argument that a relatively small force inserted quickly with international support would have resulted in averting genocide [more successfully in Rwanda] than in Syria right now, where the degree to which the various groups are armed and hardened fighters and are supported by a whole host of external actors with a lot of resources requires a much larger commitment of forces.”

Obama-administration officials argue that he has a comprehensible approach to fighting terrorism: a drone air force, Special Forces raids, a clandestine CIA-aided army of 10,000 rebels battling in Syria. So why does Obama stumble when explaining to the American people that he, too, cares about terrorism? The Turkey press conference, I told him, “was a moment for you as a politician to say, ‘Yeah, I hate the bastards too, and by the way, I am taking out the bastards.’ ” The easy thing to do would have been to reassure Americans in visceral terms that he will kill the people who want to kill them. Does he fear a knee-jerk reaction in the direction of another Middle East invasion? Or is he just inalterably Spockian?

“Every president has strengths and weaknesses,” he answered. “And there is no doubt that there are times where I have not been attentive enough to feelings and emotions and politics in communicating what we’re doing and how we’re doing it.”

But for America to be successful in leading the world, he continued, “I believe that we have to avoid being simplistic. I think we have to build resilience and make sure that our political debates are grounded in reality. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the value of theater in political communications; it’s that the habits we—the media, politicians—have gotten into, and how we talk about these issues, are so detached so often from what we need to be doing that for me to satisfy the cable news hype-fest would lead to us making worse and worse decisions over time.”

As Air Force One began its descent toward Kuala Lumpur, the president mentioned the successful U.S.-led effort to stop the Ebola epidemic in West Africa as a positive example of steady, nonhysterical management of a terrifying crisis.

“During the couple of months in which everybody was sure Ebola was going to destroy the Earth and there was 24/7 coverage of Ebola, if I had fed the panic or in any way strayed from ‘Here are the facts, here’s what needs to be done, here’s how we’re handling it, the likelihood of you getting Ebola is very slim, and here’s what we need to do both domestically and overseas to stamp out this epidemic,’ ” then “maybe people would have said ‘Obama is taking this as seriously as he needs to be.’ ” But feeding the panic by overreacting could have shut down travel to and from three African countries that were already cripplingly poor, in ways that might have destroyed their economies—which would likely have meant, among other things, a recurrence of Ebola. He added, “It would have also meant that we might have wasted a huge amount of resources in our public-health systems that need to be devoted to flu vaccinations and other things that actually kill people” in large numbers in America.

The plane landed. The president, leaning back in his office chair with his jacket off and his tie askew, did not seem to notice. Outside, on the tarmac, I could see that what appeared to be a large portion of the Malaysian Armed Forces had assembled to welcome him. As he continued talking, I began to worry that the waiting soldiers and dignitaries would get hot. “I think we’re in Malaysia,” I said. “It seems to be outside this plane.”
He conceded that this was true, but seemed to be in no rush, so I pressed him about his public reaction to terrorism: If he showed more emotion, wouldn’t that calm people down rather than rile them up?
“I have friends who have kids in Paris right now,” he said. “And you and I and a whole bunch of people who are writing about what happened in Paris have strolled along the same streets where people were gunned down. And it’s right to feel fearful. And it’s important for us not to ever get complacent. There’s a difference between resilience and complacency.” He went on to describe another difference—between making considered decisions and making rash, emotional ones. “What it means, actually, is that you care so much that you want to get it right and you’re not going to indulge in either impetuous or, in some cases, manufactured responses that make good sound bites but don’t produce results. The stakes are too high to play those games.”

With that, Obama stood up and said, “Okay, gotta go.” He headed out of his office and down the stairs, to the red carpet and the honor guard and the cluster of Malaysian officials waiting to greet him, and then to his armored limousine, flown to Kuala Lumpur ahead of him. (Early in his first term, still unaccustomed to the massive military operation it takes to move a president from one place to another, he noted ruefully to aides, “I have the world’s largest carbon footprint.”)

The president’s first stop was another event designed to highlight his turn to Asia, this one a town-hall meeting with students and entrepreneurs participating in the administration’s Young Southeast Asian Leaders Initiative. Obama entered the lecture hall at Taylor’s University to huge applause. He made some opening remarks, then charmed his audience in an extended Q&A session.

But those of us watching from the press section became distracted by news coming across our phones about a new jihadist attack, this one in Mali. Obama, busily mesmerizing adoring Asian entrepreneurs, had no idea. Only when he got into his limousine with Susan Rice did he get the news.

Later that evening, I visited the president in his suite at the Ritz-Carlton hotel in downtown Kuala Lumpur. The streets around the hotel had been sealed. Armored vehicles ringed the building; the lobby was filled with swat teams. I took the elevator to a floor crowded with Secret Service agents, who pointed me to a staircase; the elevator to Obama’s floor was disabled for security reasons. Up two flights, to a hallway with more agents. A moment’s wait, and then Obama opened the door. His two-story suite was outlandish: Tara-like drapes, overstuffed couches. It was enormous and lonely and claustrophobic all at once.
“It’s like the Hearst Castle,” I observed.
“Well, it’s a long way from the Hampton Inn in Des Moines,” Obama said.
ESPN was playing in the background.
When we sat down, I pointed out to the president a central challenge of his pivot to Asia. Earlier in the day, at the moment he was trying to inspire a group of gifted and eager hijab-wearing Indonesian entrepreneurs and Burmese innovators, attention was diverted by the latest Islamist terror attack.
A writer at heart, he had a suggestion: “It’s probably a pretty easy way to start the story,” he said, referring to this article.
Possibly, I said, but it’s kind of a cheap trick.
“It’s cheap, but it works,” Obama said. “We’re talking to these kids, and then there’s this attack going on.”

The split-screen quality of the day prompted a conversation about two recent meetings he’d held, one that generated major international controversy and headlines, and one that did not. The one that drew so much attention, I suggested, would ultimately be judged less consequential. This was the Gulf summit in May of 2015 at Camp David, meant to mollify a crowd of visiting sheikhs and princes who feared the impending Iran deal. The other meeting took place two months later, in the Oval Office, between Obama and the general secretary of the Vietnamese Communist Party, Nguyen Phu Trong. This meeting took place only because John Kerry had pushed the White House to violate protocol, since the general secretary was not a head of state. But the goals trumped decorum: Obama wanted to lobby the Vietnamese on the Trans-Pacific Partnership—his negotiators soon extracted a promise from the Vietnamese that they would legalize independent labor unions—and he wanted to deepen cooperation on strategic issues. Administration officials have repeatedly hinted to me that Vietnam may one day soon host a permanent U.S. military presence, to check the ambitions of the country it now fears most, China. The U.S. Navy’s return to Cam Ranh Bay would count as one of the more improbable developments in recent American history. “We just moved the Vietnamese Communist Party to recognize labor rights in a way that we could never do by bullying them or scaring them,” Obama told me, calling this a key victory in his campaign to replace stick-waving with diplomatic persuasion.

I noted that the 200 or so young Southeast Asians in the room earlier that day—including citizens of Communist-ruled countries—seemed to love America. “They do,” Obama said. “In Vietnam right now, America polls at 80 percent.”

The resurgent popularity of America throughout Southeast Asia means that “we can do really big, important stuff—which, by the way, then has ramifications across the board,” he said, “because when Malaysia joins the anti-isil campaign, that helps us leverage resources and credibility in our fight against terrorism. When we have strong relations with Indonesia, that helps us when we are going to Paris and trying to negotiate a climate treaty, where the temptation of a Russia or some of these other countries may be to skew the deal in a way that is unhelpful.”

Obama then cited America’s increased influence in Latin America—increased, he said, in part by his removal of a region-wide stumbling block when he reestablished ties with Cuba—as proof that his deliberate, nonthreatening, diplomacy-centered approach to foreign relations is working. The Alba movement, a group of Latin American governments oriented around anti-Americanism, has significantly weakened during his time as president. “When I came into office, at the first Summit of the Americas that I attended, Hugo Chávez”—the late anti-American Venezuelan dictator—“was still the dominant figure in the conversation,” he said. “We made a very strategic decision early on, which was, rather than blow him up as this 10-foot giant adversary, to right-size the problem and say, ‘We don’t like what’s going on in Venezuela, but it’s not a threat to the United States.’ ”

Obama said that to achieve this rebalancing, the U.S. had to absorb the diatribes and insults of superannuated Castro manqués. “When I saw Chávez, I shook his hand and he handed me a Marxist critique of the U.S.–Latin America relationship,” Obama recalled. “And I had to sit there and listen to Ortega”—Daniel Ortega, the radical leftist president of Nicaragua—“make an hour-long rant against the United States. But us being there, not taking all that stuff seriously—because it really wasn’t a threat to us”—helped neutralize the region’s anti-Americanism.

The president’s unwillingness to counter the baiting by American adversaries can feel emotionally unsatisfying, I said, and I told him that every so often, I’d like to see him give Vladimir Putin the finger. It’s atavistic, I said, understanding my audience.
“It is,” the president responded coolly. “This is what they’re looking for.”
He described a relationship with Putin that doesn’t quite conform to common perceptions. I had been under the impression that Obama viewed Putin as nasty, brutish, and short. But, Obama told me, Putin is not particularly nasty.

“The truth is, actually, Putin, in all of our meetings, is scrupulously polite, very frank. Our meetings are very businesslike. He never keeps me waiting two hours like he does a bunch of these other folks.” Obama said that Putin believes his relationship with the U.S. is more important than Americans tend to think. “He’s constantly interested in being seen as our peer and as working with us, because he’s not completely stupid. He understands that Russia’s overall position in the world is significantly diminished. And the fact that he invades Crimea or is trying to prop up Assad doesn’t suddenly make him a player. You don’t see him in any of these meetings out here helping to shape the agenda. For that matter, there’s not a G20 meeting where the Russians set the agenda around any of the issues that are important.”

Russia’s invasion of Crimea in early 2014, and its decision to use force to buttress the rule of its client Bashar al-Assad, have been cited by Obama’s critics as proof that the post-red-line world no longer fears America.

So when I talked with the president in the Oval Office in late January, I again raised this question of deterrent credibility. “The argument is made,” I said, “that Vladimir Putin watched you in Syria and thought, He’s too logical, he’s too rational, he’s too into retrenchment. I’m going to push him a little bit further in Ukraine.”

Obama didn’t much like my line of inquiry. “Look, this theory is so easily disposed of that I’m always puzzled by how people make the argument. I don’t think anybody thought that George W. Bush was overly rational or cautious in his use of military force. And as I recall, because apparently nobody in this town does, Putin went into Georgia on Bush’s watch, right smack dab in the middle of us having over 100,000 troops deployed in Iraq.” Obama was referring to Putin’s 2008 invasion of Georgia, a former Soviet republic, which was undertaken for many of the same reasons Putin later invaded Ukraine—to keep an ex–Soviet republic in Russia’s sphere of influence.

“Putin acted in Ukraine in response to a client state that was about to slip out of his grasp. And he improvised in a way to hang on to his control there,” he said. “He’s done the exact same thing in Syria, at enormous cost to the well-being of his own country. And the notion that somehow Russia is in a stronger position now, in Syria or in Ukraine, than they were before they invaded Ukraine or before he had to deploy military forces to Syria is to fundamentally misunderstand the nature of power in foreign affairs or in the world generally. Real power means you can get what you want without having to exert violence. Russia was much more powerful when Ukraine looked like an independent country but was a kleptocracy that he could pull the strings on.”

Obama’s theory here is simple: Ukraine is a core Russian interest but not an American one, so Russia will always be able to maintain escalatory dominance there.

“The fact is that Ukraine, which is a non-NATO country, is going to be vulnerable to military domination by Russia no matter what we do,” he said.
I asked Obama whether his position on Ukraine was realistic or fatalistic.
“It’s realistic,” he said. “But this is an example of where we have to be very clear about what our core interests are and what we are willing to go to war for. And at the end of the day, there’s always going to be some ambiguity.” He then offered up a critique he had heard directed against him, in order to knock it down. “I think that the best argument you can make on the side of those who are critics of my foreign policy is that the president doesn’t exploit ambiguity enough. He doesn’t maybe react in ways that might cause people to think, Wow, this guy might be a little crazy.”
“The ‘crazy Nixon’ approach,” I said: Confuse and frighten your enemies by making them think you’re capable of committing irrational acts.
“But let’s examine the Nixon theory,” he said. “So we dropped more ordnance on Cambodia and Laos than on Europe in World War II, and yet, ultimately, Nixon withdrew, Kissinger went to Paris, and all we left behind was chaos, slaughter, and authoritarian governments that finally, over time, have emerged from that hell. When I go to visit those countries, I’m going to be trying to figure out how we can, today, help them remove bombs that are still blowing off the legs of little kids. In what way did that strategy promote our interests?”
But what if Putin were threatening to move against, say, Moldova—another vulnerable post-Soviet state? Wouldn’t it be helpful for Putin to believe that Obama might get angry and irrational about that?

