Lessons From the Past for Trump's Transactional Foreign Policy
Ian Morris
Ian Morris
Board of Contributors
13 MINS READ
Nov 13, 2019 | 16:40 GMT
An illustration of an aged world map.
(ILOLAB/Shutterstock)
HIGHLIGHTS
President Donald Trump's administration is anything but the first to pursue a transactional foreign policy. An important comparison case: 18th-century Britain.
The British experience suggests there are huge benefits to reap from a transactional foreign policy but huge costs to avoid. Doing transactionalism correctly is difficult.
While 18th-century Britain resembles our own world in many ways, there are differences. It's in those differences that the United States possesses few of the advantages Britain enjoyed three centuries ago.
One of the Trump administration's hallmarks has been its transactional approach to foreign policy. Writing in Foreign Policy magazine shortly before the 2016 presidential election, the strategist Rosa Brooks suggested that "To Trump, U.S. alliances, like potential business partners in a real estate transaction, should always be asked: 'What have you done for me lately?'" Since entering office, President Donald Trump has repeatedly threatened to walk away from alliances that no longer seem to be paying dividends, regardless of old friendships or cultural affinities. He has brought American troops home from distant shores and favored national interests over multinational cooperation. He self-consciously presents himself as disrupting an American foreign policy tradition, going back at least to 1941, of promoting the spread of democracy, human rights, open markets and supranational organizations like the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund and the United Nations.
Few alliances, no matter how long-standing, have avoided the president's criticism. He has called NATO "obsolete" and named the European Union as the United States' "biggest trade foe." Nor are newer allies secure. The Kurdish People's Protection Units (YPG) has lost 11,000 dead since 2014 in an American-led war in Syria against the self-styled Islamic State, while the United States has suffered only six fatalities, but the president abruptly cast it aside in October. "We never agreed to protect the Kurds for the rest of their lives," Trump tweeted. "Where's the agreement that we have to stay in Middle East for rest of civilization? … I don't think it is necessary, other than that we secure the oil." The Turkish army immediately attacked the Kurds.
South Korean legislator Won Yoo Chul calls this the "Trump risk" — the nagging fear that he'll wake up to a tweet announcing the withdrawal of American forces from the Korean Peninsula. When asked, shortly after the United States abandoned the Kurds in Syria, whether he still thought Europeans could rely on Article 5 of NATO's constitution (the idea that an attack on one NATO member is an attack on all), French President Emmanuel Macron answered, "I don't know … to have an American ally turning its back on us so quickly on strategic issues; nobody would have believed this possible."
A Comparison Case
The U-turn in U.S. foreign policy seems to have baffled many observers. According to The Washington Post, "Donald Trump's ignorance of government policy, both foreign and domestic, is breathtaking." However, the Trump administration is anything but the first to pursue a transactional foreign policy. It might be worth taking a look at the experience of the most important comparison case, 18th-century Britain.
Through the 16th and 17th centuries, English strategy ("Britain" did not exist until the union of England and Scotland in 1707; Ireland was added in a second Act of Union in 1800) had been intensely ideological, focusing on fighting Catholicism to protect what were called "English liberties." After 1713, however, Britain increasingly acted as if (as the foreign secretary, Lord Palmerston, put it in 1848) "We have no eternal allies and we have no perpetual friends … [only] our interests are eternal and perpetual."
The new British policies focused on preserving a balance of power in Europe, intervening against any power — regardless of its religion or constitution — that looked like it might be about to dominate the Continent. If one power did dominate the Continent, British strategists feared, it would gain a free hand to build a navy powerful enough to challenge Britain at sea; but so long as the Continent remained divided, Britain, protected by its fleet, could concentrate on grabbing up transoceanic trade and building a worldwide empire.
This strategy paid off. Britain rose from being a second-rank European power in the 1680s to a first-rank global one 150 years later. However, it had costs too, particularly on the moral side. By constantly shifting alliances, Britain earned a reputation as untrustworthy ("perfidious Albion"). At critical moments, it found itself utterly isolated. Foreign relations spilled over into domestic politics too, dividing the country deeply.
There are no 1:1 correlations between what worked in the past and what will work today. But as U.S. foreign policy breaks radically with the traditions of the past 75 years, it might be worth taking a look at 18th-century Britain, not only for how it resembles our own world but also for how it differs from it.
'When Will This Bloodshed Ever Cease?'
For several centuries before 1713, English foreign policy had been highly ideological. France's victory in the Hundred Years' War in 1453 had reduced England to a bit player whose independence depended on playing Spain and France against each other and bullying the Scottish enemy to its rear. Things got significantly worse after 1534 when Henry VIII took England out of the Roman Church. England became a pariah state, much like the Soviet Union after 1918, and 16th-century England's relations with the Continent's great powers were every bit as polarized, ideological and violent as the 20th-century Cold War.
