In fact, of course, few dictators are totally one or the other. There is no such thing as a clean slate. Even revolutionaries use the past, but usually a remote, mythical past, as a masquerade to lend legitimacy to their aim to destroy. If Mao was obsessed by the Qin Emperor, Stalin liked to compare himself to Ivan the Terrible. Pol Pot talked about reviving the glory of ancient Ankor. Saddam Hussein, a keen student of Stalin, wished to be likened to Saladin, who recaptured twelfth-century Jerusalem from the infidels.
Although obsessed with his image in the West, Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi ruled Iran as the heir of Cyrus the Great. The Shah’s Great Civilization was a mixture of rapid and often hopelessly flawed modernization and the fantasy of a pre-Islamic past. In 1971, the ruins of Cyrus’s capital, Persepolis, were the stage set for the Shah’s coronation. Celebrations took several days. Hundreds of French chefs were flown in. The Queen of England was presented with rare Caspian horses. An entire city of palatial tents was erected. A ton of caviar was consumed by the crowned heads and other global dignitaries, invited for this greatest of all durbars. Armies dressed like soldiers of Cyrus and Darius marched by in their thousands and the Shah was crowned as the Son of Aryans, the King of Kings of Iran.
All this pseudohistorical flimflam, all these borrowed costumes, were meant to convey a sense of grandeur, of greatness. It didn’t quite work for the Shah, whose extravagance enraged many of his subjects. Perhaps his mistake was to aim his grand spectacles more at foreign dignitaries than his own people. Other dictators arranged these things better. Whatever evils he may have committed, Nero’s games were wildly popular in Rome. And Joachim Fest, one of Hitler’s best known biographers, ascribes some of the Führer’s huge success to the German love of operatic spectacle: the Third Reich as a murderous Gesamtkunstwerk. A collective love of spectacle is an odd excuse, if an excuse it is, but the aesthetic side of dictatorship should not be underestimated, for circuses are the substitute for politics.
One of the greatest modern political theater directors was Napoleon. His empire, like Hitler’s Reich, was staged as a great spectacle, borrowing much of its pomp from a mythical past. Like the lawyer Jacques Vergès, Napoleon deplored what he saw as the mediocrity of bourgeois politics and yearned for greatness. “I have come too late,” he sighed to his secretary the day after his coronation, “men are too enlightened; there is nothing great left to do.”1 In fact, however, he invested everything he did with grandeur. He crowned himself at Notre-Dame, dressed in ermine and diamonds, part Julius Caesar, part François I. Beethoven, after an initial flurry of enthusiasm, disapproved of the coronation’s vulgarity, as did Stendhal. But the French rejoiced in Napoleon’s imperial splendour and Parisians danced all night.
Like the first Chinese emperor, Napoleon was a destroyer, a unifier, a standardizer, and a builder of grand projects. Not only did he build an empire in Europe, unified under French administration and French laws, but he wanted to rebuild Paris as the most beautiful city that ever existed. He said: “If the Heavens had granted me another twenty years, and some leisure, you would have looked in vain for the Old Paris, you would not have seen a trace of it….”2
Napoleon’s destruction of human life and property was modest compared to that of Hitler, Stalin, or Mao, but his pursuit of la gloire still left countless victims on the battlefields of Europe. And yet his mystique never entirely faded. Romantics have always admired him. Even those with a more moderate disposition could be fascinated by his air of greatness. The Russian liberal Alexander Herzen was not a Napoleon worshiper, but when he saw a picture of Wellington’s victory at Waterloo, he could not help feeling chilled by that “calm, English figure, which promises nothing brilliant.”
Few dictators after Napoleon escaped from his influence. His court painter, Jacques-Louis David, set the tone for images of grandeur in Communist as well as fascist courts. The aesthetics of Stalin’s empire were in many respects a crude copy of Napoleonic classicism: all that nineteenth-century frippery on a monumental scale. Hitler’s plans for the transformation of Berlin into a monstrous imperial capital owed much to Napoleon’s architectural hubris. Napoleon was also the first dictator to establish absolute rule in the name of democracy. After him, even the most murderous despots often felt the need to pay lip service to liberty, equality, and fraternity.