“There is no evidence in modern American foreign policy that that’s how people respond. People respond based on what their imperatives are, and if it’s really important to somebody, and it’s not that important to us, they know that, and we know that,” he said. “There are ways to deter, but it requires you to be very clear ahead of time about what is worth going to war for and what is not. Now, if there is somebody in this town that would claim that we would consider going to war with Russia over Crimea and eastern Ukraine, they should speak up and be very clear about it. The idea that talking tough or engaging in some military action that is tangential to that particular area is somehow going to influence the decision making of Russia or China is contrary to all the evidence we have seen over the last 50 years.”
Obama went on to say that the belief in the possibilities of projected toughness is rooted in “mythologies” about Ronald Reagan’s foreign policy.
“If you think about, let’s say, the Iran hostage crisis, there is a narrative that has been promoted today by some of the Republican candidates that the day Reagan was elected, because he looked tough, the Iranians decided, ‘We better turn over these hostages,’ ” he said. “In fact what had happened was that there was a long negotiation with the Iranians and because they so disliked Carter—even though the negotiations had been completed—they held those hostages until the day Reagan got elected. Reagan’s posture, his rhetoric, etc., had nothing to do with their release. When you think of the military actions that Reagan took, you have Grenada—which is hard to argue helped our ability to shape world events, although it was good politics for him back home. You have the Iran-Contra affair, in which we supported right-wing paramilitaries and did nothing to enhance our image in Central America, and it wasn’t successful at all.” He reminded me that Reagan’s great foe, Daniel Ortega, is today the unrepentant president of Nicaragua.

Obama also cited Reagan’s decision to almost immediately pull U.S. forces from Lebanon after 241 servicemen were killed in a Hezbollah attack in 1983. “Apparently all these things really helped us gain credibility with the Russians and the Chinese,” because “that’s the narrative that is told,” he said sarcastically. “Now, I actually think that Ronald Reagan had a great success in foreign policy, which was to recognize the opportunity that Gorbachev presented and to engage in extensive diplomacy—which was roundly criticized by some of the same people who now use Ronald Reagan to promote the notion that we should go around bombing people.”

In a conversation at the end of January, I asked the president to describe for me the threats he worries about most as he prepares, in the coming months, to hand off power to his successor.

“As I survey the next 20 years, climate change worries me profoundly because of the effects that it has on all the other problems that we face,” he said. “If you start seeing more severe drought; more significant famine; more displacement from the Indian subcontinent and coastal regions in Africa and Asia; the continuing problems of scarcity, refugees, poverty, disease—this makes every other problem we’ve got worse. That’s above and beyond just the existential issues of a planet that starts getting into a bad feedback loop.”
Terrorism, he said, is also a long-term problem “when combined with the problem of failed states.”
What country does he consider the greatest challenge to America in the coming decades? “In terms of traditional great-state relations, I do believe that the relationship between the United States and China is going to be the most critical,” he said. “If we get that right and China continues on a peaceful rise, then we have a partner that is growing in capability and sharing with us the burdens and responsibilities of maintaining an international order. If China fails; if it is not able to maintain a trajectory that satisfies its population and has to resort to nationalism as an organizing principle; if it feels so overwhelmed that it never takes on the responsibilities of a country its size in maintaining the international order; if it views the world only in terms of regional spheres of influence—then not only do we see the potential for conflict with China, but we will find ourselves having more difficulty dealing with these other challenges that are going to come.”

Many people, I noted, want the president to be more forceful in confronting China, especially in the South China Sea. Hillary Clinton, for one, has been heard to say in private settings, “I don’t want my grandchildren to live in a world dominated by the Chinese.”

“I’ve been very explicit in saying that we have more to fear from a weakened, threatened China than a successful, rising China,” Obama said. “I think we have to be firm where China’s actions are undermining international interests, and if you look at how we’ve operated in the South China Sea, we have been able to mobilize most of Asia to isolate China in ways that have surprised China, frankly, and have very much served our interest in strengthening our alliances.”

A weak, flailing Russia constitutes a threat as well, though not quite a top-tier threat. “Unlike China, they have demographic problems, economic structural problems, that would require not only vision but a generation to overcome,” Obama said. “The path that Putin is taking is not going to help them overcome those challenges. But in that environment, the temptation to project military force to show greatness is strong, and that’s what Putin’s inclination is. So I don’t underestimate the dangers there.” Obama returned to a point he had made repeatedly to me, one that he hopes the country, and the next president, absorbs: “You know, the notion that diplomacy and technocrats and bureaucrats somehow are helping to keep America safe and secure, most people think, Eh, that’s nonsense. But it’s true. And by the way, it’s the element of American power that the rest of the world appreciates unambiguously. When we deploy troops, there’s always a sense on the part of other countries that, even where necessary, sovereignty is being violated.”

Over the past year, John Kerry has visited the White House regularly to ask Obama to violate Syria’s sovereignty. On several occasions, Kerry has asked Obama to launch missiles at specific regime targets, under cover of night, to “send a message” to the regime. The goal, Kerry has said, is not to overthrow Assad but to encourage him, and Iran and Russia, to negotiate peace. When the Assad alliance has had the upper hand on the battlefield, as it has these past several months, it has shown no inclination to take seriously Kerry’s entreaties to negotiate in good faith. A few cruise missiles, Kerry has argued, might concentrate the attention of Assad and his backers. “Kerry’s looking like a chump with the Russians, because he has no leverage,” a senior administration official told me.

The U.S. wouldn’t have to claim credit for the attacks, Kerry has told Obama—but Assad would surely know the missiles’ return address.

Obama has steadfastly resisted Kerry’s requests, and seems to have grown impatient with his lobbying. Recently, when Kerry handed Obama a written outline of new steps to bring more pressure to bear on Assad, Obama said, “Oh, another proposal?” Administration officials have told me that Vice President Biden, too, has become frustrated with Kerry’s demands for action. He has said privately to the secretary of state, “John, remember Vietnam? Remember how that started?” At a National Security Council meeting held at the Pentagon in December, Obama announced that no one except the secretary of defense should bring him proposals for military action. Pentagon officials understood Obama’s announcement to be a brushback pitch directed at Kerry.

One day in January, in Kerry’s office at the State Department, I expressed the obvious: He has more of a bias toward action than the president does.

“I do, probably,” Kerry acknowledged. “Look, the final say on these things is in his hands … I’d say that I think we’ve had a very symbiotic, synergistic, whatever you call it, relationship, which works very effectively. Because I’ll come in with the bias toward ‘Let’s try to do this, let’s try to do that, let’s get this done.’ ”

Obama’s caution on Syria has vexed those in the administration who have seen opportunities, at different moments over the past four years, to tilt the battlefield against Assad. Some thought that Putin’s decision to fight on behalf of Assad would prompt Obama to intensify American efforts to help anti-regime rebels. But Obama, at least as of this writing, would not be moved, in part because he believed that it was not his business to stop Russia from making what he thought was a terrible mistake. “They are overextended. They’re bleeding,” he told me. “And their economy has contracted for three years in a row, drastically.”

In recent National Security Council meetings, Obama’s strategy was occasionally referred to as the “Tom Sawyer approach.” Obama’s view was that if Putin wanted to expend his regime’s resources by painting the fence in Syria, the U.S. should let him. By late winter, though, when it appeared that Russia was making advances in its campaign to solidify Assad’s rule, the White House began discussing ways to deepen support for the rebels, though the president’s ambivalence about more-extensive engagement remained. In conversations I had with National Security Council officials over the past couple of months, I sensed a foreboding that an event—another San Bernardino–style attack, for instance—would compel the United States to take new and direct action in Syria. For Obama, this would be a nightmare.

If there had been no Iraq, no Afghanistan, and no Libya, Obama told me, he might be more apt to take risks in Syria. “A president does not make decisions in a vacuum. He does not have a blank slate. Any president who was thoughtful, I believe, would recognize that after over a decade of war, with obligations that are still to this day requiring great amounts of resources and attention in Afghanistan, with the experience of Iraq, with the strains that it’s placed on our military—any thoughtful president would hesitate about making a renewed commitment in the exact same region of the world with some of the exact same dynamics and the same probability of an unsatisfactory outcome.”
Are you too cautious?, I asked.
“No,” he said. “Do I think that had we not invaded Iraq and were we not still involved in sending billions of dollars and a number of military trainers and advisers into Afghanistan, would I potentially have thought about taking on some additional risk to help try to shape the Syria situation? I don’t know.”

What has struck me is that, even as his secretary of state warns about a dire, Syria-fueled European apocalypse, Obama has not recategorized the country’s civil war as a top-tier security threat.

Obama’s hesitation to join the battle for Syria is held out as proof by his critics that he is too naive; his decision in 2013 not to fire missiles is proof, they argue, that he is a bluffer.
This critique frustrates the president. “Nobody remembers bin Laden anymore,” he says. “Nobody talks about me ordering 30,000 more troops into Afghanistan.” The red-line crisis, he said, “is the point of the inverted pyramid upon which all other theories rest.”
One afternoon in late January, as I was leaving the Oval Office, I mentioned to Obama a moment from an interview in 2012 when he told me that he would not allow Iran to gain possession of a nuclear weapon. “You said, ‘I’m the president of the United States, I don’t bluff.’ ”
He said, “I don’t.”
Shortly after that interview four years ago, Ehud Barak, who was then the defense minister of Israel, asked me whether I thought Obama’s no-bluff promise was itself a bluff. I answered that I found it difficult to imagine that the leader of the United States would bluff about something so consequential. But Barak’s question had stayed with me. So as I stood in the doorway with the president, I asked: “Was it a bluff?” I told him that few people now believe he actually would have attacked Iran to keep it from getting a nuclear weapon.
“That’s interesting,” he said, noncommittally.
I started to talk: “Do you—”
He interrupted. “I actually would have,” he said, meaning that he would have struck Iran’s nuclear facilities. “If I saw them break out.”
He added, “Now, the argument that can’t be resolved, because it’s entirely situational, was what constitutes them getting” the bomb. “This was the argument I was having with Bibi Netanyahu.” Netanyahu wanted Obama to prevent Iran from being capable of building a bomb, not merely from possessing a bomb.
“You were right to believe it,” the president said. And then he made his key point. “This was in the category of an American interest.”
I was reminded then of something Derek Chollet, a former National Security Council official, told me: “Obama is a gambler, not a bluffer.”

The president has placed some huge bets. Last May, as he was trying to move the Iran nuclear deal through Congress, I told him that the agreement was making me nervous. His response was telling. “Look, 20 years from now, I’m still going to be around, God willing. If Iran has a nuclear weapon, it’s my name on this,” he said. “I think it’s fair to say that in addition to our profound national-security interests, I have a personal interest in locking this down.”

In the matter of the Syrian regime and its Iranian and Russian sponsors, Obama has bet, and seems prepared to continue betting, that the price of direct U.S. action would be higher than the price of inaction. And he is sanguine enough to live with the perilous ambiguities of his decisions. Though in his Nobel Peace Prize speech in 2009, Obama said, “Inaction tears at our conscience and can lead to more costly intervention later,” today the opinions of humanitarian interventionists do not seem to move him, at least not publicly. He undoubtedly knows that a next-generation Samantha Power will write critically of his unwillingness to do more to prevent the continuing slaughter in Syria. (For that matter, Samantha Power will also be the subject of criticism from the next Samantha Power.) As he comes to the end of his presidency, Obama believes he has done his country a large favor by keeping it out of the maelstrom—and he believes, I suspect, that historians will one day judge him wise for having done so.

Inside the West Wing, officials say that Obama, as a president who inherited a financial crisis and two active wars from his predecessor, is keen to leave “a clean barn” to whoever succeeds him. This is why the fight against isis, a group he considers to be a direct, though not existential, threat to the U.S., is his most urgent priority for the remainder of his presidency; killing the so-called caliph of the Islamic State, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, is one of the top goals of the American national-security apparatus in Obama’s last year.

Of course, isis was midwifed into existence, in part, by the Assad regime. Yet by Obama’s stringent standards, Assad’s continued rule for the moment still doesn’t rise to the level of direct challenge to America’s national security.

This is what is so controversial about the president’s approach, and what will be controversial for years to come—the standard he has used to define what, exactly, constitutes a direct threat.