Sixteenth-century England's relations with the Continent's great powers were every bit as polarized, ideological and violent as the 20th-century Cold War.
Henry VIII paid for his wars to defend England's Reformation by looting the country's monasteries, but by the time he died, in 1547, that money was long gone. His successors were trapped between the Scylla of satisfying Protestant sentiments within England by waging anti-Catholic crusades (which the country couldn't afford) and the Charybdis of avoiding unaffordable wars by cozying up to France and Spain (which enraged domestic opinion). Edward VI (reigned 1547-53) tried the former and Mary I (1553-58) the latter, while Elizabeth I (1558-1603) walked a tightrope between them, several times considering but never quite concluding a Catholic marriage. When the tightrope snapped in 1588, it took good luck as much as good gunnery to save England from invasion by a Spanish Armada.
Elizabeth knew that England could not fund such wars with Spain for long, and her successor James I immediately compromised with the Catholic powers. He sidestepped being dragged into the ruinous Protestant-Catholic conflict now known as the Thirty Years' War, and, blessed by a generation of neutrality, England's shipping and share of the growing transatlantic markets grew dramatically. The domestic price of these policies, however, was enormous. The English elite polarized between a "Court" faction, which favored peace, a degree of religious toleration, a strong monarchy and alliances with Spain and/or France, and a "Country" group, virulently anti-Catholic, suspicious of royal decadence and incompetence and ready to fight Spain and France (at the same time, if necessary) to defend the Protestant cause.
Political violence erupted into civil war in 1642, ending in a victory for the anti-monarchical rebels. Revealing what a united government could do with England's new wealth, Oliver Cromwell built the greatest fleet the country had ever seen. Protected by it, he crushed Scottish and Irish resistance in the home isles, struck across the Atlantic at Spanish possessions in the Caribbean and joined anti-Catholic campaigns on the Continent.
However, Cromwell's triumphs also revealed the continuing obstacles to sectarianism. Commercial rivalries compelled him to fight fellow Protestants in the Netherlands before taking on Spain, while his attempts to build a Puritan New Jerusalem at home failed miserably. The solution, moderates concluded, was to restore the monarchy, but when that was achieved, in 1660, it solved little. Like his antebellum predecessors, Charles II found himself stuck between cozying up to France and Spain but generating internal dissent and harnessing Protestant energies into anti-Catholic conquests but going broke. He quickly decided not just to lean toward the Continental Catholics but actually to sell the country out to them. In a secret treaty signed in 1670, he agreed in return for cash payments not only to support Catholic France's aggressive young king Louis XIV in attacking the Protestant Netherlands but even to let Louis' troops reimpose Catholicism in England. In the end, that did not happen, but when Charles' brother James converted to Catholicism before becoming king, even royalists panicked.
In 1688, a bipartisan alliance of Tories and Whigs (the successors of the old Court and Country factions) asked William of Orange, the staunchly Protestant leader of the Dutch armies fighting France, to intervene against their own Catholic king. James promptly fled, whereupon William formed an alliance with the Whigs and committed England fully to the Dutch fight against Catholicism.
The result was a quarter-century of brutal warfare, which turned Britain into Europe's rising power. A Bill of Rights, signed in 1689, merged the crown and Parliament, making civil war less likely, and the Bank of England, established in 1694, gave Parliament the deepest credit in Europe. England destroyed France's fleet in 1692, won one of its greatest land victories at Blenheim in 1704 and forged a political union with Scotland in 1707.
As ever, though, the costs of confronting Catholicism were ruinous. The national debt spiraled, there were waves of bankruptcies and the casualties became intolerable. As a proportion of the population, more Englishmen died at the Battle of Malplaquet in 1709 than on the first day on the Somme in 1916, driving Queen Anne — previously even more committed to the anti-Catholic war than King William had been — to demand "When will this bloodshed ever cease?" As the political elite fragmented, Tories undermined the crown's alliance with the Whigs. They even drove the Duke of Marlborough — the victor of Blenheim and Malplaquet — from office and convicted him of embezzlement. Marlborough's fall left the way open for peace with France.
A Strategic Pivot
The Treaty of Utrecht, signed in 1713, began the biggest strategic pivot in British history. Its Tory architects did not just end the current war with France; they put British foreign policy on an entirely new footing. Who cares, they asked, whether potential allies were Protestant or Catholic, or what gratitude Britain owed them? What mattered was protecting Britain's Atlantic trade. That called for the biggest fleet in Europe, and the obvious way to stop any Continental power building a fleet to rival Britain's was to keep Europe divided. If France grew too strong, Britain would back any coalition (even one including the Muslim Turks) to restore a balance of power, but if one of its allies — Spain, Austria, Russia or whoever — did too well, Britain would switch to a coalition (even one including France) that would block it. And, while the Europeans fought each other, Britain would encompass the world's maritime trade.
