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The issue of setting strategic priorities is one that’s dogged Australian defence white papers since their inception in the mid-1970s. History, culture, strategic commitments and global power balances pull Australian priorities outwards. British settlement of Australia initially tied our fate to that of the British empire; our Western cultural roots made us more comfortable dealing with states and societies founded on similar values; our ties to great and powerful friends encouraged us to paint on a broader canvas; and our distance from key global power balances meant that if we wanted to be a force for good in the world we’d have to be expansive in our strategic priority-setting.
On the other hand, geography, nationalism, the expectations of friends and allies, and what we might call ‘doability’ pull those priorities inwards. All other things being equal, we’re more likely to be worried about proximate events than distant ones; the growth of Australian nationalism has fed the case for defence self-reliance; our friends and allies expect us to lead security operations close to our own shores; and, given the constraints upon our power and the nature of our own backyard, we’re typically more able to ‘do something’ about a problem close to home rather than one that’s half a world away.
Enter DWP 2016. Chapter 3 outlines the current government’s thinking about that issue. It bears a careful reading. The broad structure of the chapter is one that follows a ‘concentric circles’ model—the separation of strategic interests and objectives into three distinct circles, with a secure and resilient Australia at its core, a secure near abroad of Southeast Asia and the South Pacific in a second circle, and a stable Indo-Pacific and global rules-based order in the third circle.
The concentric-circles model of Australian strategic priorities is traditionally deployed by those who want to argue that geography matters, since the whole point of the structure is to emphasise the strategic priority of continental Australia and those areas proximate to it. But DWP 2016 specifically rejects that thought. Indeed, it insists that geography is a poor way to think about Australia’s strategic priorities: ‘Australia’s security and prosperity is directly affected by events outside our region and is not just linked to our geography or confronting threats solely in our maritime approaches’ (para 3.33).
That argument seems sound, and it’s a thought that other Defence publications have echoed before. As the Howard government’s Defence Update 2007 put it, ‘Australia’s national interests are not spread uniformly across the globe, but nor do they decline in proportion to the distance from our shoreline.’ Proximity might matter more when all other things are equal, but when are they ever equal? Yes, a coup in Tonga matters more to us than a coup in Togo, but not more than a coup in Russia or a coup in Pakistan.
But DWP 2016 is less clear in outlining what Australia’s strategic policy actually is. Read para 3.2, for example:
‘In response to this complex and uncertain strategic environment, the Government’s strategic defence policy is to manage strategic challenges by: developing Defence’s capabilities and agility to take a more active role in shaping regional affairs and to respond to developments which threaten our interests; while strengthening our alliance with the United States and developing our partnerships with other countries.’ (para 3.2)
To be honest, that treats strategic policy as a mere management problem—and one that focuses on instruments rather than outcomes. But the broad sentiment of the paragraph is in favour of upstream shaping rather than downstream hedging. Just look at the verbs: shaping, responding, strengthening, developing. The paragraph says that, during an era of regional transformation, Australian strategic policy will be ‘hands-on’.
Yes, the strategic policy that emerges from the broader document does suggest a step away from the concept of defence self-reliance. Kim Beazley’s pointed out that DWP 2016 doesn’t even use the term ‘self reliance’. To be fair, it does deploy the adjective ‘self-reliant’ twice (at paras 1.15 and 3.13), on both occasions in relation to the defence of Australian territory, and once even observing that such a defence remains the government’s ‘highest priority’. But its strategic policy is better described as ‘self-reliance plus’, not ‘self reliance’.
And even that concept’s not new (see para 6.16 of DWP 2009, for example.) What’s new is the relative distribution of weight between the ‘self reliance’ part of the phrase and the ‘plus’. DWP 2009 reached the ‘plus’ missions only after an exhaustive exploration of the virtues of self reliance. DWP 2016 implicitly accepts that self reliance in the defence of Australia offers limited leverage in shaping the emerging region. As a strategic policy, it’s more reactive than proactive. And it fits best in a strategic framework of classic state-on-state military engagements, not the complex hybrid security environment that now confronts us.
We’ve always had strategic priorities besides the defence of our continent. And not surprisingly, that’s the part of our strategic policy that’s most contentious. Engagements in distant theatres always provoke questions. Why should we be involved? Which Australian interests are at stake, and how are they threatened? What sort of contribution can we make? Those are questions that have bedevilled Australian strategic policy for decades. DWP 2016, with its emphasis on shaping, suggests we won’t be shrinking from those questions anytime soon.
Fifty years ago this month Robert Menzies retired from Parliament, after a record-breaking 16 years as Prime Minister (in addition to an earlier term of just over two years in 1939–41) and having won seven successive elections.
How do his foreign and defence policies look after half a century? His critics always alleged that he was too deferential to Britain and the US, the allies whom he famously described as our ‘great and powerful friends’. They point to Suez and Vietnam as the most blatant examples. His supporters, most notably John Howard, see Menzies as the sage statesman, who steered a prudent course through the challenges of the Cold War and decolonisation, and whose counsel was valued by the leaders of nations small and large.
The truth lies somewhere between. For a start, it’s a mistake to assume his performance was entirely consistent over those 16 years. The Menzies of the early 1950s, still in his own fifties, was in many respects creative and innovative; the septuagenarian of the mid-1960s could be rigid and dogmatic, too often inclined to rely on policies that had been successful but had passed their use-by date.
