The Long Game (26 page)

Style is another difference. Unlike Bush 41, Obama was widely perceived as never relishing the personal aspect of foreign relations. Whereas Bush loved forming friendships with leaders, energetically engaging in what was described at the time as “rolodex diplomacy,” Obama is seen as aloof and guarded, often leaving him distant. Such criticisms get under Obama's skin. He cites such accomplishments as the Iran deal and progress on climate change—both of which required a lot of direct intervention with other leaders and plenty of presidential cajoling—as evidence that he has proven to have the necessary
personal relationships to get things done. Although Obama has developed some strong personal ties with fellow leaders—German Chancellor Angela Merkel is perhaps the best example, because their dispositions are similarly unsentimental and technocratic—his low tolerance for theater and symbolism often made leaders think he was disapproving, in stark contrast to the eager, effusive style of Joe Biden or the deep relationships enjoyed by Hillary Clinton or John Kerry.

The sharpest difference among the three leaders is in presidential rhetoric and the expectations it creates. Neither Eisenhower nor Bush was accused of being a great orator. Eisenhower was renowned for his circumlocutions and vague statements, as was Bush for his awkward, staccato delivery and odd turns of phrase. And neither leader succeeded at framing the era during which they served—after all, Eisenhower's most remembered address was his final one (warning of the military-industrial complex), and Bush struggled with what he described as “the vision thing.”

Obama had the opposite problem. He could give a good speech. Yet his conspicuously soaring rhetoric, combined with his determination to engage the battle of ideas and his confidence in doing so, sometimes left a gap between concept and action. Especially during Obama's early years in the White House, when hopes were highest and there was such hunger for a new kind of rhetoric coming from Washington, expectations for change became overwhelming. He did little to temper these hopes (something he did a lot more of in the latter years of his presidency). As a result, some of Obama's most heralded speeches and policy initiatives—like his 2009 address in Cairo, or his effort to rid the world of nuclear weapons—fell victim to over-promising and under-delivering.
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It was an example of immodesty—albeit rhetorical immodesty—that neither Eisenhower nor Bush would have, perhaps could have conceived.

In this sense, because of his oratorical talents and policy ambition, Obama faced a more acute version of the dilemma that both Ike and
Bush 41 shared: a long-term strategy that combines balance, patience and restraint is difficult to sell. It is hard to inspire people when you are stressing what not to do, even if it would avoid trouble.

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bears some resemblance to another Republican administration, but likely one he would neither highlight nor feel flattered to be compared to.

Richard Nixon also became president at a moment when America was in deep crisis, bogged down by a controversial war, an unruly domestic environment, and a geopolitical context that saw America's power in eclipse. People were tired, and Nixon believed that the country needed to recalibrate after the exhausting Kennedy–Johnson years. He privately worried that America was headed “down the drain” and told the nation that when it came to addressing the world's problems, the United States “cannot—and will not—conceive all the plans, design all the programs, execute all the decisions and undertake all the defense of the free nations of the world.” America needed to be more careful with its commitments and husband its power, helping “where it makes a real difference and is considered in our interest.”
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Where it was in America's interest to act, Nixon was ready to, as he put it, “go for broke”—just like Obama set out to “do big things.” Both believed that extracting the United States from costly entanglements would open the opportunity for bold strokes. They sought, in Henry Kissinger's words, a “new period of creativity” where the United States would tackle problems through “maneuver, originality, and imagination” and by empowering others.
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Nixon overcame decades of enmity and opened relations with China; Obama pursued diplomacy with Iran and Cuba. The “Nixon Doctrine” tried to get allies to do more to provide for their own defense, while Obama sought to “build partner capacity.” Both tried to rein in defense spending, revitalize diplomacy, and foster what Kissinger called new “structures of peace” by strengthening regional institutions.

Nixon and Kissinger also famously centered power in the White House, executing some of their boldest moves through secret talks, and Nixon too was deeply skeptical of the Washington establishment. The Obama White House has been accused of being “Nixonian” in the ways it hoarded decision-making power and proved willing to maneuver around the system—although it had little of the paranoia and ruthlessness that characterized Nixon. And there is another key difference: while Obama suffered his share of controversies, he was never crippled by scandal (although his political adversaries have certainly tried). There is no “-gate” associated with Obama. In fact, his is the first two-term presidency since Nixon's that has not been hampered by some kind of criminal investigation that led to indictments of senior White House officials (Reagan had Iran-Contra; Clinton had impeachment; and George W. Bush had the Valerie Plame CIA leak affair).

More haunting are the parallels in how the two most controversial wars of the modern era—Vietnam and Iraq—came to an end. While Nixon achieved “peace with honor” by ending the US combat role in Vietnam in 1973, the collapse in 1975—symbolized by the chaotic evacuation of Saigon as the US-backed South Vietnamese forces retreated—was an ugly bookend to that misadventure, painfully recalled nearly forty years later, when the Iraqi Army melted away and ISIS rampaged southwards to Baghdad. Obama had ended the war in 2011 with “our heads held high,” but by 2014 American troops had to go back into Iraq to keep the country from disintegrating.

