Book Review: The Coup- Ervand Abrahamian

In August 1953, the CIA, in concert with its British allies, orchestrated the downfall of Iranian Prime Minister Muhammad Mossadeq. Mossadeq, an ardent and popular nationalist, was instrumental to the movement against the Anglo Iranian Oil Company (AIOC); a movement which demanded that control of Iran’s natural resources was returned to native hands. 

In this concise and revealing history, Ervand Abrahamian, prominent Iranian scholar and Professor of History at City University of New York, argues that the events of 1953 must be viewed in their proper context. For too long, he contends, two myths about the coup have passed unchallenged: that Mossadeq- stubborn and fanatical- refused to compromise, and that the Cold War impacted heavily upon Anglo-American calculations. 

In order to counter the former, Abrahamian depicts Mossadeq as a rational and experienced political operator who recognised and successfully side stepped all attempts to sign Iran up to ‘pseudo-nationalisation’. 

Yet, while there is evidence to support his argument- the British position was to pay ‘lip service to the nation’ whilst ‘keeping effective power in our hands’- Mossadeq, it is fair to say, did have a belligerent streak. For instance, when, in 1952, the Shah failed to agree to greater civilian control of the armed forces Mossadeq resigned as Prime Minister, provoking a constitutional crisis. 

That said, Abrahamian is probably correct when he claims that it has long suited historians to portray Mossadeq as the architect of his own downfall. Indeed, he both challenges such interpretations and ridicules the many prejudiced news reports which surfaced at the time. Yet, although contemptuous of their content, Abrahamian contends that such stories, and the cultural notions they propagated, played no significant part in the coup. 

In the main, this was because the dispute was a rather simple one: it was about control over Iran’s natural resources. Consequentially, The Coup dismisses all notions that Anglo and (in particular) American interest stemmed from Cold War concerns. The coup, Abrahamian argues, was not about checking the communist Tudeh party or limiting Moscow’s reach, it was about oil and preserving the status of the AIOC. 

In order to prove this, the author details the negotiations which followed the Oil Nationalisation Act of 1951. Although this produces no bombshells, Abrahamian does show that when the State Department did produce a plan broadly acceptable to Mossadeq (the Iranians would control the exploration, production and transportation of crude but would sell the crucial Abadan refinery to a foreign- but not British- company, pay the fees of this transaction to the AIOC in ‘compensation’ and agree to sell a large amount of oil annually to the AIOC in the medium term), it was dismissed out of hand by London who declared that ‘oil production in Persia must be subject to British control and distribution’. 

Ultimately, the Brits got what they wished. Although the coup was a bumpy affair- the military’s first attempt to take control failed- the resultant oil deal saw BP control 40% of the consortium and Shell another 15% (although Dutch, Shell was widely viewed as British aligned company). 

Of course, such an outcome runs contrary to the accepted notion that immediately after the Second World War Britain, and her Empire, fell into a state of steady and deep decline. It is for this reason, Abrahamian speculates, that historians have tended to prioritise Mossadeq’s decision making and the involvement of the CIA. 

At this point, instead of allowing his history of the coup to stand alone, Abrahamian broadens his focus and lists what he considers the three legacies of 1953 : it made secular rule appear weak, it discredited the monarchy and it gave rise to a culture of suspicion and paranoia that continues to this day. 

While I feel he may be pushing slightly too far (I don’t accept the contention that the West has only itself to blame for having to deal with the likes of Ahmadinejad and not another Mossadeq), there can be no doubt that 1953 had a profound effect on Iranian political life. Moreover, Abrahamian’s depiction of Western and British success may explain the belligerent line taken against Nasser in 1956. 

More broadly, by boiling down a much analysed event to its bare bones, The Coup performs an important- and often neglected- historical function. Increasingly major events are subject to countless interpretations each of which emphasises how a seemingly small or relatively insignificant aspect actually determined the course of events. Without care, this can complicate matters to such an extent that root causes become obscured, or at least conflated with less meaningful concerns. 

By rejecting the Cold War framework and revising the conduct of Mossadeq, Abrahamian is able to focus on what truly counts: the battle over Iranian natural resources. While this means The Coup is not a complicated (or lengthy) book, it is certainly both entertaining and revealing. It is a useful volume for experienced Iran watchers and novices alike.

