Robert McNamara Dies
One of the giants - for better and for worse - of twentieth century American foreign policy passed away today. Robert McNamara, the Secretary of Defense in the Kennedy and Johnson administrations, and one of the most powerful men in the U.S. government during the Bay of Pigs invasion, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the military escalation in Vietnam, was 93.
The most consequential events of McNamara's life and tenure preceded my birth by some years, so my perspective is admittedly colored by the foggy lens of history. I'm sure my parents, who remember the Cuban Missile Crisis and who had friends die in Southeast Asia, view his legacy in ways that are much more alive to the ethical and personal ramifications of his leadership. Still, for what they're worth, here are my immediate thoughts.
McNamara, to me, has always seemed to be the truest embodiment of both the greatness and the folly of the American character. It is perhaps instructive that, apart from his service in government, McNamara's most notable accomplishments were in the automotive industry during the golden age of its power (he was, very briefly, the CEO of Ford). His belief that people, through rationality and force of will, could understand, shape and tame the immensely complex systems that rule our world is quintessentially American in its ambition and scope. The inability of American power, forcefully applied and dexterously directed though it was, to achieve U.S. objectives in Vietnam is painfully illustrative of the hubris that often accompanies such ambition. That McNamara, through his experiences, was eventually able to change his mindset and recognize the limitations of even the resources at his disposal - even if it was too late to change the minds of others invested in his folly - betrays a capacity for self-criticism that we should seek out in all our leaders.
I don't say this to heap undue praise on McNamara. The fact is, for all his intelligence and ability, he led the United States into an unnecessary quagmire that scarred a generation and resulted in tens of thousands of Americans coming home in bags. Again, my age and perspective handicaps my ability to pass an informed ethical judgment on the man's legacy. I've always been a particular fan of Errol Morris's long-form interview with McNamara, "The Fog of War." Though I agree with Robert Farley that Morris didn't press his subject on some crucial issues, I think the film contains useful reflections on the nature of American power and the dangers of overestimating the indispensability of Americn action. It also contains one of the more succinct and eloquent cases I've heard for eliminating nuclear weapons. To balance some of the film's softballs, I'd recommend reading David Halberstam's The Best and the Brightest, Barbara Tuchman's The March of Folly and Timothy Weiner's Legacy of Ashes.
Laying aside judgment of the man himself, though, his legacy provides the opportunity to reflect on how and why the United States acts in the world. To what extent do the preconceptions of American leaders, and the strengths and handicaps of American institutions, lead the United States to success or failure? To what end do we seek out demons to slay abroad? How does the American public perceive America's interests, and how does our democracy translate that perception into action? If that process leads to distortions, how can they be corrected before political and institutional inertia makes tragedy inevitable? McNamara's time in office provides students of history and public policy with prime material to grapple with such questions. They remain extraordinarily important.