Obama has come to a number of dovetailing conclusions about the world, and about America’s role in it. The first is that the Middle East is no longer terribly important to American interests. The second is that even if the Middle East were surpassingly important, there would still be little an American president could do to make it a better place. The third is that the innate American desire to fix the sorts of problems that manifest themselves most drastically in the Middle East inevitably leads to warfare, to the deaths of U.S. soldiers, and to the eventual hemorrhaging of U.S. credibility and power. The fourth is that the world cannot afford to see the diminishment of U.S. power. Just as the leaders of several American allies have found Obama’s leadership inadequate to the tasks before him, he himself has found world leadership wanting: global partners who often lack the vision and the will to spend political capital in pursuit of broad, progressive goals, and adversaries who are not, in his mind, as rational as he is. Obama believes that history has sides, and that America’s adversaries—and some of its putative allies—have situated themselves on the wrong one, a place where tribalism, fundamentalism, sectarianism, and militarism still flourish. What they don’t understand is that history is bending in his direction.

“The central argument is that by keeping America from immersing itself in the crises of the Middle East, the foreign-policy establishment believes that the president is precipitating our decline,” Ben Rhodes told me. “But the president himself takes the opposite view, which is that overextension in the Middle East will ultimately harm our economy, harm our ability to look for other opportunities and to deal with other challenges, and, most important, endanger the lives of American service members for reasons that are not in the direct American national-security interest.”

If you are a supporter of the president, his strategy makes eminent sense: Double down in those parts of the world where success is plausible, and limit America’s exposure to the rest. His critics believe, however, that problems like those presented by the Middle East don’t solve themselves—that, without American intervention, they metastasize.

At the moment, Syria, where history appears to be bending toward greater chaos, poses the most direct challenge to the president’s worldview.

George W. Bush was also a gambler, not a bluffer. He will be remembered harshly for the things he did in the Middle East. Barack Obama is gambling that he will be judged well for the things he didn’t do.

Motto: „Revoluţia, pregătită de prostia unui popor readus la sclavie, s-a înfăptuit fără nicio piedică. Cum să ne temem că transpunerea în fapte a filosofiei ar fi mai problematică decât a despotismului?”

Marchizul de Sade

O mişcare mistică creştină se răspândeşte printre familiile membrilor Comitetului Central al PCR. Scoborârea harului divin peste un fost ofiţer de Securitate zguduie angajamentul întâilor-birocraţi ai mişcării muncitoreşti. E intriga uneia din scrierile de exil ale lui Petru Dumitriu, Incognito, povestea lui Sebastian Ionescu, plecat la război împotriva ruşilor, convertit la comunism şi care, după impunerea regimului prosovietic, descoperă bunătatea infinită a lui Dumnezeu. Subiectul romanului e chiar problema transmiterii unei sfinţenii purtate prin graţia ce poate însoţi întâlnirile omeneşti. Forţa dovedită în amploarea prozei balzaciene din Cronică de familiei sau, mai târziu, în restauraţia romanului picaresc din Omul cu ochii suri este pusă aici în slujba unei pocăiri literare. Scriitorul încearcă să se răscumpere prin recreerea sensului prim al evanghelizării în condiţii de teroare, mesajul creştinismul martir, cel de sub Nero. Alături de prima sa încercare în lumea editorială franceză, Întâlnire la judecata de apoi, această întoarcere la o limbă maternă, franceza nobiliară pe care mama sa, Tereza, o folosea pentru a se adresa fiul şi soţului ei, înseamnă retragerea prozatorului de pe prima scenă politico-literară română într-o lume în care obsesiile sale îl fac neînţeles. Cazul său ilustrează perfect drama neostoită a francofoniei româneşti, dintotdeauna defazată faţă de temele metropolei. Convertirea lui Petru Dumitriu anunţă şi rezumă exemplar modernitatea postideologică: o epocă a regretelor politice!

Incognito poate fi citit ca metaforă a diverselor subculturi din vremea socialismului oficial: evanghelizările de tot soiul, mai mult sau mai puţin tolerate de autorităţi, în funcţie de ritmurile îngheţurilor şi dezgheţurilor estice. Liberalismul nu se găsea între mesajele alternative din vremea dictaturii comuniste. În timpul prigoanei duşmanilor noului regim, dar mai ales după relaxarea din 1965, existau grupuri de rugăciune isihaste, încercări supravegheate de menţinere subterană a Bisericii Greco-Catolice, reluări locale ale religiozităţii new-age generate de curentul hippie, ba chiar grupuri independente de discuţii marxiste, dar nicio sectă de adoratori ai filosofiei politice a lui John Locke sau ai economiei politice a lui Adam Smith. Incompatibilitatea liberalismului politic cu marxismul oficial nu poate constitui un argument suficient. Îşi făcuseră loc fie în direcţia culturală a regimului, fie alături de ea, naţionalismul protocronist erudit, avangardismul artistic, idealismul filosofic sau ortodoxismul cultural. Deşi existau programe riguroase de traducere a clasicilor, nu găsim înainte de 1990 transpuneri în română a textelor fondatoare ale lui Benjamin Constant sau John Stuart Mill. Putem să ne raliem corului de bocitoare şi să deplângem prigonirea lui Hobbes sau Tocqueville de către editurile comuniste, însă acest curent de idei nu şi-a găsit loc nici în cultura română ante şi interbelică, cu câteva excepţii sporadice, între care, azi contestatul Ştefan Zeletin1, marginalizatul Eugen Lovinescu sau etericul Tudor Vianu2. Cât despre conducătorii Partidului Naţional Liberal de dinainte de război, preocupaţi de guvernare şi apoi de conflicte interne, ei nu a simţit nevoia să-şi teoretizeze sistematic demersurile. Tot răul spre bine pentru purişti, căci inflaţia de idei şi politici liberale de după 90 a fost în mare parte ferită de impurităţi autohtone. După schimbarea de regim din decembrie 1989, liberalismul a devenit idiomul politic, economic şi pedagogic al ideologiei dominante. Şi cum nicio limbă nu e neutră, sintaxa sa ar avea – ni se spune – capacitatea de a ne indica drumul de mijloc între extremele politice ale dreptei şi stângii, fiind în acelaşi timp tot ce poate fi mai opus totalitarismului nazist sau comunist. Mai mult, e perceput ca orizont de nedepăşit al oricărei experienţe politice, singurul cadru legitim al aspiraţiei democratice.

Cum se impune o preschimbare a limbii, în cazul de faţă, cea politică? Mai întâi printr-un program de traduceri, care generează comentarii şi competenţe şi, în cele din urmă, o producţie originală. Noii interpreţi autorizaţi vin din domenii conexe cum ar fi istoria, filosofia, sociologia sau economia, dar şi mai îndepărtate ca istoria artei, teologia sau disciplinele tehnice. O altă rezervă de specialişti abandonează rapid vechile materii ale socialismului ştiinţific, ale materialismului dialectic sau ale învăţământului de partid şi de stat pentru a se reconverti la relaţii internaţionale, integrare europeană, doctrine politice sau managementul instituţiilor. Între 1990 şi 1995 se înfiinţează facultăţi şi institute de politologie şi administraţie publică, privite la început cu suspiciune, dar care îşi vor cunoaşte gloria în anii 2000, în dauna studiilor clasice. Noua dogmă liberală îşi găseşte aici susţinătorii, care îşi antrenează capacităţile în reviste, dintre care remarcabile rămân Polis şi Sfera Politicii, ambele apărute în 1994.

O teologie a ispăşirii

Mai întâi, liberalismul postsocialist românesc se prezintă ca opusul victorios al „totalitarismului”. Aşadar, contrariul unui concept vag menit să dea seama de realităţile autoritarismului socialist, mistificat într-un bloc monolitic, continuum criminal în exerciţiu din 1946 până în 1989. Noţiunea de „totalitarism”, apărută în discursurile lui Mussolini şi în textele lui Jünger, dar vehiculată mai ales în literatura filosofică şi politică a Europei Occidentale din anii 50-70, este aplicată la noi unui univers memorialistic. Investigaţia istorică este înlocuită de înfierarea morală, operaţiune de două ori comodă, mai întâi pentru judecătorii ce se plasează în afara oricărei responsabilităţi şi exclud apoi orice încercare de articulare a înţelegerii trecutului3. E logica melodramei documentare începute în 1991 de Lucia Hossu-Longhin, Memorialul durerii, în care fosta realizatoare de emisiuni omagiale din anii 80 îşi însoţeşte ancheta asupra universului închisorilor comuniste de un comentariu teologico-punitiv4. Atitudinea de condamnare a întregii experienţe a socialismului real românesc devine treptat politică oficială şi cade în sarcina unor instituţii publice dintre care amintim Institutul Naţional pentru Studiul Totalitarismului, ce funcţionează din 1993, în subordinea Academiei Române. Acesta devine mai puţin vizibil către anii 2000, odată înfiinţarea Institutului de Investigare a Crimelor Comunismului şi Memoriei Exilului Românesc, progenitură a două centre de cercetare, una dedicată exilului şi fondată de Adrian Năstase în 2000, cealaltă crimelor şi fondată în 2004 de Călin Popescu-Tăriceanu. Subordonarea lor directă faţă de prim-miniştri nici nu încearcă să ascundă funcţia lor politică exercitată în dauna activităţii ştiinţifice. Pe fondul tensiunilor dintre guvernul Tăriceanu şi preşedintele Traian Băsescu, va apărea în 2006 şi o Comisie Prezidenţială pentru Analiza Dictaturii Comuniste, menită să întemeieze savant condamnarea oficială a regimului comunist. Scurta istorie instituţională a studiului totalitarismului românesc îi arată natura părtinitoare: întemeierea actualului regim, lovituri de culise între centri de putere guvernamentali şi prezidenţiali atunci când ei se află în concurenţă, preschimbarea analizei istorice în rechizitoriul unui proces lipsit de pledoariile apărării. Bazele teoretice sunt exprimate mai bine în actele fondatoare şi rapoartele de cercetare ale primului institut de acest gen din România, cel rămas în umbră pentru că umbrela Academiei îl protejează de intruziuni guvernamentale directe. Astfel, Institutul Naţional pentru Studiul Totalitarismului se ocupă de „totalitarism” ca fenomen inter- şi postbelic, cuprinzând regimurilor antiliberale de stânga sau de dreapta de la noi: regimul comunist, dar şi dictaturile carlistă, antonesciană sau naţional-legionară.

Dintre teoreticienii totalitarismului ca inamic al democraţiei liberale burgheze, autorii citaţi, citiţi şi traduşi la noi au fost în special Hannah Arendt şi Françoit Furet. Ceea ce ar reuni cele două tipuri de regimuri, sovietic şi nazist, ar fi ura pentru liberalismul burghez şi pentru reprezentativitatea parlamentară, dar şi încercarea de control total al populaţiei. Volumul Hannei Arendt, Originile totalitarismului (1951), merită o menţiune specială, căci conţine o idee care, conştient sau nu, îşi va face loc în concepţia elitistă a neoliberalilor români postsocialişti: hitlerismul şi stalinismul sunt regimuri politice bazate pe plebe. Pentru eleva lui Heidegger, regimurile totalitare apar în ţări mari, care-şi pot permite pierderi importante de categorii de populaţie (clase, etnii, corpuri profesionale) în scopul obţinerii unei mase omogene de individualităţi complet supuse statului. Guvernările în discuţie sunt rezultatul unei distrugeri a sistemului tradiţional de clase, datorat Primului Război Mondial în Germania sau a înapoierii istorice şi a existenţei unei imense ţărănimi excluse în Rusia, la care se adaugă adeziunea noii intelectualităţi moderne prea numeroase pentru structura conservatoare a statului burghez5. Tema e reluată de François Furet care vede în mişcările totalitare – leninismul, fascismul şi nazismul – transferul în politică a mizeriei, violenţei, supunerii cazone şi comunitarismului din tranşeele Marelui Război6. Viziunea liberalilor nouăzecişti şi a urmaşilor lor va împrumuta această imagine şi se va raporta la ea cu ocazia fiecărui soroc electoral românesc. E teoria unei rupturi între elitele culte şi poporul necioplit, primele autodefinindu-se ca fier de lance al Tranziţiei, stat major şi avangardă a unei clase de mijloc spectrale. Inventarea unei „clase de mijloc” urbane şi occidentalizate a mânat toate strategiile electorale ale intelectualităţii liberale. Ca orice idee eficientă politic, ea e simplă: nimeni nu vrea să fie considerat un sărăntoc cu apucături înrăite de comunism cum sunt adesea etichetaţi votanţii FSN-ului şi a urmaşilor săi politici, cu trecerea anilor, pe tonuri tot mai agresive, mergând până la nostalgia votului cenzitar, impunerea de bariere electorale în faţa „plebei” sau apelul la conducerea prin decrete reformatoare de către o dictatură luminată. Programul unui bonapartism al Reformei anticomuniste şi a unei revoluţii antipoliticianiste, ce va bântui ulterior imaginarul raportării intelectualilor liberali la Traian Băsescu, e deja exprimat cu hotărâre în timpul guvernării CDR şi cu ocazia prefigurării unui eşec al acesteia. Astfel, într-un editorial pasionat, Andrei Cornea îi reproşa prim-ministrului demis, Victor Ciorbea, lipsa unei staturi politice care să-l fi împins către o guvernare prin ordonanţe de urgenţă, peste capul parlamentarilor şi partidelor7. Aceeaşi direcţie este indicată de Alexandru Paleologu, venerabil între liberali, când făcea apel la cultura sa clasică, pentru a sugera o întoarcere la o dictatură republicană romană. El spera la un Cincinatus bucureştean care să preia frâiele puterii şi să se opună „revoltei maselor”, adică haosului şi anarhie antielitare şi vestitoare ale terorii roşii sau brune. Modelul său era Augusto Pinochet, iar condamnarea lui de către Camera britanică a Lorzilor condamnată ca o laşitate şi o mârşăvie din partea urmaşilor aristocraţiei insulare8.