Book Review- A View from the Foothills- The Diaries of Chris Mullin

When trudging away during one of his brief stints in government, Chris Mullin is asked by his Private Secretary ‘Why don’t you make more suggestions on the policy documents?’. Mullin, who somewhat surprisingly given his profession, lacks personal ambition, replies that he is entirely reconciled to his current obscurity: ‘When I die...no one will ever remember that I was an under-secretary of state at the Department of Environment’.

A touch unkind perhaps, but you get the point: although Mullin thrice received a title, he did not covet them; indeed during his first ministerial incarnation as an underling for John Prescott (penance for what, he does not say), he came to the conclusion that he preferred life as a pugnacious and influential back-bencher to the world of red boxes and ministerial cars.

It is this rather weary attitude that does so much to endear Mullin to his audience. Indeed, one forgets that Mullin was once a firebrand: a campaigning journalist and member of the Bennite left. Instead, the reader comes to think of Mullin principally as reasonable, caring and straightforward member of Tony Blair’s Labour Party. And while Mullin has no truck with the focus groups and phraseology of New Labour, he is loyal to his leader- ‘The Man’.

The Iraq war is a notable exception. Mullin settles on the position that his support is predicated upon a second UN resolution, and when this doesn’t arrive- despite the pressure- Mullin sticks to his guns, and is better for it.  

Especially as this ‘transgression’ doesn’t cost Mullin his career. His final ministerial stint, covering Africa within the Foreign Office, is both the most harrowing and rewarding of his various assignments. Unfortunately, just as he was settling into the role the 2005 election brought things to a juddering halt: ‘I’m sorry Chris’ telephones ‘The Man’, ‘but I am going to have to let you go’. Nothing personal of course, just new faces required.

New Labour’s constant need for rejuvenation is just one of several irritable quirks exposed by our man in Westminster. The deference to almighty Middle England is duly noted, as is the often vacuous language that emanates from pollsters, civil servants and Number 10 alike. 

Then there is the issue of money. Mullin, who abhors both waste and materialism, attempts (with some difficulty) to extract himself from the ministerial car pool. Contrast this outlook with that of the Prime Minister’s wife, who upon learning of Mullin’s first demotion remarks, ‘you’re free- and poorer’. 

Beyond all that, Mullin is a friendly, warm companion who leads the reader through the zenith of New Labour with gentle humour and just the right mixture of idealism and cynicism. Yet the real strength of these diaries lies in Mullin’s writing style. Not only is he crisp and to-the-point but he has a fine ear for what truly counts. This, in conjunction with an acute awareness of his status and function, means that we are spared waffle and self-aggrandisement throughout. Hear, hear to that.

Book Review: ‘Back From The Brink- 1,000 Days At Number 11’- Alistair Darling

These memoirs were published in a hurry: extracts appeared in September 2011, less than eighteen months after Darling left Government. I’m tempted to speculate why. Did Darling want to get his contribution out of the way before taking charge of the Better Together campaign; was he pressurised by his publisher; or did he strike while the iron was hot in order to preserve his reputation? 

 

What is clear is that Darling and Brown did not see eye-to-eye. The Prime Minister felt that the Chancellor’s economic forecasts were unreasonably gloomy. For his part, Darling admits he was cautious, but then again he had access to all the data. Brown’s ‘investment verses cuts’ strategy, the author argues, missed the point: public spending had to be addressed. 

Darling characterises himself as an arch pragmatist prepared to tell truth to power, only for power to ignore the advice. Given the circumstances, the stakes, Darling feels that he dealt with the financial crisis rather well. Going further, he expresses his frustration that No 10 failed to capitalise on his astute economic fire-fighting. 

Of course there’s more to politics than assigning blame. There’s also credit to accrue. “In the aftermath of the crisis” begins my favourite passage from Back from the Brink, “there have been many who have claimed authorship of what proved to be a highly successful plan ... [but] it really doesn’t matter who thought of the scheme first. What matters is that it worked. What I know for certain is that the Treasury, the Bank and the FSA started work on 26 September, under my instruction.”

Brilliant stuff. Indeed, while the tone is hardly triumphant (the cover jacket is almost comically austere) Darling is primarily concerned with vindicating his chancellorship, a feat he almost pulls off.