It is in the postcolonial world, in fact, where history has cast its weirdest shadows. Most postcolonial dictators have claimed legitimacy from their struggles against foreign imperialism. To purify the air of foreign oppression, all vestiges of the colonial past—street or place names, statues and tombs, the languages of the former rulers—had to go. A native identity would be stamped on the tabula rasa through the will of the great leader. And yet, despite the leopard-skin hats, the chieftain’s canes, and the jeweled crowns, it is curious to see how much postcolonial despots often resemble their old colonial masters. Robert Mugabe mimics the racist attitudes, the stiff suits, and the moralism of the white men he replaced. Lee Kuan Yew and Mohammed Mahathir, all their cant about Asian values notwithstanding, consciously adopted the authoritarian platitudes (and institutions) of the British empire-builders, under whose tutelage they grew up.
Sometimes the parody is a form of satire: Idi Amin posing as the last King of Scotland, half hoping to be taken seriously. The most peculiar, horrifying, and pathetic case was that of Emperor Bokassa, or Papa Bok, who boasted of eating his victims. Perhaps this was a parody too, a mimicry of European prejudices about Africa. But his coronation, as ruler of the Central African Republic, was as solemn as the Shah’s. There he was, Jean-Bedel Bokassa, the former sergeant in the French colonial army, crowning himself, dressed in velvet and ermine. And there he stayed for much too long, torturing and murdering his subjects, sitting on his golden throne, made in France as a perfect copy of Napoleon Bonaparte’s.
When asked about the lack of great leaders in our benighted world, Gore Vidal once remarked that great leaders make great wars. Shakespeare wrote well about such men: Coriolanus, for example, the mama’s boy inside a crust of shiny armor. In the words of his friend Menenius, his “wounds become him.” Making war is his way of ruling.
The beauty of Shakespeare’s portrait of the despot as warmonger is the combination of personal psychology and politics. Coriolanus has to be a war hero, because his mother demands it of him: “To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he returned, his brows bound with oak.” But the politics are just as interesting. War is a necessary distraction from other problems, which might stir up rebellion.
Napoleon’s promise that he would “surprise the world by the grandeur and rapidity of my strokes” was based on the same principle. The French economy was still suffering from the ravages of revolution, but popular discontent was diverted by the victories of the Grande Armée. Civil liberties were curtailed, but glory, bread, and circuses made up for the hardships. The people were swept away by patriotism, and royally entertained. The problem is that once a dictator has chosen this route, he must, as they say, stay the course.
It is also worth noting that hubristic wars are often sold to the public as wars of liberation. On the face of it, Mussolini’s declaration of war against the United States was mad. But this war to free civilized European values from rootless Americanism would soon be over, for the Duce promised that a single bombardment of New York would be enough to bring the Americans to their knees.
One victory is never enough, however. Like any gambler, the compulsive warrior has to keep on upping the ante. Wellington once compared Napoleon to a cannon ball: he had to keep moving for fear of losing all momentum. Hitler operated on the same principle, gambling for ever bigger stakes. By the time his armies were being decimated in the frozen steppes of Russia, it was too late. Germans were beginning to shed their illusions. And yet the Führer himself was still obeyed. His power lasted to the very end. Even among the ruins, it seems to be hard for people to stop believing in a leader they had once worshiped.
Great leaders fight great wars against external enemies, but also against enemies at home. The bloody purges of class enemies, Trotskyists, capitalist roaders, landlords, feudals, bourgeois revisionists, imperialists, spies, stinking intellectuals, Bolshevik Jews, capitalist Jews, or just any old Jews are part of the same savage perpetual motion necessary to keep a tyranny going. The fact that purges and massacres are often quite arbitrary, and no one, not even the leader’s loftiest paladin, is exempt, is built into the system of permanent war. It is indeed a necessary condition, for by institutionalizing his own paranoia, the leader keeps everyone in a constant state of terror.
Chairman Mao unleashed the Cultural Revolution just as things were calming down in China, when cooler heads began to prevail, and people could start to relax a little. But as his revolution lost its momentum, Mao felt his power slipping. This was the origin of his Cultural Revolution, so much admired by radical intellectuals in faraway cities. And if the tyrant runs out of plausible enemies, because he has already killed them all, he will simply invent new ones, which is why in the world of great dictators the killing never stops.