Ceea ce se petrece între anii 50 şi 90 – adică, de la analiza iniţială întreprinsă de Hannah Arendt până la interpretările lui François Furet (1995) sau ale echipei lui Stéphane Courtois din Cartea neagră a comunismului (1997) – e abandonarea tacită a explicaţiilor filosofic-istorice ale gânditoarei de la New School for Social Research şi adoptarea unui discurs exorcizator care constată „oroarea” şi „măreţia răului”9, „misterul”10 sau „orbirea”11 considerării celor două regimuri. E evidentă în intenţia celor două cărţi franceze de istorie, instrumentalizarea conceptului arendtian de „totalitarism” pentru a supune comunismul unui tip de tratament pe care Occidentul l-a rezervat nazismului şi urmaşilor săi politici. Un Nürnberg al comunismului e ideea centrală a marketingului căinţei practicat de Stéphane Courtois, de André Glucksmann şi de alţi maoişti apuseni surprinşi de cursul istoriei. Strategia lor a găsit un teren roditor în Europa orientală, unde noile elite se legitimau printr-un anticomunism tardiv. Astfel, poate cel mai de succes autor politic român al anilor 1990-2000, H.-R. Patapievici, propunea înfiinţarea unuiInstitut Internaţional al Exterminării Comuniste, care ar fi pus capăt dublei măsuri occidentale de a considera nazismul criminal, iar comunismul generos. Printr-un apel la „bunul simţ” şi „adevărurile elementare”, frecvent în retorica lui Patapievici, el asimilează „ideea de comunism” cu „devalorizarea omului şi exterminarea lui”12. Dorinţele i-au fost ascultate, fie şi sub forma mai modestă a anticomunismului într-o singură ţară.

Anticomunismul apusean şi cel românesc se înscriu din motive diferite într-o logică a ispăşirii unor păcate, teoretice sau politice, personale sau familiale, ceea ce le conduce cel mai adesea spre o intransigenţă dogmatică faţă de un trecut perceput prea apropiat şi pe care-l vor condamnat şi uitat. O reacţie mai rară, căci implică o ruptură cu adevărat dureroasă, va fi revenirea asupra adeziunii la euroliberalismul din anii 90 şi expunerea ravagiilor acestuia, gest împlinit de filosoful Gáspár Miklós Tamás13. De dragul simetriei geografice est-vest, să notăm că şi editorul francez al Cărţii negre a comunismului a simţit nevoia unei relativizări a singularităţii comuniste, prin extinderea domeniului pocăinţei într-o nouă Carte neagră, de data acesta, a colonialismului14, amplă retractare a retoricii din prefaţa primei lucrări, unde crimele regimurilor prosovietice erau invocate pentru a trece mai uşor peste culpabilitatea postcolonială15.

Reproşând, alături de Aurelian Crăiuţu16, rapidele identificări ale conservatorismului cu „fascismului”, operate de un Isaiah Berlin, H.-R. Patapievici nu arată, nici el, mai multă prudenţă istorică. Eseistul abandonează termenul prea tehnic de „totalitarism” în favoarea unei sintagme împrumutate din universul teleevaghelismului maccarthyst: „răul totalitar”. Satanismul politic ar avea ca ingrediente dominaţia statului asupra societăţii şi constrângerea ei în chingile unei ideologi, după cum ne-ar fi dovedit alaltăieri rasismul nazist, ieri antielitismul marxist sau azi prosperitatea consumeristă17. Istoria secolului XX şi a începutului secolului XXI e o vale a umbrelor morţii anunţată de stupiditatea rasistă hitleristă, amenajată de comunism ca religie fără transcendenţă şi împlinită de prezenta dominaţie a economicului şi a lobby-urilor minoritare într-un Occident complet secularizat. În consecinţă, liberalismul românesc nouăzecist se va defini ca o mişcare de rezistenţă spirituală şi partizanat al unui capitalism autentic, trădat de intelectualii apuseni18. Ideile lui Patapievici sunt aici în deplin acord cu sintezele dâmboviţene ale filialei româneşti a Institutului Ludwig von Mises între Părinţii Bisericii Răsăritene şi mentalitatea antreprenorială. Totuşi, autorul Omului recent nu are îndrăzneala formulărilor rostite de Dan Cristian Comănescu, gurul libertarianismului dâmboviţean, şi republicate pe de situl internet mises.ro. Merită citat:

„… capitalismul ţine şi de conjuncţia teandrică a libertăţii cu harul, după cum ordinea cu adevărat naturală ţine în general de unirea creatului cu necreatul, în sensul precizat de Sf. Maxim Mărturisitorul şi de acei (mulţi, puţini, nu ştiu) rămaşi cu el, de partea Ortodoxiei.”19

Bineînţeles suntem în faţa unui spirit oral, în tradiţia lui Zaharias Lichter, personajul romanului lui Matei Călinescu, sau a foarte realului Petre Ţuţea, aşa că, în ciuda ameninţărilor sale, trebuie să ne mulţumim cu ambiţioasele proiecte a unei opere nescrise:

„… mă silesc să mă gândesc şi la un manual de liberalism Ortodox, un fel de veriga lipsă a lui Rothbard, care îmi place să cred că l-ar fi convertit şi pe el. Ştii că se zice că ar fi murit în pragul convertirii la Romano-Catolicism, dar mă tem că n-o fi găsit acolo răspuns la întrebarea de ce e totuşi Dumnezeu o ipoteză necesară.”20

Accelerare pe calea de mijloc

Antitotalitarismul românesc are două registre discursive ce se îmbină şi despart în funcţie de temperamentul autorilor şi a necesităţile argumentării. Unul, deja trecut în revistă, este cel al conjurării demonului trecutului şi a exhibării ororii lui. Celălalt e cel al „liberalismului clasic”, care, recomandându-se de la Tocqueville şi Guizot, condamnă „masificarea” lumii contemporane în numele distincţiei şi individualismului unei aristocraţii tardive, ce invoca odinioară pluralitatea şi libertatea de opinie pentru a supravieţui şi a perpetua mesajele regalismului reacţionar. În acest scop e frecvent apelul la traducerea românească din 1994 a articolelor lui Ortega y Gasset din anii 20-30, aşezate sub titlul de Revolta maselor21. Bineînţeles, nici lucrarea lui Arendt despre obârşiile totalitarismului, nici cea a eseistului spaniol despre dispariţia elitelor nu sunt folosite în analiza frontală a prezentului, ci doar ca o lectură a traumelor trecutului. Or, în cel mai bun caz, totalitarismul masificării prin obiectului de consum, prin industria de divertisment si individualismul nivelator al ultimului capitalism sunt privite ca o consecinţă a ideilor social-politice inserate în lumea occidentală. Relativismul epistemologic, multiculturalismul, corectitudinea politică sau postmodernismul filosofic sunt numele aduse în boxa acuzaţiilor şi acuzate ca urmaşi legitimi ai comunismului.

Întoarcerea la clasicii secolelor al XVIII-lea şi al XIX-lea căută să precizeze conţinutul liberalismului care, la începutul anilor ’90, era doar eticheta opoziţiei la comunismul totalitar şi la cei ce erau percepuţi ca urmaşii lui. Cu timpul, încep să apară nuanţări între diverse opţiuni politice: apar creştin-democraţi, conservatori, social-liberal sau naţionalişti de dreapta eurofili. Dar un liberalism minimal rămâne orizontul acestor doctrine pe care teoreticienii noştri au încercat să o definească. Astfel, Aurelian Crăiuţu vorbea de „un set minimal de principii liberale devenit inevitabil astăzi şi-n Europa de Est” care dau corp unei doctrine ce nu se vrea nimic altceva „decât o tehnică a administrării dizarmoniei sociale, un mod relativ eficient de a încorpora diversitatea şi pluralismul, de a menţine conflictul la un nivel civil sau, cel puţin, tolerabil”22. Conştient că, în proba politicii, simpla neutralitate nu e posibilă, Crăiuţu se rezumă la a caracteriza spiritul liberal ce urmează să acţioneze în politică prin ataşament faţă de toleranţă şi constituţionalism23, încurajare a pluralismului, individualismului şi diversităţii24. Pe scurt, tuturor să le fie bine şi toţi să trăiască în pace! Cine n-ar fi de acord? Şi totuşi, enunţarea acestor generalităţi drăguţe se încheie cu deplângerea slabului suport al poziţiei sale, neajuns pricinuit, dinspre intelectuali, de absenţa tradiţiei liberale şi slăbiciunilor de început a comunităţii academice politologice, iar dinspre populaţie, de ancorarea acesteia în „tiparele trecutului”25. Ca şi un alt pionier al liberalismului universitar, Cristian Preda, Aurelian Crăiuţu nu se simte defel reprezentat de partidele liberale nouăzeciste locale26. În acord cu panseurile lui H.-R. Patapievici, chiar dacă mai organizat conceptual şi mai prudent în consideraţii istorice, el face apel la „criticile conservatoare” care pot completa neajunsurile unei doctrine liberale redusă la simpla neutralitate practică. Aici, sprijinul îi e dat de lecturile din Burke, Du Maistre, Oakeshott, Ortega y Gasset sau Steinhardt27, autori pe care textul Omului recent nici nu-i mai separă de tradiţia liberală refondată şi chemată să cureţe moravurile clasei politice carpatine şi opţiunile electorale ale populaţiei valahe. Pentru Crăiuţu, lectura conservatoare a istoriei ne fereşte de „radicalismul revoluţionar”, sintagmă prin care politologul invocă, pe urmele lui Furet, o continuitate spirituală între Revoluţia Franceză şi cea bolşevică. Opţiunea sa intelectuală se îndreaptă aşadar spre liberalii francezi de la începutul secolului al XIX-lea, care ne pot face să înţelegem natura unei „societăţi în proces de democratizare”, afinitate electivă dovedită de frecventa referire la scrierile sau la maximele lui Alexis de Tocqueville. Izbutind o carieră universitară dincolo de Atlantic, laIndiana University, Aurelian Crăiuţu poate medita netulburat la istoria moderaţiei în filosofia politică modernă între secolele XV şi XIX28 ca fundamentare a reflecţiei liberale. O altă întemeiere a acţiunii politice este căutată de el în studiile sociologice din a doua jumătate a secolului XX dedicate culturii civice. Cuminte istoric al ideilor, gândirea sa politică se opreşte la consideraţii vagi asupra necesităţii cultivării civismului şi individualismului în Estul Europei. Cât despre acţiunea publică, Crăiuţu se rezumă să ne ofere câteva modele care ar orienta practica şi cogitaţia politică în construirea unui paradis gri al democraţiei liberale, opus, conform unei sugestii preluate din Adam Michnik, ideilor infernale roşii sau negre29. Dar, în mai mare măsură decât fostul dizident polonez, maestrul ales de filosoful român va fi Raymond Aron, pe care-l priveşte ca pe un oponent la orice dogmatism politic intelectual30. Încercarea sa de definire a politicului în afara conflictului şi a raporturilor de forţă, constituie mai degrabă un refuz al sferei politicii în favoarea cultivării ideilor. Principiile liberalismului universitarului american se reduc în ultimă instanţă la regulile de civilitate, de cumpătare a avânturilor revoluţionare şi de educare a maselor nepregătite pentru liberalism, dar gată să ne sufoce în mediocritatea şi violenţa democraţiei lor.