Putting politics to one side, it would be folly to deny the fact that Darling- a competent, cautious, experienced Minister- handled the financial crisis in a calm, logical matter. Of course, this is the impression he wishes to give, but it would be churlish to deny credit where credit is due. (Pun almost intended).

That said, the book is light on detail. In part this will be because copious amounts of economic data would contravene two important rules: it would reveal too much about policies still in practise, and it would be mind numbingly boring. So instead Darling dwells on the characters he dealt with: there’s a late night meeting with Fred Goodwin, disagreements with Mervyn King. Interesting, but superficial. Anyone keen to understand the mechanics behind the Government’s decision making should head elsewhere. 

Understandably, when first released the ruptures in the Brown-Darling relationship caught the eye. But these passages, intended to be climatic, fall a little flat. He dutifully knifes Brown on his management style, on policy, but he does so with little relish.

Yet their policy disagreements were substantive. Brown’s adherence to the ‘investment versus cuts’ line and Darling’s insistence on the need for budgetary rigor hinted at something larger, namely the tension between a Keynesian response to the crisis and New Labour’s mantra of economic prudence. This debate has yet to be fully resolved, but Darling will have keenly noted the words of Ed Balls last week and probably afforded himself the faintest of smiles. 

Book Review: Unfinest Hour: Britain and The Destruction of Bosnia - Brendan Simms

The Balkans is a difficult region to navigate. There are ancient blood feuds to content with, not to mention many ethnic quarrels and various border disputes to understand. Inevitably, therefore, most books on the subject are weighty tomes; replete with battles and conflicts, small tribes and large bands. 

 

Unfinest Hour, however, does things differently. Its author, Cambridge historian Brendan Simms, makes a straightforward case: that between 1992 and 1995 the West, Britain in particular, abandoned Bosnia in her hour of need. Not only were the invading Serb forces able to act with impunity, but their cause (which involved ethnic cleansing) was abetted by a British government which undermined calls for international action at every available turn. 

Not only, Simms contends, did this constitute a dereliction of duty (after the Holocaust what happened to ‘never again’?) but it revealed a moral deficiency at the heart of Whitehall. ‘Conservative pessimism’ is blamed for this malaise, as are Douglas Hurd and Malcolm Rifkind, its two principle embodiments. 

In their language Bosnia was a land of ‘factions’, where different ‘parties’ vied for land. Such notions are rejected by Simms. There was, he argues, no moral equivalence between the various sides: Bosnia was a sovereign state under persistent attack from an outside enemy force. Indeed, by failing to draw this distinction the British government misconstrued the conflict and made matters more complicated than they ought to have been. 

Washington, on the other hand, saw Bosnia in a clearer light. ‘Lift and strike’ (end the weapons embargo, attack Serb armed facilities) is characterised as a positive policy stymied by the pernicious Brits -- who invoked UNPROFOR and their men on the ground whenever offensive action was tabled. 

As ‘lift and strike’ died the enthusiasm of the Clinton administration went with it. However, after a period of futility, in 1995 America witnessed a ‘revolution from above’ when Congress defied the Whitehouse and voted in favour of a military response. Simms favourably contrasts this activism with what he sees as the supine behaviour of the British parliament.

Going further he characterises London’s Bosnia policy as a failure of the establishment-class.

In this vein both David Owen, co-author of the Vance-Owen plan, and General Michael Rose, UNPROFOR commander, are personally assailed for their contributions. Such personal attacks are unusual in British political writing and come across as unwarranted and unkind. That said, Owen too readily toed the Foreign Office line, and Rose harboured an unhealthy respect for the Serb forces’ professionalism, heritage and history. 

For those interested in decision making there is much to gain from Simms’ account. For instance, the construction of a consensus is particularly interesting to behold. Indeed, whatever one thinks of British policy it is clear that Ministers failed to adequately challenge the advice they received; they were beholden to the men on the ground. 

In addition, analogy (not for the first time) had a negative effect. A little history, it seems, is a dangerous thing, especially when old-hands justify present positions by invoking the past. Too often, officials made fatuous reference to Northern Ireland (and to a lesser extent Cyprus) when discussing Bosnia’s plight. Moreover, the role the Serbs played during the Second World War appeared all too often in British thinking.