The terrifying thing about dictatorship is people’s willingness to believe in the divine aspirations of dictators. The hundreds of thousands of screaming, crying, praying, book-waving, flag-waving men and women in Beijing, Berlin, Moscow, or Pyongyang, worshiping their leaders, are not only doing so because they are forced to; many, perhaps even most, really are caught up in the hysteria. This is partly a matter of crowd psychology. Collective emotion can spread like a brush fire. I saw this myself once in Pyongyang, shortly after the death of Kim Il Sung, when we were dragged to a hideous monument to mourn the Great Leader. Professional mourners wailed through loudspeakers about losing “our Father.” Schoolteachers, followed by the disciplined ranks of their pupils, began to weep, and at the sight of adult tears, so did the children. Was this emotion genuine? Were they really sad about the dictator’s death? It is difficult to know, and perhaps a silly question, for sincerity in the midst of mass hysteria is impossible to measure. But the desire to worship gods is surely part of being human. And when traditional gods are banned, humans have a way of taking their place.
During the first two hundred years of the Roman Empire, sane emperors did not claim divinity during their lifetimes. They became gods only after they died, even though they were worshiped as gods by eastern Greeks even while they were still alive. The Sons of Heaven in Chinese history were not gods, but they ruled with the mandate of Heaven. They had a divine right, as did monarchs in other parts of the world. And they acted as intermediaries between Heaven and Earth, like priest-kings. In the case of Japanese emperors, their divine right was kept separate from political authority. By giving his blessing, the priest-king lent his divine right to secular rulers. This had consequences even in the twentieth century. One reason Japan in the 1930s, unlike the European fascist states, had no dictator was that no one could match, let alone supercede, the exalted status of the emperor. And even though the emperor was worshiped as a divine figure, he was stopped short of becoming a dictator. This did not prevent a catastrophe, for it meant that anyone acting in the emperor’s name, however atrociously, could lay claim to his sacred aura.
Some of the most monstrous crimes have been carried out by dictators who destroyed or emasculated traditional religious institutions, and substituted their own forms of worship. The Hitler cult was founded on the ruins of the German monarchy, and was accompanied by systematic assaults on organized religion. The same, incidentally, was true of the wartime Japanese emperor cult, which for a short time became almost the exclusive focus of religious fervor, since other spiritual practices were either banned or harnessed to the imperial cause. Stalin and Mao went even further. Neither the Japanese leadership nor Hitler was able to achieve a complete religious tabula rasa. They still had to make some compromises with established institutions. The Communist leaders had no such trouble.
As in the Inquisition, people under Stalin and Mao were persecuted and killed, not for what they did, but for what they believed or, more to the point, refused to believe. It is sometimes claimed, as a way of contrasting the evil of fascist dictators with the lesser evil of Communist despots, that the victims of Mao were not exterminated in the camps but reeducated. Even if we leave aside the fact that many so-called class enemies were exterminated simply for who they were, this kind of reeducation was hardly benign. You had to convince your torturers not only that you had renounced your evil thoughts and become a believer, but that you had done so in all sincerity. This was mental torture of the worst kind, for people were forced quite literally to lose their minds.
Leadership cults on the scale of the great twentieth-century dictators may have become obsolete. It will be difficult, and perhaps impossible, for new autocrats to monopolize power and truth in the way Mao did, or Stalin, or the Emperor of Qin. There are simply too many books now to burn. Only a tiny country like North Korea can still be effectively sealed from most outside information. The Chinese leaders, with all their resources, are unable to shut out all the bloggers and Web sites that challenge their monopoly of the truth.
What has not changed is human nature, the human desires that have allowed dictators to emerge in the past. The wish to worship, to be sheltered by a great father, to bask in the reflected glory of war, to be mesmerized by the spectacle of power, or swept up in collective emotion, these are still with us. And then there is the dictator’s most potent weapon, our fears: of unseen enemies, threatening us abroad and at home; of individual meaninglessness and impotence; and indeed of freedom itself.