Un drum asemănător a parcurs şi de H.-R. Patapievici care-şi concentrează în cele din urmă critica în jurul ideii de discernământ, o facultate ce ar lipsi adversarilor săi politici, socialiştii actuali de diverse speţe sau intelectualii postmoderni de diferite obedienţe. Discernământul ar opera distincţia între diversele regimuri ale valorii (de pildă, între cel religios şi cel economic), iar în cadrul unui domeniu ar stabili cu precizie ierarhiile şi ar vedea fără greş binele şi răul. Maximele morale la care este redus liberalismul sfârşeau la Crăiuţu într-o exegeză a temperanţei, iar la Patapievici într-o literatură sapienţială bătrânicioasă:

„Conservatorul este un liberal care a ajuns să preţuiască mai mult discernământul oamenilor decât ideea mâini invizibile. (…) Este un om care, dacă a avut norocul să treacă de tinereţe fără să se smintească, a început să înţeleagă de ce valoarea vieţii este legată, mai mult decât orice altceva, de preţul lucrurilor care, dacă omul nu ar fi o persoană imposibil de înlocuit, i-ar fi inutile. Tot ce i-ar prisosi dacă nu ar fi muritor, toate acestea au ajuns cu timpul să însemne mai mult pentru cel care a devenit conservator, decât pentru orice alt tip de om. Liberal te naşti, arareori devii, de aceea toţi convertiţii la liberalism sunt falşi liberali. În timp ce conservator devii, nu te naşti – iar pragul este înţelegerea faptului că moartea este mai importantă decât libertatea, logica mântuirii superioară constrângerilor de orice fel31.”

Cea mai picturală definire a neutralităţii liberale este cuprinsă însă de încercările filosofice întreprinse de Andrei Cornea începând cu lucrarea sa Turnirul khazar32. El lucrează la o întemeiere slabă a acestui liberalism conservator românesc, fundament conceptual mai adaptat vremurilor postmoderne decât ortodoxismul Institutului Ludwig von Mises sau tradiţionalismului lui Patapievici33. Inspiraţia religioasă a acestora este redusă aici la un procedeu literar. Ni se propune o parabolă liberală: cea convertirii khazarilor la iudaism, cândva în secolul al IX-lea, în urma unei dispute religioase organizate de regele Bulan între reprezentanţii celor trei mari monoteisme abrahamice. Creştinul, musulmanul şi evreul sunt puşi să-şi declare „opţiunea secundă”, să răspundă la întrebarea de care dintre religiile concurente se simt cel mai apropiaţi? Cum şi islamismul şi creştinismul recunosc Vechiul Testament printre cărţile lor sfinte, iudaismul va avea câştig de cauză întrunind preferinţa celorlalţi ca religia cea mai apropiată de adevărul propriilor lor dogme. Presupusa experienţă khazară e repetată într-un turnir ideologic imaginar, unde sunt invitaţi un fascist, un comunist şi un reprezentant al democraţiei liberale. Or, „totalitarii” de stânga sau de dreapta vor prefera întotdeauna democraţia unei dictaturi aflate la cealaltă extremă politică, cum o dovedesc pentru Cornea exemplele exilului lui Lenin în Elveţia sau a lui Khomeiny în Franţa, ultimul asociat fascismului din raţiunii care ne scapă34. Dar nu datele istorice contează în această reconstrucţie ideatică. Avem prin urmare iudaismul şi democraţia, fie luate ca opţiune primă, fie ca „referinţă fondatoare” pentru alte creaţii religioase sau politice. Forţa şi slăbiciunea democraţiei constau în permisivitatea ei, în limitele ei constituţionale putând supravieţui „rezervaţii” comuniste sau fasciste35. Autorul nu ne dă exemple, dar să acceptăm jocul şi să încercăm să le găsim. Există azi comuna andaluză Marinaleda, unde, sub impulsul unui sindicat agricol, s-a creat începând din anii 80 o experienţă economică locală bazată pe principiile autogestiunii şi care a făcut faţă cu brio crizei economice ce a zguduit Spania începând cu 2008. La fel, Letonia, membră UE sau actualul regim proeuropean şi proamerican de la Kiev permit şi încurajează glorificarea nazismului. Andrei Cornea are dreptate să-l citeze aici pe Platon: democraţia e un „bazar de orânduiri”. Şi cu atât mai mult Uniunea Europeană!

Prin urmare, la fel ca iudaismul faţă de religiile abrahamice, democraţia ar fi pentru toate sistemele politice o „referinţă universală”. Democraţia liberală ar fi zona optimă de intersecţie a libertăţii şi egalităţii, în care fiecare individ are o şansă să reuşească în viaţă. Găsim în cartea lui Andrei Cornea şi o teorie originală a căderii comunismului, conform căreia Gorbaciov şi apropiaţii săi ar fi început să ia în serios fundamentele sistemului lor: leninismul trădat de stalinism, marxismul trădat de leninism şi, în fine, democraţia burgheză trădată de marxism. URSS ar fi căzut din motive de seriozitate academică, noii membrii din Politburo începând cu sfârşitul anilor 80 să citească atent textele fondatoare ale marxismului36. La fel, revenirea cadrelor comuniste la putere în Europa de Est se face prin partide social-democrate, semn al unei îmblânziri democratice a foştilor totalitari, care au ajuns să ţină seama de adevărul burghez democrat aflat la temeiul doctrinei lor. Totul se petrece într-o zonă pură a teoriei, iar dacă apar date istorice, sociologice sau economice, ele sunt acolo pentru a susţine ideile eterice ale unei democraţii liberale ce se defineşte făcând apel la texte din Platon, Adam Smith sau Friedrich Hayek.

Liberalismul ne este prezentat de mesagerii săi intelectuali ca o reînviere a definirii aristotelice a virtuţii: mijlocirea dintre exces şi lipsă. De pildă, curajul era pentru filosoful din Stagira calea de mijloc dintre temeritatea plină de riscuri şi teama paralizantă. Sau generozitatea era mijlocul dintre avariţia bănuitoare şi necumpătarea ruinătoare. Tot astfel, liberalismul postbelic ar fi drumul de urmat dintre nazism şi stalinism. Şi cum primul adversar nu a supravieţuit celui de Al Doilea Război Mondial, liberalii glaciaţiunii geopolitice se concentrează asupra totalitarismului roşu37. Aurea mediocritas ca strategie de autodefinire rămâne şi opţiunea liberalilor mai tineri, ca s-ar plasa astfel între dictatura sferei publice impusă de socialişti şi tirania vieţii private susţinută de conservatori38. Autopoziţionarea în spaţiul lui „nici-nici” conduce la imprecizie în definirea pozitivă a conţinutului doctrinei liberale. Neclaritatea e sporită de interesul prim al doctrinarilor liberali autohtoni: condamnarea şi eventual definirea totalitarismului. De aceea, numărul revistei Polis consacrat liberalismului francez îl include fără probleme printre autorii reprezentativi selectaţi pe marxistul antistalinist Claude Lefort39. Desigur, există o explicaţie, textul lui Lefort fiind dedicat analizei toquevilliene a societăţii americane. În darea de seamă asupra temei, Sorin Antohi insistă asupra figurii lui Alexis de Tocqueville ca părinte fondator al gândiri politice franceze. E urmat aici Raymond Aron care-l redescoperă pe autorul Democraţiei în America pentru a-l opune lui Marx în polemicile pariziene postbelice40.

Referinţa franceză are şi o importanţă instituţională, studiile politice bucureştene producând prima generaţie de absolvenţi (1991-1995) în urma unui program francofon de studii propus de noua Faculté Internationale des Sciences Humaines, devenită ulterior Facultatea de Studii Politice. Francofonia liberală era opusă Şcolii de Înalte Studii Politice, transformată apoi în Şcoala Naţională de Ştiinţe Politice şi Administrative, aflată sub conducerea lui Vasile Secăreş, fost cadru al institutului de istorie militară ceauşist41. Reîntoarcerea francofoniei în anii 1990, intrată în reflux pe la jumătatea anilor 2000, atât în urma abandonului francez de a mai promova o diplomaţiei culturală, cât şi a victoriei anglofoniei, era nu numai o recuperare a unei tradiţii ante şi interbelice, dar şi un mesaj împotriva oligarhiei universitare prerevoluţionare42. De unde, referirea ritualică la Aron şi Tocqueville, din care se exclude aproape în întregime dimensiunea cercetării lor sociologice pentru că, ne spune Cristian Preda, sociologii sunt tovarăşii de drum ai socialismului, iniţiatori ai unei (pseudo)ştiinţe în care natura umană este privată de individualismul liberal43.

Referinţa românească la Tocqueville, inventată şi impusă de Raymond Aron44 pentru uzul contemporan al liberalismului, sau la Aron însuşi, e de natură hagiografică. În consecinţă, sunt trecute cu vederea momentele problematice ale destinelor celor doi. Nici Aurelian Crăiuţu, nici Cristian Preda, nici Sorin Antohi, nici H.-R. Patapievici nu pomenesc în glorificarea valahă a lui Aron de legătura sa cu CIA, recunoscută cu jumătate de gură înMemoriile sale45, prin intermediul unui Congres pentru Libertatea Culturii46, asociaţie ce se vroia o veritabilă internaţională anticomunistă şi care a organizat campanii de denigrare în presă împotriva lui Jean-Paul Sartre, Pablo Neruda, Bertold Brecht, Thomas Mann şi alţii. Presupunând că autorul Opiumului intelectualilor nu era la curent cu utilizarea ocultă a scrierilor sale, el ar trebui să fie tratat măcar cu un grăunte din ironia şi din dispreţul cu care liberalii de azi vorbesc de „idioţii utili” propagandei Uniunii Sovietice. Pentru că liberalismul are un monopol asupra scepticismului şi detaşării, cum ne învaţă Aurelian Crăiuţu… Revenind la Alexis de Tocqueville, nu găsim în analizele liberale româneşti nicio referire la textele sale coloniale. Este abandonată figura de scriitor politic complex în favoarea producerii unui fals profet. Nu există scuza ignoranţei47, căci textele dispersate, ignorate în volumele de opere complete din secolul XIX, se regăsesc în ediţia Gallimard, alcătuită începând cu 1951, sub impulsul lui Raymond Aron. Mai mult, ele sunt strânse laolaltă într-o carte pregătită de Tzvetan Todorov în 1988,De la colonisation en Algerie48. Textele cele mai „compromiţătoare” apăruseră însă în 1841 şi chiar au fost traduse în română sub titlul de Războaiele cu arabii, cu un aparat critic bizar ce doreşte să justifice actualele războaie americane din Irak49! Găsim aici discursuri şi rapoarte parlamentare, în care aristocratul francez denunţă sentimentalismul celor ce se opun practicilor armatei franceze în Algeria: înfometarea prin pustiirea recoltelor şi distrugerea hambarelor, capturarea femeilor şi copiilor50 sau distrugerea oricărei aşezări permanente51. La fel, în spiritul umanismului european, Tocqueville justifică exproprierea şi deportarea locuitorilor prin violenţa moravurilor acestui ţinut la care Franţa trebuie să se adapteze în vederea colonizării52! Ar fi fost aici o materie de meditaţie pentru cei tulburaţi peste măsură de memoria colectivizării sovietice a pământurilor!

Toată lumea, la centru!

Chestiunea colonială loveşte însă într-un punct delicat al liberalismului intelectual românesc: multiculturalismul. E un termen umbrelă care acoperă realităţi foarte disparate legate de diversitatea culturală şi religioasă. Mai mult, creatorul termenului, Will Kymlicka53, vine din zona liberală. Însă nu dezbaterile politologilor canadieni ne interesează aici, cât ce anume a devenit termenul prin împământenirea în limba română. O direcţie a dat-o fost rector clujean, Andrei Marga, care a importat eticheta de „multicultural” din dezbaterile americane despre drepturile popoarelor indigene şi ale imigranţilor africani sau latino în SUA pentru a o lipi pe pluralitatea lingvistică ardeleană. Dacă universitatea transilvană i-a dat un sens pozitiv, la teoreticienii de peste munţi vocabula desemnează un exces de liberalism sau un liberalism rătăcit, asociat relativismului postmodern şi hedonismului moral. Astfel, pentru H.-R. Patapievici, multiculturalismul ar fi doctrina prin care opiniile eronate, nocive sau supărătoare sunt acceptate în societate în virtutea dreptului la diferenţă54. S-ar abroga orice ierarhie între culturi55, adică superioritatea Occidentului, iar lupta în favoarea acestei egalităţi ar impune, conform unui text de negăsit al lui Frantz Fanon, uciderea europenilor nevinovaţi56. De fapt, chiar apostolul liberalismului modern, Alexis de Tocqueville, recomanda uciderea inocenţilor din raţiuni de război. Lectura pasajelor mai sus amintite despre raporturile Europei cu Africa arată că scriitorul francez era conştient că înfruntarea nu se dă între filosofiile, ştiinţele şi tehnicile celor două continente, ci între două forţe militare, iar scopul nu e civilizarea, ci ocuparea de noi teritorii pentru bogăţii şi poziţie geopolitică. Toate acestea sunt traduse în limbajul noului discurs teoretic românesc într-o înfruntare dintre elitele europene şi masele necivilizate din Nordul şi Sudul Saharei. Pentru Andrei Cornea, de pildă, duritatea colonizării, asprimea luptelor antiimperialiste ale Lumii a Treia şi eşecurilor politice ulterioare se poate rezuma în preferinţa africanilor „să fie trataţi drept sclavi de ai lor (sub raportul clasei, rasei, naţiunii) decât să fie trataţi drept oameni liberi de către o putere binevoitoare, dar a celorlalţi – foştii colonialişti57”. Nu încape nici un cuvânt aici despre decuparea continentului negru cu rigla între puterile imperialiste din prealiberalul secol al XIX-lea, nimic despre dictaturile corupte susţinute de Occident, nicio vorbă despre intervenţiile militare apusene directe sau prin interpuşi, niciun rând despre propaganda media legată de interesele marilor companii sau despre cercul infernal al datoriei externe. Multiculturalismul, consecinţă a relativismului postmodern, se reduce pentru Patapievici şi Cornea la o întoarcere la o formă de „parohialism” impusă de dictatori ca Hitler, Stalin, Mao sau Ratko Mladici58, în folosul cărora au lucrat, refuzând consecinţele gândirii lor, Paul Feyerabend, Michel Foucault, Paul Veyne sau Claude Karnoouh59. Se repetă schema ingineriei geniste de definire a liberalismului ca drum de mijloc între comunism şi fascism, actualizată aici drept cale regală între prăpastia postmodernistă – sau a „comunismului corectitudinii politice americane”, dacă preferaţi terminologia lui Patapievici – şi hăul naţionalist.