Who cares, the British architects of the Treaty of Utrecht asked, whether potential allies were Protestant or Catholic, or what gratitude Britain owed them? What mattered was protecting Britain's Atlantic trade.
The Treaty of Utrecht rejected ancient notions of loyalty and honor, leaving Britain's allies in the lurch and unleashing a level of political fury beyond anything seen in the United States since 2016. As soon as the Whigs won back power, they impeached, exiled and imprisoned the Tories responsible, and whenever Tories gained a local advantage, they turned the purge back on the Whigs. Already by the 1720s, though, the Tories' transactional approach to foreign policy was clearly winning the debate.
The new policies unfolded against a surprisingly modern background of financial meltdown (particularly the "South Sea Bubble" of 1720), elite corruption, mounting inequality, growing distrust of the political class and the power of a spectacularly partisan news media, capable of whipping up violent mobs at a moment's notice. Through it all, though, the political giant Robert Walpole (probably the most venal prime minister Britain has ever had, but also the greatest master of patronage) kept Europe off-balance, taxes low, Britain out of Continental wars and transatlantic trade growing.
He did this by dropping one ally after another as they became inconvenient. By 1739, Walpole himself conceded that Britain was "at present without any one ally upon the Continent." Some Tories thought this was fine, but in the end, Walpole's failure to keep all the diplomatic balls in the air brought him down. Slowly, painfully, Britain rebuilt its diplomatic networks, to the point that a new coalition won a mighty victory over France in 1759 — only for Britain once more to cast its expensive allies aside in the 1760s. When an American colonial revolt posed entirely new challenges in 1776, Britain found itself utterly without friends. In trying to fight France, Spain and the Netherlands as well as the rebels, Britain lost the bulk of its empire.
And on the cycle went. Continental powers learned to treat Britain as transactionally as Britain treated them, breaking alliances at will. Not even the danger that Napoleon would completely overturn the European system was enough to make governments trust Britain; in 1807, the Russian czar told Napoleon, "I hate the English as much as you do." Only when Napoleon's invasion of Russia in 1812 revealed that his ambition truly was insatiable and then broke his military power did Austria, Prussia and Russia fully commit to fighting him, and his final defeat, at Waterloo in 1815, left Britain as the world's greatest superpower. The Tories' transactional strategy had been vindicated.
Important Differences Between Then and Now
It is easy to see analogies between post-1713 Britain and post-2016 America, casting Donald Trump as Walpole and China and Russia in the parts of France and Spain. However, the differences between the two cases are equally important. In 1713, Britain was still a rising power, challenging the status quo powers of France and Spain, but in 2016, the United States had been dominant for a century, and China was the emerging rival. Britain in 1713 boasted the world's fastest-growing economy; the United States in 2016 did not. The Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 was a diplomatic interlude after 25 years of great power war; in 2016, there had been no such war for more than seven decades, and its resumption was unthinkable.
These differences, and others, probably make it unwise to conclude that because a transactional foreign policy worked so well for 18th-century Britain, it will always succeed. Rather, we should be focusing on the broader strategic principles revealed by the British case — which suggest that those who view Trump's foreign policy as incoherent and those who think that it is just common sense are equally mistaken.
A no-eternal-allies/no-perpetual-friends model worked for two centuries to keep Britain out of expensive Continental wars, allowing it to reduce military costs and lower taxes while maintaining a great fleet to protect its global trade and expand its commercial networks. However, even if we leave aside all moral questions, this diplomatic ruthlessness carried high costs. Britain repeatedly found itself isolated internationally and divided internally, and transactionalism seems to carry the same costs today. On the international front, I have heard policymakers from Canberra to Seoul say openly that American behavior is making them rethink their relationships with China, while Macron suggests that American inconstancy will produce European "rapprochement" with Russia. Domestically, Trump is facing impeachment over his foreign policy transactionalism.
I see three big lessons in 18th century British diplomatic history. First, transactionalism is difficult to do right, frequently driving former allies into enemy camps; second, trust takes decades to build but only days to destroy; and third, British transactionalism would not have succeeded had the country not possessed the world's fastest-growing economy and most modern institutions and infrastructure. Three centuries later, the United States possesses few, if any, of these advantages. American leaders might want to pay attention to Britain's earlier experiment with transactionalism if they are to avoid paying all the same costs without reaping any of the same benefits.