The New York Times March 1, 1998
Lonely At The Top
By RONALD STEEL
LOS ANGELES -- Let us be clear about what happened in the recent confrontation with Saddam Hussein. It was not the use of force that brought about the agreement brokered by the United Nations; it was the threat of force. The difference is crucial, and therein lies an important lesson.For a nation with the virtually unchallenged power of the United States today, the use of force is a constant temptation. Sometimes it is unavoidable. But it is not always appropriate, and there are times when it is self-defeating.
The hardest part of statecraft is knowing the difference. The use of force is, in a real sense, an admission of defeat. It means that a nation has found it impossible to achieve its objectives by other means. And other means are generally better, because force has consequences that cannot be controlled or fully foreseen.
In the case of Iraq, the United States could easily have bombed Baghdad to punish Mr. Hussein for his intransigence. But even advocates of that course admit it would not have prevented him from building more chemical and biological weapons, nor induced him to cooperate with United Nations inspectors, nor weakened his dictatorial hold over his country.
It would, on the other hand, have killed many civilians, inflamed Arabs against the United States, weakened friendly regimes in the region and caused dissension here at home as television reports showed the victims of American bombing. There are times -- and this was one of them -- when the threat of force brings greater success than its application.
But there is another lesson here as well: that the United States, as the world's most powerful nation, faces greater constraints on its freedom to use force than does any other country. This may seem paradoxical, for the United States dominates the world in every realm: in military power, in economic strength, in cultural influence. We are truly, all of us, living in an American Century.
But the very scope of that power raises apprehension and stimulates resistance. The more the United States, because it is so powerful, arrogates the right to act alone without regard to the wishes of other nations, or even in defiance of them, the more it loses the legitimacy to act in their name. And what has the United States been doing these past weeks with regard to Iraq other than acting as self-appointed sheriff of the world community?
Washington officials have repeatedly asserted that they were seeking to punish Iraq not for American purposes, but for the world's good. Yet unlike in 1991, when the United States organized a coalition to liberate Kuwait from Iraq, this time America stood virtually alone.
This is America's late-century dilemma. Instead of being praised for its selfless defense of international justice and morality, it runs the risk of being accused, even by its allies, of acting like an international bully -- especially when it prepares to attack small nations, however criminal their behavior.
In truth, no great power is without self-serving ambition. But if American officials seek to wrap themselves in the mantle of morality, proclaiming themselves to be the world's conscience and enforcer, they invite others to hold them to a higher standard than is applied to the normal run of devious statesmen.
This is where the trouble begins. For if the power is really being exercised for mankind's sake, mankind demands some say in its use. But neither the Constitution, the Congress nor television's Sunday pundits would allow that. And the other nations of the world have not assigned Washington the right to decide when, where and how their interests should be served.
Thus the United States is in a conundrum of its own making. The more that Washington speaks in the world's name and demands the world's endorsement of its actions, the less freedom of action it enjoys.
Nobody, except its own citizens, loves a superpower. To behave like one is to invite criticism and breed resentment.
During the cold war it was different. Washington's use of force was, for the most part, treated more tolerantly by allies and neutrals because it was applied in the context of the containment of a greater evil. But with the disappearance of the Soviet Union, Washington's assertion of an international police power has been treated less tolerantly. The resigned shrug has given way, even among allies, to accusations of arrogance.
There is nothing inherently wrong with being an arrogant superpower. That is, after all, the usual definition of a hegemon. But hegemons, because they throw their weight around and assume that mankind's interests correspond to their own, foster envy and resentment.
Challengers arise to put them in their place. Coalitions form to contain them. Success breeds rebellion. The only way that a No. 1 can avoid this fate is to restrain itself and behave as though it has less power than it actually does. A superpower like the United States, in other words, can remain a global hegemon -- what Madeleine Albright calls the "indispensable nation" -- only if it refrains from acting like one. That is what the fracas with Saddam Hussein has taught us. And that is why being No. 1, a Gulliver tied down by a thousand resentful Lilliputians, is not as satisfying as it is supposed to be.
Ronald Steel, a professor of interna tional relations at the University of Southern California, is the author of ``Temptations of a Superpower.''
Copyright 1998 The New York Times Company
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