Să fim drepţi. Primul teoretician nouăzecist al liberalismului căii de mijloc a fost Adrian Marino. Pentru el, mijlocul însemna drumul spre Europa politică şi Occidentul consumist, reprezentate militar de NATO. Manifestul său, Pentru Europa, îmbină înţelegerea pentru emblemele societăţii de consum, Coca-cola sau Big mac cu susţinerea integrării României în structurile politico-economice şi armate ale Vestului60. Valorizarea bunăstării materiale, preluată din gândirea heteroclită a lui John Kenneth Galbraith, e îndreptată împotriva ascetismului cultural al lui Constantin Noica. Entuziasmul pentru instituţiile euro-atlantice era deja discursul comun al politicienilor şi intelectualilor români în anii 90, dar Marino îi bănuieşte pe primii de nesinceritate şi pe ceilalţi de nepregătire. Presupoziţia sa nemărturisită, împărtăşită de altfel de opinia comună a intelighenţiei, e că la baza politicii şi economiei stă cultura. De aceea, Marino trece la o arheologie istorică menită să găsească principiile europenizării culturale româneşti. Şi se va opri la renaşterea naţională iluministă împlinită de mişcarea paşoptistă61. Din erudiţia sa, el toarce un fir istoric al unei „culturi de centru”, opusă culturii oficiale de stânga care tocmai se prăbuşise lăsând în urmă racile dureroase şi culturii de dreapta interbelice, redescoperite, adoptate de intelectualii în 9062. Cu excepţia lui Sorin Antohi63, scrierile politico-istorice ale lui Marino nu găsesc mulţi partizani, deşi idealul citadin mic burghez schiţat de el părea ţelul tuturor mişcărilor civice locale. Ceea ce l-a înstrăinat a fost însă opoziţia constantă şi lipsită de compromis la modelul herderian propus de Noica, văzut ca o continuitate cu aderarea de tinereţe a filosofului la mişcarea legionară şi reprezentând o acomodare vinovată cu izolaţionismul şi naţionalismul ceauşist64. Fără a încerca să vadă înrudirile sau chiar identitatea dialectică dintre romantismul german de la care se trăgea filosofia naţională noiciană şi paşoptismul pe care-l spera reînviat, Marino se arată intransigent şi cu moştenitorii carismei noiciene pe care o consideră purtătoare a principiilor extremei drepte camuflată în exegeză teologică sau eseistică filosofică. Astfel, la premierea volumului lui Andrei Pleşu, Despre îngeri (2004), Adrian Marino, în calitate de preşedinte al juriului Asociaţiei Scriitorilor Profesionişti îşi prezintă rezervele faţă de „spiritualismul” noician al autorului. Istoria e cunoscută: Pleşu refuză premiul, Gabriel Liiceanu intervine în calitate de păltinişan cu publicarea unei dedicaţii a lui Marino către D.R. Popescu, preşedintele comunist al Uniunii Scriitorilor din anii 80, probă ultimă a compromisurilor în care susţinătorul celei de a treia căi s-ar fi complăcut înainte de revoluţia decembristă. Totul până la Noica! – pare să fi fost deviza lui Liiceanu. Anii de puşcărie stalinistă ai lui Adrian Marino nu l-au înduioşat pe editorul colecţiei „Procesul comunismului”. Scandalul s-a reaprins cu ocazia publicării postumă a memoriilor ideologului neopaşoptist65, un lucru rămânând clar: opţiunile culturale şi politice ale lui Constantin Noica rămân şi azi un punct sensibil al definirii sentimentului liberal al fiinţei. Există un principiu conservator şi o credinţă în viaţa spiritului şi importanţa ei care ritmează dezvoltările gândirii liberale româneşti.

Una din strategiile de raportare la şcoala Noica şi la tradiţia spiritualistă românească e ignorarea. Aşa de pildă, Cristian Preda refuză abordarea altor texte decât cele politice şi nu mai trebuie să se oprească decât asupra câtorva articole timpurii ale autorului, puse sub acuzaţie66, dar neînsemnate în raport cu „totalitarismul românesc” dezvoltat de Rădulescu-Motru67. E mai uşor de doborât un ciclop mort decât o hidră cu capete încă vii. Împăcarea caprei cu varza este încercarea de lectură liberală a lui Andrei Cornea. A fost Noica atras de gânditori antidemocratici şi antiberali, se întreabă el? Da, îşi răspunde comentatorul, însă şcoala sa socratică funcţiona pe un model al generozităţii şi libertăţii. A fost el un antimodern? Nu, continuă pledoaria din De la şcoala din Atena la Şcoala de la Păltiniş, doar s-a împotrivit anumitor forme de modernitate, cum ar fi gândirea numită postmodernă68, să nu uităm, creatoarea detestatului „multiculturalism”.

În ciuda încrederii pe care Adrian Marino a arătat-o şcolii noilor politologi, susţinătorii săi nu au venit din noile facultăţi de studiu al artelor politice şi ştiinţelor administraţiei. Au fost dispreţuiţii săi tovarăşi de drum, literaţii optzecişti şi urmaşii lor intelectuali, reuniţi în jurul revistei Observatorul Cultural, condusă iniţial de Ion Bogdan Lefter. Ei vin cu o imagine mai domesticită a spiritului şi culturii, fie prin procedee de dresaj academic, cum e corectitudinea politică, fie prin glorificarea „clasei de mijloc” intelectuale, faţă de care „Şcoala Noica” sau „Patapievici” – mărci comerciale ale editurii Humanitas – ar face figură elitistă. E adevărat că apologia specializări practicată de Sorin Adam Matei şi ciracii săi69 nu ar fi fost tocmai ce căuta enciclopedistul Marino, dar maeştrii au fost dintotdeauna trădaţi de discipoli. Aflaţi în acest punct al cronologiei, nu merită trecerea în revistă a noii generaţii de liberali literaţi. Urmându-i într-un tur de forţă în poeticile şi ideologiile secolului XX vom ajunge tot acolo unde ne lăsaseră primele sinteze de gândire liberală a lui Aurelian Crăiuţu la apologia „moderaţiei şi prudenţei,” în neoconservatorismul „unei altitudini morale a moderaţiei, presupunând curajul civic, responsabilitatea, orgoliul autonomiei, al independenţei faţă de stat”70.

*

Romancierul Petru Dumitriu, devenit biograful acid al îmburghezirii primilor comunişti români, se refugiază în Occident în 1960. Luase cu el povestea lui Ştefan Ionescu, eroul din Incognito, prin care îşi mărturiseşte credinţa regăsită. Religiozitatea sa e şi expresia unui pesimism istoric în faţa impunerii comunismului văzut ca o nouă invazie mongolă ce a luat Europa pe nepregătite. Locul surghiunului său nu-i inspira mai multă încredere, Vestul fiind pentru el un amestec de naivitate politică şi consumerism îndobitocitor. Revenit în ţară după 35 de ani, a făcut câteva consideraţii politice de complezenţă pentru noile sale gazde şi nu a dorit să se apropie de noile elite intelectuale. În fond, ce ar fi avut de aflat? Discursul lor era copia îndepărtată a liberalismului anticomunist din războiul rece. La ce mai servea însă acum? Întrebare inutilă pentru un credincios, dar noi putem profita de bunăvoinţa Evangheliilor şi să ne oprim asupra celor ce ne sunt îngăduite, fără a ne fi de vreun folos.

Noul discurs liberal românesc s-a format fără adversar. Elitele administraţiei comuniste erau la fel de setoase după societatea de consum şi economia de piaţă ca şi intelectualii, ba poate mai în cunoştinţă de cauză, capitalismul românesc datorându-şi lor primele reforme şi privatizări. Intelighenţia va fi însă mereu neconvinsă că e pe drumul corect, la fel cum foştii muncitori trimişi de dezindustrializarea anilor 90 pe câmpurile agricole spaniole sau britanice sau pe şantierele de construcţii italiene şi franceze au avut iniţial un moment de cumpănă: chiar asta e? Sărăcirea proletariatului a corespuns cu sărăcirea câmpului ideatic, teoreticienii politici ai noii hegemoni culturale refuzând criticile capitalismului sau colonizării, fie şi cele venind dinspre zona modernităţii liberale, ca pe nişte impurităţi „totalitare”. Au asumat poza critică, despre care se crede că ar defini intelectualul, fără însă să observe marile scandaluri: prădarea economiei, a reţelelor energetice, abandonarea muncitorimii, deplângând în schimb ritmul lent sau lipsa de morală beneficiarilor acestor procese. Privind retrospectiv şi în actualitate, atitudinea lor e următoare: nu-mi pasă că sunt lovit de un automobil pe trecerea de pietoni, dar sper să fie un BMW, iar agresorul un tip manierat. Forţa intelectualilor a moştenit importanţa pe care i-a acordat-o puterea comunistă. „Intelectualii publici” postsocialişti sunt continuatorii breslei scriitorilor, favorizată de comunişti prin reţeaua de reviste şi edituri, unele subzistând azi fie din prestigiu, fie din inerţie. Adrian Marino a sesizat cu perspicacitate mutaţia dinspre temele culturale înspre cele politice, conform unui model mai ales francofon, dar mai ales şi răbufnirii temelor binelui comun în decembrie 1989. Probabil s-a înşelat asupra importanţei specializării politologice, import american în Europa de după război şi întâlnind multă vreme opoziţia structurii clasice a Universităţii apusene, pe care a confundat-o cu luarea publică de poziţie în treburile cetăţii. Revuistica cultural-politică a fost de asemenea privilegiată publicul format de o politică de învăţământ generalizat şi un acces la cultură asigurat din perioada socialismului real. Plebea poate „totalitară”, însă instruită a asigurat înflorirea revistelor politice de după 1989. Apoi, odată cu decăderea culturii generale şi substituirea ei cu industria divertismentului (nu doar în sensul de musique et variétés, dar şi a talk-show-ului politic cum bine a înţeles politicianul Traian Băsescu), comentariul politic avea să macine tot mai mult în gol sau să încerce să se salveze prin partizanate ce-i vor slăbi forţa critică şi o vor diviza.