In a paper I wrote for ASPI last year (PDF) I argued that ‘forward defence’, the key strategic concept of the Menzies era, was essentially sound, as long as it was applied astutely. Much depended on the statecraft with which it was applied. The contrast, for example, of the government’s handling of the twin crises in Indonesia and Vietnam in the early 1960s illustrate both the strengths and the weaknesses of the Menzies government’s foreign policy performance more generally.
In the case of Confrontation, for example, Menzies and his ministers didn’t simply respond to British pressures, but repeatedly challenged London’s political and military strategies. Their response to requests for military intervention, especially for boots on the ground, was cautious, and balanced by vigorous and independent diplomacy in Asian capitals.
On Vietnam, by contrast, Menzies and his closest advisers relied uncritically on American power and judgement. They pressed Australian troops on to the Americans, when Washington policymakers had no clear strategy and had only indicated a vague request for more advisers.
In the case of Confrontation, policy was made by vigorous argument within and between the key departments (External Affairs, Defence and Prime Minister’s) and their respective ministers. In the case of Vietnam, Menzies sidelined many who advised caution and relied heavily on advisers who shared his assumptions.
Those and other contrasts were typical of the whole period. Menzies appointed leading ministers to External Affairs (as Foreign Affairs was known until 1970). When he listened to their advice, debated policy options with them, and gave them a significant degree of freedom in the pursuit of an agreed goal, the policies were often successful. The creation of ANZUS, the establishment of the Colombo Plan, the negotiation of the Australia–Japan Commerce Agreement, and the skilful handling of the Indonesian Confrontation are all testaments to this approach. But when Menzies overruled them or disregarded their counsel, as he did over Suez and Vietnam, the results were usually less positive. One of the least successful periods of the whole era was the two years, 1960–61, when Menzies was his own Minister for External Affairs.
A significant legacy of the Menzies era was the development of policymaking departments. Menzies supported the growth in size and professionalism of the Department of External Affairs even though the young diplomats were generally inclined to put more emphasis on Asian relationships and less on ‘great and powerful friends’ than their Prime Minister. By the end of Menzies’s term, Australia had a much more professional foreign office and diplomatic service.
But Menzies didn’t grasp the nettle of reform to Defence. In 1949 he inherited a cumbersome defence structure created for the 1939–45 war, which institutionalised inter-service rivalry and was ill-equipped to give advice on strategic policy. Menzies established a high-level committee, but failed to implement most of the major changes it recommended. Substantial Defence reform would have to wait until the 1970s.
Menzies based his defence policies on the closest possible relations with Britain and the US, but didn’t simply defer to their wishes. British and American leaders were often at odds, especially in Southeast Asia. Menzies sometimes tried to mediate between the two great powers; at other times he would try to use one ally to influence the other towards Australia’s preferred position.
Menzies’s highly public adulation of the monarchy, the Empire-Commonwealth and other British institutions didn’t translate, as his critics often assumed, into uncritical subservience to policymakers in Whitehall and Westminster. In Menzies’s mind, it was Britain, not Australia, that had turned away from the traditional relationship. The most obvious demonstration was Britain’s first attempt to enter what was then called the European Common Market, with severe implications for Australian security as well as trade.
Although Menzies, born in Queen Victoria’s reign, was clearly more comfortable in London or Washington than in Asian capitals, he wasn’t simply a racist anti-Asian. His visceral antipathy toward India’s Jawaharlal Nehru was based on fundamental political differences, but he established good relations with like-minded Asian leaders, such as Singapore’s Lee Kuan Yew and Malaysia’s Tunku Abdul Rahman.
Menzies’s record in foreign and defence policy wasn’t flawless, but he did more than his critics would allow in ensuring that Australia adjusted to a world very different from that of his youth.
The idea of strategic narratives is stirring again (and here). The idea was reinvigorated a few years back by Mr Y, a US Army Colonel and a USN Captain, who proposed a new American national security strategy but wrote it and titled it as a strategic narrative. The Mr Y authorship alluded to Mr X— George Kennan in disguise—who wrote the famous article that led to the American containment national security grand strategy of the Cold War. Like George, the two Mr Ys used a strategic narrative construct to grab the attention and interest of the American public.
An ex-British Army officer Emile Simpson has further examined the concept in a recent highly regarded book that examines the nature of modern war, using Afghanistan and Konfrontasi examples. Emile has added an interesting twist in stressing influencing others outside of the group, organisation or country encompassed by the strategic narrative. Strategic narratives should now focus not just on the insiders but also on the wider world of friends, partners, neutrals, undecided groups, adversaries and maybe even those who just don’t care yet. In our complex, globalised, interdependent world, many more audiences should be included in our strategic calculations. Read more
Old soldiers never die, General Douglas MacArthur said, they just fade away. In Australia however, it seems they vanish completely. So few retired generals contribute meaningfully to public debate on Australia’s defence and strategic policy, it often feels like Jim Molan is carrying water for all of them.
By my count there are just four retired generals (including admirals and air marshals) regularly contributing to the current public debate on defence. There have been others who have made occasional contributions, but the voice of so many of our ex-generals is missing entirely.
There are several reasons why ex-generals might not feature regularly in public debate. Perhaps they feel a duty not to run commentary on their successors. Perhaps they are wary of the influence wielded by US peers and instead maintain a dignified silence as loyal professionals. Some might believe they can be more influential through private lobbying. Or perhaps they have conflicts of interest through employment in government, defence industry, or as defence consultants.
Anyone of the above reasons might explain why our ex-generals are reticent to sally forth onto the airwaves, talk to journalists, or storm the op-ed pages. But they don’t explain why our ex-generals are missing from scholarly discussion, journals, and academic debate on defence and strategic issues. Read more
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