More troublingly, Simms is guilty of glossing over the contributions many nations made to pacifying Bosnia. Britain, of course, was very much at the forefront of these efforts, and while Simms may not agree with the tone and direction of such contributions, his work gives the false impression that the international community spent much of the early-to-mid 1990s wringing their hands. 

Stylistically, published in 2000, Unfinest Hour relies almost exclusively upon the public record to support its claims. Not only does such an approach have obvious weaknesses, but it tests the readers’ will. Too often chapters disintegrate into ceaseless newspaper reports interspersed with passages from Hansard. 

The date of publication is notable for another reason. At the turn of the century New Labour was at its peak, and Tony Blair dominated the British political scene. His Chicago speech, given the year before, (in)famously laid out the argument for an interventionist foreign policy. Simms appears to have been impressed for Unfinest Hour is essentially a liberal-imperialist tract. 

What’s interesting is that now, in 2013 we appear to have come full circle. In Syria a brutal regime has been targeting its own population for over two years. Quite terrible horrors are occurring on a daily basis and yet no international action has, or looks likely to occur. The spectre of Iraq haunts the decision-makers of Washington and London; no one wishes to overreach like Tony Blair and George W. Bush. In this regard, the position of Simms appears curiously old-fashioned, almost quaint. 

And yet, his argument retains force. His contention that we must confront brutality the world over is simple but powerful, and it’s refreshing to encounter this position argued with passion, purpose and clarity, even if he pushes too far.

Book Review: ‘The Trial of Henry Kissinger’- Christopher Hitchens

Henry Kissinger, claims the late Christopher Hitchens, is a war criminal. He sanctioned the illegal bombing of Cambodia and Laos, he was complicit in the murder of Chilean general Rene Schneider and he sabotaged the Geneva peace talks of 1968. He abused his power to augment his reputation, and his foreign policy ran contrary to liberal American values. 

Indeed, evidence suggests he condoned Indonesia’s invasion of East Timor and the Greek junta’s plan to kidnap and murder an émigré journalist, Elias P. Demetracopoulos. 

 

Quite the list. But are the claims true? Well, Cambodia and Laos were certainly bombed and the peace talks of ‘68 did collapse. General Schneider was murdered and East Timor did suffer at its neighbours hands. Kissinger’s foreign policy was avowedly realist and Mr Demetracopoulos did have reason to fear for his life. But how central was Kissinger’s role?

At the moment it is impossible to judge. Largely this is because Kissinger’s private papers are still under lock and key (he cut a deal with the archives to preserve the material until his death). To the mind of Hitchens, in itself this suggests illegality. It certainly does raise eyebrows. Nevertheless, until these records are opened, and until historians get access to all the facts, it remains difficult to disassociate evidence from assertion. 

Put simply, this means I’m not convinced. In all likelihood there exists a middle ground between the accusations of Hitchens and Kissinger’s denials. It’s here, in this grey, where truth most probably resides. 

As an example of modern polemic alone, The Trail of Henry Kissinger deserves to be read. Beautifully crafted, each chapter seethes with rage. Politics has become a civilised discourse, and this book makes you wonder why. Hitchens goes straight for the jugular, and while this may be too violent for some tastes, it is a refreshing, honest approach to argument. 

More broadly, I was left contemplating three points. First, can human rights and realpolitik be reconciled? Many of Hitchens’ claims stem from the fact that Kissinger failed to value human life over geopolitics. In other words, in order to advance American strategic interests, Kissinger was prepared to incur collateral damage, which often took the form of men, woman and children. While I don’t think he took such decisions lightly, he sought to continue a tradition which was embodied by Metternich and Bismarck. He was first and foremost a strategist. Could such a policy be pursued today? 

Second, does the fact that some nations are above international reproach impact negatively upon foreign policy decision making? For instance, while it has become relatively common to see a rouge ex-head of state from Africa or South America before a criminal tribunal, or a truth and reconciliation committee, no such fate would befall an ex-leader of the ‘West’. Does this encourage risk taking?

Finally, is the any way to bring some accountability into diplomacy? Is there a way to police decisions or at least open them up for public scrutiny? If we could, the record of men like Kissinger would certainly be clearer.