Liberalii se află în centrul acestei istorii, asigurând corectitudinea discursului intelectual-politic al anilor 90. Ei nu vor avea strălucirea admiratorilor interbelicilor, faţă de care au distanţe rareori mărturisite, secolul lor preferat fiind prima epocă a libertăţii pieţelor, secolul al XIX-lea. Din tradiţia generaţiei 30 – recuperată deja parţial de turnura naţionalistă a ceauşismului – ce-şi continua destinul prin discipolii lui Constantin Noica, liberalii vor reţine raportul la cultura înaltă şi la căutarea spirituală. Liberalismul, consideră ei, n-ar fi decât un vulgar empirism economic dacă nu ar alătura libertatea capitalului şi pluralismul politic credinţei religioase sau măcar valorilor intelectuale presupus perene. Asupra unităţilor de măsură ale înălţimilor culturale a existat un început de dezacord lansat de atacurile lui Adrian Marino la modelul interbelic şi încercarea sa de resuscitare a iluminismului. Dezbaterea a fost repede îngropată, Cristian Preda confundându-l pe criticul literar cu un student ce n-a asimilat abc-ul limbajului savant71, pentru ca majoritatea „liberalilor” să-l ignore. Şi totuşi întrebările ridicate de proiectul neopaşoptist al lui Marino meritau repuse: ce rol mai are azi intelectualul ca ultim moştenitor al proiectului iluminist? Ce valabilitatea mai are în secolul XXI reluarea ideologiilor universaliste ale burgheziilor naţionale europene? Discuţia nu a ajuns niciodată aici, nu doar pentru că detractorii enciclopedistului clujean s-au mulţumit să-l ignore sau să-l bârfească, ci pentru că potenţialii polemişti erau de acord asupra ţelului demersului lor: sfârşitul politicii şi înlocuirea ei cu tehnici administrative care ar suspenda orice dezbatere veritabilă, plasată în afara căii de mijloc. Şi toată lumea s-a năpustit spre un „centru” care se dovedeşte a fi gaura neagră a burgheziei locale şi a intelectualităţii critice. Luptele intelectuale liberalo-liberale – aduse în prim plan de câte un franctiror solitar sau de apariţia unui nou program civic-literar, opunând culturii generale clasice orizontul specializării sau contestarea ceremonialurilor iniţiatice al spiritualităţii în numele orizontalităţii democratizantă a cunoaşterii – au definit şi au rămas prizoniere uni orizont postsocialist tot mai restrâns în ciuda pluralităţii vocilor auzite. Cu toţii s-au înverşunat în definirea unui centru din care politica, veche artă a posibilului, e exclusă, fiind înţeleasă ca simplă administrare conform unui reţetar deloc mobil primit din exterior. Idealul unei vieţi citadine paşnice, cu conflicte domolite de o dezbatere domolită de repere comune între social-liberali şi liberali-conservatori a fost amăgirea în care s-a complăcut intelectualitatea anilor 1990-2000. Când crizele economico-sociale nu au mai putut fi ignorate s-a apelat la un elitism convertit în distanţă cultural civilizatorie între iubitorii libertăţii şi cei ce îndură efectele ei.

Liberalismul românesc e continuatorul dezinteresului ideologic al Partidului Comunist Român din anii 80.

__________

[1] Cf. Cristian Preda, „Zeletin a fost socialist nu liberal”, in Cristian Preda, Modernitatea politică şi românismul, Nemira 1998, p. 201-235, sau comentariile introductive ale aceluiaşi exeget din Ştefan Zeletin, Burghezia română…, Nemira, 1997.

2 Despre „raţionalismul şi umanismul (liberal) puternic interiorizat de către Tudor Vianu” cf. Ana Bazac, „Filosofii sub vremi – aspecte de filosofie socială la Tudor Vianu”, in Cultură şi adevăr. Studii despre filosofia lui Tudor Vianu, Editura Academiei Române, 2007, p. 174. În aceeaşi direcţie de lectură, Aurelian Crăiuţu, Elogiul libertăţii, Polirom, 1998, p. 40.

3 Urmăm aici critica „anticomunismului postcomunist” întreprinse de Daniel Barbu în Republica absentă. Politică şi societate în România postcomunistă, Editura Nemira, Bucureşti, 1999, p. 93-106 sau, mai aplicat, demersul lui Ciprian Şiulea în Lamentabilul eşec al anticomunismului, mai ales p. 227-233, in Iluzia Anticomunismului. Lecturi critice ale Raportului Tismăneanu, Cartier, Chişinău, 2008.

4 Exemplele sunt uşor de găsit: condamnarea profesorului de psihologie Nicolae Mărgineanu a însemnat „osândă şi sfințenie”” (Memorialul Durerii, o istorie care nu se învaţă la şcoală, Institutul de Investigare a Crimelor Comunismului, Humanitas, 2007 , p. 95); condiţiile inumane de muncă din mină a deţinuţilor de la Baia Sprie din anii 51 sunt rezumate de momentul unei slujbe religioase pascale (ibid, p. 228-229). Fervoarea religioasă cu care realizatoarea a înlocuit entuziasmul oficial al emisiunilor ceauşiste duce la momente ridicole când încearcă să-l „încuie” pe fostul torţionar Alexandru Nicolschi: „Ateu, ateu, dar nu credeţi în Dumnezeu?” (Memorialul Durerii, seria neagră, Institutul de Investigare a Crimelor Comunismului, TVR Media, 2009, p. 21).

5 Hannah Arendt, Originile totalitarismului, trad. Ion Dur şi Mircea Ivănescu, Humanitas, 1994, p. 526 şi urm.

6 François Furet, Trecutul unei iluzii. Eseu despre ideea comunistă în secolul XX, trad. Emanoil Marcu şi Vlad Russo Humanitas, 1996, p. 178.

7 „Dacă domnul Ciorbea ar fi fost un adevărat om de stat, ar fi stăruit în gestul său de dispreţ şi de sfidare la adresa politicienilor care l-au instrumentalizat. Ar fi rămas pe poziţie, ca şef al guvernului; ar fi promovat fulgerător, printr-o ordonanţă Legea bugetului (nil obstat, lăutat fie domnul Antonie Iorgovan „părintele Constituţiei”). Iar apoi, mai ştii, ar fi continuat să guverneze prin ordonanţe de urgenţă, dacă Parlamentul i-ar fi respins legile reformei, iar preşedintele nu l-ar fi ajutat, dar nici nu s-ar fi decis să-i ceară, formal, demisia. Ar fi numit noi miniştrii sau miniştri interimari, dintre independenţi şi tehnocraţi şi, desigur, ar fi aşteptat cu răbdare un vot de cenzură în Parlament. Iar când acesta ar fi venit, după multe luni de scandaluri, ar fi părăsit cu fruntea sus Palatul Victoria, lăsând o ţară măcar cu buget, cu câteva legi reformiste în plus şi având o popularitate demnă de invidiat în perspectiva viitoarelor alegeri” „Eticheta Ciorbea” in 22, 13/1998.

8 „Împotriva acestor deliruri dirijate [comunismul şi nazismul –n.n.] generatoare de teroare şi cretinism nu există decât dictatura de tip Cincinatus, civilă sau militară. Dar ea poate fi crudă şi imbecilă. Când s-a găsit un dictator care şi-a depus mandatul o dată misiunea împlinită (de a salva ţara de bolşevism, nu fără, regretabil dar inevitabil, un număr de victime, în orice caz mai puţine decât altfel), iată că o Cameră a Lorzilor dezonorată îi refuză dreptul la imunitate şi vrea să-l dea pe mâna justiţiei altei puteri” Alexandru Paleologu, „Mână forte”, in Dilema,15 aprilie, 1999, republicat în Al. Paleologu, Politeţea ca armă, Dacia, Cluj-Napoca, 2000, p.168.

9 François Furet , op. cit.., 197.

10 Ibid, 206.

11 În prefaţa la Cartea neagră a comunismului, Humanitas, 1998, p. 25.

12 Refuzul memoriei, 22, anul VI, nr. 40, 4-10 octombrie 1995; republicat în H.-R. Patapievici, Politice,Humanitas, 1996, p. 203.

13 Cf., de pildă, interviul său, „Hungary- Where we went wrong”, in International Socialist, no 123, 2009 (http://www.isj.org.uk/?id=555), tradus în română „Unde am greşit. Ungaria înainte şi după căderea comunismului” in G. M. Tamás, Postfascism şi anticomunism. Intervenţii filosofico-politice, traducere Teodora Dumitru şi Attila Szigeti, Tact, Cluj, 2014.

14 Marc Ferro (coord.), Le livre noir du colonialisme, Robert Lafont, Paris, 2003.

15 „Fireşte, în secolele precedente, puţine popoare sau state au fost scutite de violenţă de masă. Cele mai importante puteri europene au fost implicate în comerţul cu negri (…)” – însă comunismul s-ar deosebi faţă de aceste crime, prin caracterul sistematic al masacrării. Cartea neagră a comunismului, ed. cit., p. 9-10.

16 Cf . studiile sale „Profeţii trecutului, note despre filosofia politică a lui Joseph de Maistre şi Louis Bonald”, in Aurelian Crăiuţu, Elogiul libertăţii, Polirom, 1998, p. 69-95, sau „Anatomia anti-liberalismului”, in Sfera Politicii, nr. 16, aprilie 1994, reluat şi dezvoltat în Elogiul libertăţii,p. 99-106.

17 H.-R Patapievici, Omul recent…, Humanitas, 2001, p. 164-165.

18 Ideea liberalismului ca tehnică spiritual aplicată economiei şi politicii în faţa exceselor modernităţii e mai clar exprimată într-una din conferinţele sale susţinute sub egida companiei Microsoft România şi republicate mai apoi în volum: „Întrucât răul modernităţii este excesul puterii, liberalismul, care este într-un fel şi părintele şi odrasla modernităţii, poate constitui, în chip paradoxal, un regulativ al modernităţii ieşite din ţâţână – întrucât principiul central al liberalismului e limitarea puterii.”, in H.-R Patapievici, Discernământul modernităţii, Humanitas, 2004, 2009, p. 134.

19 Pagina http://mises.ro/36/ reia un interviu şi-n ziarul Ziua din 19 octombrie 2005. Majusculele aparţin autorului.

20 Ibid.

21 José Ortega y Gasset, Revolta maselor, trad. Coman Lupu, Humanitas, 1994.

22 Aurelian Crăiuţu, Elogiul libertăţii. Studii de filosofie politică. Polirom, 1998, p. 35-36.

23 Ibid., p. 37.

24 Ibid., p. 41.

25 Ibid.

26 Pentru o expresie a acestui dispreţ, cf. Cristian Preda , „Delirul liberal românesc. Mic Dicţionar”, unde trece în revistă opiniile lui Radu Câmpeanu, Mircea Ionescu-Quintus şi Dan A. Lăzărescu, in Cristian Preda, Modernitatea politică şi românismul, Nemira, 1998, p. 243-247. Nu ştim dacă mediul politic românesc liberal s-a ameliorat între timp sau pretenţiile universitarului bucureştean s-au redus pentru a începe din 2009 o carieră în rândurile Partidului Democrat Liberal. O considerare mai nuanţată a raporturilor politicienilor cu tradiţia şi practica liberală găsim în studiul lui Andrei State, Ambivalenţa liberalismului, politică şi ideologie în România contemporană,http://www.criticatac.ro/15796/ambivalena-liberalismului-politic-ideologie-romania-contemporan/.

27 Aurelian Crăiuţu, Idem, p. 42, nota 67.

28 Aurelian Crăiuţu, Elogiul moderaţiei, Polirom, 2006

29 Ibid, p. 174.

30 Ibid., 164-170.

31 H.-R Patapievici, Omul recent…, ed. cit., p. 408-409.

32 Andrei Cornea, Turnirul khazar. Împotriva relativismului contemporan, Nemira, 1997.

33 Tradiţionalist, nu în sensul unui folclorism naţional, ci mai aproape de perenialismului guénonist al căutării Tradiţiei spirituale.

34 Ibid., p. 66.

35 Ibid., p. 64.

36 „Luarea în serios a referinţei umaniste, cât şi a celei productiviste, adică transformarea citării lor convenţionale în citare fondatoare reprezintă, după părerea mea, chintesenţa perestroikăi.” Ibid., p. 81.

37 O trecere amplă în revistă a argumentelor şi retoricii liberale anticomuniste şi antisocialiste a făcut-o Cristian Preda în partea a doua a tezei sale de doctorat, lucrare coordonată de Pierre Manent, Le libéralisme du désespoir, tradition libérale et critique du totalitarisme dans les années 1938-1960, Editura Universităţii din Bucureşti, 2000, p. 143-298.

38 Sorin Cucerai, Unde sunt liberalii, http://www.criticatac.ro/14550/unde-sunt-liberalii/.

39 Polis. Revistă de Ştiinţe Politice, Nr. 2/1995. Selecţia autorilor a fost realizată de Sorin Antohi, Cristian Preda şi Aurelian Crăiuţu (cf. p. 135), şi-i mai cuprinde pe Marcel Gauchet, Pierre Manent, Pierre Rosanvallon, Philippe Raynaud, Stéphane Rials, Bernard Manin şi Luc Ferry.

40 Sorin Antohi, Umbra lui Tocqueville. Filosofie politică franceză contemporană, Ibid., mai ales p. 140-142.

41 Mai precis, Centrul de Studii şi Cercetări de Istorie şi Teorie Militară.

42 Asupra acestei diviziuni politice a instituţionalizării ştiinţelor sociale cf. Iulian Anghel, „Şcolile de Ştiinţă Politică, încotro?” In 22, nr. 8/2008, temă reluată într-o polemică între Cristian Preda, „Ştiinţele Politice la Universitatea din Bucureşti”, in 22, nr. 12/2008 şi Mihaela Miroiu, „Mea Culpa”, in 22, 13/1998. Pentru completarea dosarului polemicii, cf. şi intervenţia Asociaţiei Studenţilor din Şcoala Naţională de Ştiinţe Politice şi Administrative, publicat în 22 în numărul din 17/1998.