In a well-functioning democracy these emotions are defused. The desire for grandeur is hard to satisfy in a liberal democracy, to be sure. Only the republics of France and the United States, both born in revolution, have the grandiose pretensions of representing universal liberty, which is perhaps why these two countries are so often at odds. As for other desires, humans are still worshiped in rock venues and sports stadiums, where aggressive collective emotions can be more or less contained. In Europe, where overt nationalism has become a taboo since the great wars of the last century, soccer games are now almost the only focus of chauvinist mass hysteria.
For spiritual longings there are churches to turn to. Even in their most vulgar manifestations, churches perform an important function. One of the flaws in the position of extreme anticlericalists is the notion that spiritual desires would simply go away if churches were abolished. Few people, if any, can live by reason alone. Better to contain these desires in organized religion than to have them abused for secular ends. Finally, the craving for spectacle and vicarious splendour can be satisfied by the pomp of public ceremonies, or even by entertainment and the celebrity industry. This may not be edifying, but it is not all that noxious either.
The danger begins when these desires become monopolies, when politicians own too many channels of entertainment, claim to express the will of God, whip up national fervor, stir up fears and promise protection, and encourage the kind of hero worship which should be in the safer domain of sporting heroes or movie stars. If there are to be future dictators, they will probably be like super moguls, who own the television networks and sports clubs, talk like evangelical priests, despise democratic politics, and warn of threats and enemies. Signs of what might be in store can already be seen in such democracies as Thailand and Italy, both governed by populist media tycoons, who show contempt for independent judges and political opposition. They are big men, with big ideas, who promise a break from the petty compromises and mediocre deals of ordinary politicians. There is another, less flamboyant, type, to be seen in China and Russia: the cold technocrat who can convince the emerging middle classes that autocratic government is the only barrier against chaos and barbarism. Rebellious minorities, resisting their heavy-handed rule, will be crushed as part of the permanent war on terrorism.
Authoritarian technocracy borrows its legitimacy in a variety of ways. The East Asian model, pioneered by Lee Kuan Yew in Singapore, and now taken up by the secretive managers of the People’s Republic of China, is often claimed to be in line with the Confucian tradition, or Asian values. Asians, the technocrats claim, have no interest in messy confrontational politics, which destroy harmony under Heaven. All they want is order and a full rice bowl for themselves and their families. What the autocrats fail to mention is that Confucius, and especially Mencius, believed in the people’s right to rebel against corrupt rulers. This is precisely what happened in Taiwan and South Korea, and in the PRC as well, albeit with bad consequences. Typically, the response of the Communist regime to the events of 1989 was to pile on more rice, by letting the educated urban classes, the very people who demonstrated on Tiananmen Square, get rich.
Economic success has given Asian technocracies an advantage over earlier forms of dictatorship. Prosperity without politics has a wide appeal, much wider than the superficially egalitarian poverty of scientific socialism. Western businessmen, and indeed Western governments, like doing business with the technocrats, because the deals you make are unhindered by such noisome things as independent trade unions or opposition parties. But the stability of the Asian model may well prove to be more fragile than many expect, for the pact with a complacent middle class is unlikely to survive a severe economic crisis.
This new technocracy is an example of dictatorship’s most fatal temptation, the illusion that we are better off without politics, that tough leaders with the will to get things done should not be hampered by organized dissent. This is what Asian technocrats and Russian autocrats believe. But people who care about freedom and openness should be worried about trends that are visible in the United States. For here, too, human fears and desires are exploited to chip away at the rule of law and to substitute spectacle and religious faith for political debate.
I do not agree with some panic-stricken commentators who have used such phrases as “soft fascism” to describe the US today. The United States is not a dictatorship, and the chances of it becoming one are still remote. But the use of Islamist terror to justify a war in Iraq and the manipulation of popular fear to shrink civil liberties are threats to democracy and the rule of law. It would be well to remember the words of Mohammed Mahathir, the former Malaysian autocrat who locked up his main political rival in prison on dubious charges. This is what he said not long after September 11, 2001: “We know if they are under attack, they also took actions ignoring the law and the court, take actions to their whims and fancies against people who they think were involved in violence.”
The awful thing is that he is right. If even the world’s greatest democracy behaves like that, what is there to prevent others from doing much worse?
Alistair Horne, The Age of Napoleon (Modern Library, 2004), p. 40.↩
Horne, The Age of Napoleon, p. 62.↩