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Obama drew attention to the world-view of another American leader, from the more distant past: John Quincy Adams. Today's foreign policy practitioners don't think much about our sixth president, but in the words of historian John Lewis Gaddis, Adams was “the most influential American grand strategist of the nineteenth century.”
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In addition to his single term in the White House, Adams was one of America's most consequential Secretaries of State, and his foreign policy is best remembered for his statement “America goes not abroad, in search of monsters to destroy.” This is usually seen as a warning against interfering in the affairs of others and as a justification for isolation. Yet Adams was no isolationist. While he believed that the United States must be a political, economic, and moral model for the world, first it needed to become stronger at home—whether that meant improving its economy or achieving greater social justice by ending slavery. He considered America exceptional, but counseled restraint because he feared overextension. To bolster US power, he advocated for territorial conquest and investments in manufacturing, education, and transportation infrastructure to unify the country. In this sense, Adams had a grand strategy—an integrated sense of objectives among competing goals at home and abroad, driven by an abiding confidence in what America could do.
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In broad terms, Adams's strategy looks a lot like Obama's. Obama cites Adams's influence, observing that “if suspicion of foreign entanglements is stamped into our DNA, then so is the impulse to expand—geographically, commercially, and ideologically.”
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Both presidents had a holistic view of strength, seeing “nation building at home” as a vital component of projecting influence abroad. Both focused on the limits of power and how best to manage trade-offs with finite resources. Both proved willing to take risks, but cautioned against adventurism for fear it would divert away attention and resources from long-term goals. And while both believed that the US should rarely impose its will, they shared the conviction that the country must play a unique global role as an exemplar of freedom and opportunity. Although they governed nearly two centuries apart, Adams and Obama had a firm grasp of the essentials of policy—and how to use those to pursue a grand strategy to advance America in the world.

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assessment of presidential foreign policy leadership, the scholar Stephen Sestanovich lumps Obama with Eisenhower, Nixon, and Bush 41 (he does not go as far back to Adams) as a “retrenchment” leader, who seeks to scale back commitments and husband national resources.
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This is in contrast to “maximalist” presidents like Truman, Reagan, or Bush 43, who pursued a more confrontational, all-or-nothing approach that tends to leave the US over-extended. This dynamic is cyclical. Although retrenchment is popular at first, it tends to lose public support. As Sestanovich observes, these presidents' shared challenge was “how to convince the American people that their foreign policies [were] more successful, less rudderless, and reactive, than it seemed.”
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The result is that America's maximalist inclinations come creeping back, and calls for the US to assert itself more—taking greater risk and ownership—seem attractive.

The problem, however, is that maximalism in its purest form leads to foreign policy disaster—think Vietnam and Iraq—and the policies being advocated by Obama's Republican opponents is maximalism on steroids. Looking forward, we should not accept that after years of rejuvenating American power, the future promises yet another period of squandering it. As a student of history, Obama is certainly aware of this tragic cycle, and therefore is determined to put his successor in position to break out of it. This is why, with the Long Game, Obama has tried to forge a policy that is a blend of these two approaches.

THE LONG GAME CHECKLIST

In his 2009 book,
The Checklist Manifesto,
Atul Gawande explains the power of a simple checklist to enhance strategic decision-making. While Gawande's focus is on how doctors can prevent surgical mishaps or ways pilots can deal with in-flight emergencies, a checklist is also a powerful tool to assist in the assessment—and the making of—foreign policy.

Yet I am not aware of foreign policy analysts or practitioners using one. They should. Because in many ways, foreign policy practitioners and doctors have a lot in common—they must diagnose problems without the benefit of full information; their task involves a careful mix of prevention and intervention; and their choices involve high stakes. During times of crisis, I always felt that working in foreign policy must be something like being an emergency room doctor, where one must make consequential decisions at a fast pace with great uncertainty and little time to reflect. And some foreign policy problems, like some medical conditions, aren't fixable, so the best one can do is try to keep the patient alive, minimize the side effects, and remember that greater intervention can sometimes make the problem worse.

Such a checklist is not the doctrine foreign policy experts clamor for. But the core elements of Obama's Long Game do comprise a practical guide to managing American power and making strategic choices, ensuring the US remains in the best possible position to solve problems and pursue its interests. When thinking about Obama's legacy and the lessons for his successors, the Long Game checklist is a good place to start.

Balance.
This is the foundation. Balance has defined Obama's foreign policy approach in multiple ways: balance between America's interests and values; balance between priorities at home and abroad; balance between our goals in different regions; balance between our priorities when seeking a certain outcome; balance between the responsibility we would assume and that we expected of others; balance among the tools of defense, diplomacy, and development we use to solve problems.

Recall the situation Obama inherited when he came into office: a foreign policy that was severely imbalanced, both in terms of the regional challenges the United States was putting its energies
toward (Middle East versus the Asia-Pacific) and the tools it used (military force versus diplomacy and development). More broadly, Obama found a situation whereby almost every measure of national policy—at home and abroad—America was headed in the wrong direction.

This isn't hyperbole to score political points. What's remarkable is the amnesia many have about how things were (or perhaps just find it convenient to forget as a way to avoid accountability): an economy careening toward a second Great Depression; millions of Americans out of work; industries teetering on collapse; over 150,000 US troops at war, paid for on a credit card with an account overdue; America's prestige and moral standing at historic lows. Obama immediately acted to correct this imbalance, and whenever he had to respond to the unexpected or was pushed to do more, he remained determined not to make the same mistakes.

Inherent to the idea of balance is to accept that, as powerful as the United States is, its resources are finite. This is self-evident, but strangely remains impolite to acknowledge. The essence of a successful grand strategy is prioritizing goals, making choices, allocating resources, and managing trade-offs. By definition, strategic balance is redistributive; if you want to do more of one thing, it usually means you have to do less of something else. Yet many of Obama's critics treat it as an additive undertaking, whereby the United States can simply pile more on its plate, devoting greater time, resources, and attention whenever a new crisis emerges. They enthusiastically advise what the US should do more of, but fall silent when it comes to what it should do less.