43 Cf. articolul „Clasa de mijloc nu există pentru că nu există clase” in Cristian Preda, Tranziţie, liberalism şi naţiune, Nemira, 2001, p. 40.

44 Roland Lardinois insistă şi el asupra caracterului vag a opţiunilor tocquevilliene ce permit refolosirea lor de către Aron într-un anumit context social-politic şi pedagogic. „[Însă actualitatea lui Tocqueville nu este străină, nici de această dată, eficacităţii retorice a tematicilor îndestulător de simple şi de imprecise pentru a fi cu uşurinţă reinventate cu prilejul acestor dezbateri convenţionale asupra modernităţii, potrivite aşteptărilor heteronome ale unei cereri sociale prost definite.] /Mais l’actualité de Tocqueville n’est pas étrangère, encore, à l’efficacité rhétorique de thématiques suffisamment simples et floues pour être aisément réinventées à l’occasion de ces débats convenus sur la modernité ajustés aux attentes hétéronomes d’une demande sociale mal définie.”, „L’invention de Tocqueville”, in Actes de Recherches en Sciences Sociales, Vol. 135, déc. 2000, p. 87. Un studiu amplu asupra chestiunii lecturilor anglo-saxone şi franceze ale lui Tocqueville, impunerii sale în Franţa de către Aron şi urmaşii săi în Claire Le Strat, La canonisation libérale de Tocqueville, Syllepse, Paris, 2006.

45 „Ar fi trebuit să ştim sau măcar să bănuim [că finanţarea vine de la CIA- n.n.]? (…) înclin să spun ne-a lipsit curiozitatea şi că multe semnale ar fi trebuit să ne pună în alertă”, Raymond Aron, Mémoires. 50 ans de réflexions politiques, Julliard, Paris, 1983, p. 237.

46 Asociaţia condusă de Michael Josselsson are fonduri practic nelimitate prin care susţine financiar o serie de reviste culturale anticomuniste adresate intelectualilor din Europa, America Latină sau Asia, între care Preuves, unde semnează Raymond Aron. O sinteză a intrigilor artistice şi literare ale serviciilor secrete americane din anii 50-60 o găsim în ancheta jurnalistei Frances Stonor Saunders, Who Paid The Piper? CIA and The Cultural Cold War, Granta, 1999.

47 Cristian Preda într-un text memorialistic despre studiile sale pariziene menţionează un curs al lui François Furet despre problema algeriană în scrierile lui Tocqueville, însă tema nu-i inspiră decât câteva consideraţii generale de metodologie a gândirii politice. Cf. „Ma France” in, Cristian Preda, Occidentul nostru, Nemira, 1999, p. 178-179.

48 Între timp a apărut o nouă lucrare, Sur l’Algérie, Garnier-Flammarion, Paris, 2003, ediţie îngrijită de Seloua Luste Boulbina.

49 Alexis de Tocqueville, Războaiele cu arabii, traducere şi ediţie îngrijită de Cristi Pantelimon, Editura Tritonic Bucureşti, 2004.

50 Ibid., p. 39. Sau mai departe: „Cred că dreptul de război ne autorizează să devastăm teritoriul şi că trebuie să o facem fie periodic distrugând recoltele de cereale la vremea la care se fac, fie în permanenţă, prin incursiuni rapide numite razii şi care au ca scop să captureze oameni şi turme.” (Ibid, p. 40.)

51 Ibid., p. 41.

52 Ibid., p. 58.

53 Will, Kymlicka, Multicultural Citizenship, A Liberal Theory of Minority Rights, Oxford University Press, 1995.

54 Multiculturalismul reformulat de Patapievici sună aşa :„… admitem că orice susţinere democratică a unor opinii dezagreabile sau patent false constituie în sine o legitimitate suficientă pentru a nu le scoate în afara legii ori ridiculiza”; şi mai departe: liberalismul respinge principiul conform căruia „prin simplă decizie democratică ideile respingătoare ori dăunătoare pot fi legitimate” principiu care ar defini multiculturalismul. Omul recent, ed. cit., p. 214-215.

55 „Presupoziţia centrală a multiculturalismului este că toate culturile au aceeaşi valoare”, Ibid, p. 296.

56 „Frantz Fanon, psihiatru negru de cultură franceză care a susţinut că e justificat să omori albii chiar şi atunci când sunt inocenţi”, Ibid., p. 304.

57 Andrei Cornea, Miracolul, Humanitas, Bucureşti, 2014, p. 148.

58 Ibid., p. 14.

59 Andrei Cornea, Turnirul Khazar, ed. cit., p. 15-16.

60 Adrian Marino, Pentru Europa, Polirom, Iaşi, 1995, p. 11-50.

61 Luminile româneşti şi descoperirea Europei, Ibid., p. 158-190. Cf. şi Actualitatea ideologiei culturale paşoptiste in Sfera Politicii, 61/1998, p. 17-23.

62 Sunt idei dezvoltate încă din 1992 în articolul Cultură de stânga de dreapta sau de centru, publicat de efemerul cotidian clujean Tribuna Ardealului, nr. 53, 15 aprilie/1992 şi republicat în Pentru Europa, p. 143-147.

63 Al Treilea discurs. Cultură şi ideologie politică în România. Adrian Marino în dialog cu Sorin Antohi, Polirom, Iaşi, 2001.

64 Ibid., p. 96-102.

65 Adrian Marino, Viaţa unui om singur, Polirom, Iaşi, 2010.

66 Cristian Preda, Occidentul nostru, ed. cit., p. 22-23.

67 „Un totalitarism pe potriva sufletului românesc” Ibid., p. 59-112.

68 Andrei Cornea, De la Şcoala din Atena la Şcoala de la Păltiniş, Humanitas, Bucureşti, 2004, p. 216-223.

69 Sorin Adam Matei, Mona Momescu (coord.), Idolii Forului. De ce o clasă de mijloc a spiritului este de preferat elitei intelectualilor publici., Corint, Bucureşti, 2010.

70 Caius Dobrescu, Revoluţia radială. O critică a conceptului de postmodernism dinspre înţelegerea plurală şi deschisă a lumii burgheze., Editura Universităţii Transilvania, Braşov, p. 318.

71 „ O critică liberală a lui Adrian Marino” in Modernitatea politică şi românismul, ed. cit., p. 236-243.

[Preluat din Vatra, nr. 3-4/2016]

D’ale electoralului

June 8, 2016

În primul deceniu postcomunist bătălia s-a dat între centralism și descentralizare; între centralismul birocratic și autonomia locală. În final a câștigat centralismul, primarii fiind lăsați cu tot mai puțină putere.

În al doilea deceniu postcomunist, primarii lipsiți de putere au încercat să facă ceva pentru cetățeni aliindu-se ori cu mafia ori cu poliția. Cei care s-au sprijinit pe mafie au fost lichidați de poliție iar cei care s-au sprijinit pe poliție au fost lichidați de mafie.

În cel de al treilea deceniu postcomunist, mafia și poliția s-au luptat ca să își pună primarul. Indiferent cine a câștigat (pe 5 iunie 2016), statul pierde. Cei care mai încurcă lucrurile sunt… cetățenii. Ei sunt, însă, pe cale de dispariție.

Urmează fuziunea între mafie și poliție; adică între oligarhia ocultă și oligarhia oficială sau între oligarhia privată și oligarhia publică. Ea este ca și făcută. Atunci cetățenii nu vor mai avea nici o șansă. Ne vom întoarce la dictatură.

O dictatură coruptă și anațională care poate fi lesne dominată din afară. Pohta ce au pohtit…

4 comments

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Dezideriu Dudas
June 8, 2016 at 7:48 am (UTC 0)
Ma impresionati din nou. Acum, aici, pot scrie ca m-ati convins ca de fapt “cedarea teritoriilor romanesti” catre Ucraina, foarte probabil, facea parte dintr-un plan mai amplu legat de un “echilibru” pe alt flanc, ce urma sa vină….Dar, s-a schimbat modificarea, si basca nu mai trebuia purtata pe dreapta, ci pe stanga…Sau invers, nu conteaza, desi Gabriel Liiceanu il cearta pe Nicusor Dan ca are curajul sa-si dea basca jos ( a întinat, si el, dar la celalalt pol, “nobilele idealuri”….)….”Ai nostri”, dupa ce “au murit” in “luptele de la bucatarie si sala de mese”, au vazut că e greu cu “basca”, si au luat-o cu “bășcalia”….Initial si pe Andrei Plesu pare ca l-a luat valu’ ( desi „vamporiul”, plecat din „portul Bucuresti” parea sigur….)…, probabil de la faptul ca nu-i placea atat de mult de Noica ( care nu agrea bascalia la Caragiale ). Lui Liiceanu, din pacate, cred ca i-a placut prea mult, dar cu perioade diferite din opera marelui platinisan, in functie de cum era nevoie de REZISTENTA mai mare . Care REZISTENTA ? Cititi „SOLENOID”….
1. aseverin
  June 8, 2016 at 9:13 am (UTC 0)
  
  Care “cedare de teritorii către Ucraina”? Nu s-a cedat nimic. S-a renunțat doar la vise care nu se bazau pe nimic în schimbul – aici aveți dreptate – “echilibrului pe un alt flanc”. De la un echilibru al tensiunilor circumscris de aparențe la un echilibru al proiectelor comune circumscris de realități și bazat pe o gândire reală și pozitivă. Schimbarea de direcție care ne-a lăsat în afara jocului s-a produs odată cu demisia mea din funcția de ministru de externe la finele lui 1997. De aceea îi consider trădători pe cei care în cunoștință de cauză au împins la acea demisie.
  1. Dezideriu Dudas
    June 9, 2016 at 4:18 am (UTC 0)
    Eu le zic “viteji”..E mai “competitiv” asa, chiar pentru ei….Daca, pana la urma, ne vor surprinde pe toti si din “cantine si bucatarii” vor da navala in avanposturi ? Sa nu ne pierdem speranta…Pe de alta parte, cine n-are dreptul la apostazie ? “M-a cucerit” ( pe alte bloguri scriu “omorat”…) Vladimir Tismaneanu cand a scris ca Imre Nagy “si-a ispasit pedeapsa” si de aceea a facut istorie in Ungaria in anul 1956….Apoi, imediat a trecut la tradarea lui Valter Roman….Acolo apostazia lui I.N. “dadea” mai bine…, pentru a intelege de ce Vladimir are toate drepturile din lume sa se razvrateasca fata de toti cei care au fost martori si nu au facut ( nici denunturi, probabil…) front comun impotriva lui Nicu Ceausescu cand ii fura pachetelele cu mancare la scoala…. Asta tragedie ! Vladimir, suparat, a dezechilibrat apoi toate flancurile….
    P.S. O sa studiez mai amanuntit problematica. Nu pentru sensul atins in comunicarea noastra. Aici ati fost destul de explicit….Vreau sa inteleg mai bine “echilibrele pe flancuri” ce tin de Romania.
Dezideriu Dudas
June 8, 2016 at 8:18 am (UTC 0)

Un bemol la deceniul 3 in eseul dvs. succint. Cele mai grave acuzatii ale dvs. se numesc lobby in Vest. Daca nu ne obisnuim sa gandim si sa actionam ca ei, scenariul dvs. poate fi premonitoriu. Cred insa ca avem sanse mari de a iesi din impas. E important insa sa demonstram ca “ne-am prins”, si la nivel instrumental ( singurul care conteaza ), de “pohta ce-au pohtit”….Chiar daca politicienii occidentali au fost doar “inghititori de sabii” in balciul economiei de piata…V-am scris insa si “de-ai nostri”, cu pohte mult mai vizibile….., de la nivelul cetatean al “celei mai tari proaste”….Dar nu in sensul decisiv, ci in unul mai putin grav, un fel de fraieri, deci, cu scapare….E prima data cand termenul de “fraieri” asociat romanilor de Dorin Tudoran, il vad, la nivel global, pozitiv….

O teologie a ispăşirii

Bineînţeles suntem în faţa unui spirit oral, în tradiţia lui Zaharias Lichter, personajul romanului lui Matei Călinescu, sau a foarte realului Petre Ţuţea, aşa că, în ciuda ameninţărilor sale, trebuie să ne mulţumim cu ambiţioasele proiecte a unei opere nescrise:

Accelerare pe calea de mijloc

Toată lumea, la centru!

*

Liberalismul românesc e continuatorul dezinteresului ideologic al Partidului Comunist Român din anii 80.

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