Earlier this week, I received an invitation to a September conference on land and air power in counterinsurgency—routine enough, except that it is to be co-hosted by the Carr Center for Human Rights Policy, which is part of Harvard’s Kennedy School. The day I received the invitation, I was at another conference, where I spoke on a panel about social scientists working with the military in Iraq and Afghanistan. These events suggest one unlikely and hopeful outcome of the sad wars we’re living with.
I grew up during the Vietnam era and belong to a generation of educated liberals who came of age with a visceral dislike of the military. In the seventies and eighties, it was almost a reflex on Ivy League university campuses, where officer training was sometimes banned, to regard anyone in uniform as funny, if not sinister. At the same time, on military bases, anti-intellectualism became a badge of honor, a subscription to The New Yorker the mark of an oddball, and the words “liberal” and “academic” terms of abuse.
Here’s a crude generalization: after the sixties, intellect and patriotism went separate ways, to the detriment of both. This mutual hostility made intellectuals less responsible and soldiers less thoughtful. We’ve come to think of this antagonism as natural and inevitable, as it is between cats and dogs, but in fact it was a product of recent political and cultural changes in American life. The estrangement was compounded by professionalization on both sides and the adoption of inward-looking and jargon-ridden specializations: the all-volunteer military and the social-theory crowd became equally isolated American subcultures.
The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have begun to close the divide. I think the reasons are these: first, September 11th made military service more attractive to the kind of college students who used to find it unthinkable. It’s no longer unusual to have a friend whose son recently went from studying photography at the Pratt Institute to searching for weapons caches south of Baghdad. Second, the nature of these wars demands a soldier who is more than an artilleryman with an engineering degree. After the military’s failure in Vietnam, it tried to turn war into a matter of firepower and technology—which is why, when the Sunni insurgency began to take off in the summer of 2003, American forces had no idea how to react and made matters far worse. By 2004, battalion commanders in Salahuddin were begging the Pentagon for information about the nature of Iraqi society. This year, the Army is actually deploying teams of social scientists with units in Baghdad and Afghanistan. The soldiers whose reputations have been made and not destroyed in Iraq—General David Petraeus, Colonel H. R. McMaster, Lieutenant Colonel John Nagl—have doctorates in the humanities. The best soldiers I met in Iraq were eager to share critical views with professors and journalists. This past spring, when McMaster led a group of officials and private citizens to Iraq to assess progress there, he picked as one member an anti-war British political-science professor who happens to know a great deal about the country. Desperate times breed desperate measures.
I have no illusion that this rapprochement between guns and brains is widespread or guaranteed to last. Plenty of people on both sides undoubtedly find it appalling. Some soldiers will return from Iraq convinced that they’ve been stabbed in the back on college campuses and in the liberal media. Some intellectuals find the war and the Administration so objectionable that they regard associating with the military as a kind of crime. (An anthropologist headed to Afghanistan told me that she’s been “shunned at cocktail parties.”) But a superpower can hardly afford to have its thinkers and its warriors despise and avoid one another.
