In the mid-1980s, although its dissolution was nearly at hand, few were predicting the complete demise of the Soviet Union. But when it came to the politics of leadership succession, a country that had been widely feared or respected for decades had already begun making a mockery of itself.

In the mid-1980s, although its dissolution was nearly at hand, few were predicting the complete demise of the Soviet Union. But when it came to the politics of leadership succession, a country that had been widely feared or respected for decades had already begun making a mockery of itself.

By the late 1970s, Leonid Brezhnev, the once-vigorous man who had shunted aside Nikita Khrushchev in 1964 to lead the country, had been reduced to a shell of his former self by years of heavy smoking, hard drinking, and emphysema. He visibly huffed and puffed as he walked with a shuffling gait, and he occasionally slurred his words or displayed obvious memory lapses.

After Brezhnev, things in Moscow only got worse. He was succeeded by the former intelligence chief, Yuri Andropov, who was regarded in almost equal measure as a reformist thinker and as a corrupt and sternly authoritarian figure. No one knows which of these traits might have prevailed over time, because time was the one thing Andropov did not have. He died at age 69, his power lasting only 15 months, during the last year of which he suffered total kidney failure.

Andropov was followed by the scarcely-remembered Konstantin Chernenko, another heavy smoker afflicted with emphysema and heart problems. His rule only lasted for 13 months. The historian John Lewis Gaddis said of the ephemeral Chernenko that he was “an enfeebled geriatric so zombie-like as to be beyond assessing intelligence reports, alarming or not.” Chernenko’s death in office paved the way in 1985, finally, for the comparatively youthful Mikhail Gorbachev.

But by then it was the Soviet system itself that was running out of time.

Existential crises linked to the vagaries of succession politics are typically thought to be the province of authoritarian systems that lack regular and transparent rules for the passing of power from one leader to the next. But for the past three years, it is precisely this specter that has hung over the world’s oldest electoral democracy, the United States.

This has never been clearer than in the past two weeks. First, the mental competence of President Joe Biden, 81, was called into question in a report by Robert Hur, a special counsel appointed to look into the president’s improper handling of classified documents, and then by new flights of disturbing rhetoric by former President Donald Trump, 77, raised renewed profound questions—or should have—about his own fitness for presidential office. Describing a real or imagined conversation about NATO dues with a European leader, Trump related: “I said: ‘You didn’t pay? You’re delinquent?’ … ‘No, I would not protect you, in fact I would encourage [Russia] to do whatever they want. You gotta pay.’”

There is a dismaying amount of confusion in the parallels and comparisons that many commentators have drawn between these two men, the current president and his immediate predecessor, each the prohibitive favorite at this point to head his party’s ticket in the coming election. This proceeds from the unavoidable impression that some things must be broken in the United States for its two main political parties to have simultaneously offered up two such flawed candidates.

There is a world of difference in the ways in which they are flawed, though. The anxieties and discontent aroused by Biden’s performance, whether it is his frequent public memory lapses and misstatements or his shuffling gait and other signs of frailty, are perfectly normal. It is far from ideal for the United States to be led by someone with such traits, but there is nothing about the Biden presidency that conceivably threatens the future of the U.S. republic.

Like his politics or not, for this is not a partisan argument, Biden has presided over a smoothly functioning government that with few exceptions has executed its policies in competent and predictable ways. Other than the outlier factor of Biden’s age, history will likely regard his tenure as fitting firmly within the conventional bounds of U.S. politics. Even Biden’s potential death in office, which would be unsurprising given that, if reelected, he would be 82 years old on Inauguration Day, would yield a routine and proper succession by an elected vice president whom the American people would be free to throw out on the regular timetable should they choose to do so.

The case of Trump, though, couldn’t be more different. Whether one calls it an insurrection or not, the former president’s attempts to rally support for him to stay in power on January 6, 2021, or arm-twist lawmakers and his vice president to bend electoral rules for the same purpose were threats to the integrity of the U.S. political system. And they were not the only ones he has created, either. It is, of course, Trump’s right to defend himself against the many charges he faces in numerous courts of law, but one of his arguments should be seen as uniquely menacing—namely, that a president should be free from prosecution for any criminal behavior committed while in office.

The U.S. Supreme Court must now decide whether to consider the former president’s argument. A legal victory by Trump in this case, however unlikely, would spell the end of republican-style rule in the country by placing presidents above the law.

Trump has also positively invoked the word dictator in describing himself, unreassuringly justifying this by saying this aspiration would only apply to his first day back in office.

He has backed the state of Texas in refusing to comply with a federal court order asserting Washington’s control over the country’s borders, reportedly pledging to encourage other states to send their national guards to Texas to bolster its defiance of the United States’ federalist order. He is reportedly considering naming his daughter-in-law as head of the Republican Party, no crime to be sure, but a personalizing corruption of the political system in line with his other authoritarian instincts. And most recently, as the quote above shows, he has casually threatened members of the NATO alliance that if they don’t meet an agreed benchmark for defense spending, he would not only tolerate a Russian attack on them, but also encourage it.

Even taken individually, many of these positions or actions pose existential threats to the United States that are far more threatening that any concerns raised by Biden’s age. It is the NATO comment, though, that brings us back directly to the dissolution of the Soviet Union.

That country’s decay was brought on by the failure of its elites at renewal and reform. The ossification of its system was symbolized, if not exactly brought on, by the advanced age or poor health of its leaders in the pivotal moments of the 1980s. Economic growth in the Soviet Union was the envy of the world in the 1950s, and one might argue that, in fact, it was in the following decade that the country’s political system became too hidebound and corrupt to continue thriving.

Trump’s NATO rhetoric—and, should he become elected, his anti-alliance politics,—are even more damaging. They strike at the heart of U.S. success and prosperity in the world. If pursued, they would deliver a devastating blow to both the country and the global order, an own-goal with few historical parallels.

As filtered through Trump’s mind, alliances are like mob protection rackets in which the payments must keep flowing upward or back to the boss to keep him happy. Otherwise, he will allow bad things to happen, and the victims will have deserved their fate. Biden presents none of these risks.

There seems to be no recognition that the United States has been the premier beneficiary of its great alliances. Its former enemy Japan, for example, helped the United States in crucial, if indirect ways, in resisting North Korea’s takeover of the Korean Peninsula in the 1950s, and South Korea and Japan similarly helped Washington during the Vietnam War. Taken together, they and other allies in Asia are what allow the United States to maintain a favorable order and counterweight to China in the world’s most economically dynamic region.

NATO, likewise, has been similarly indispensable to U.S. power and preeminence in the North Atlantic. For decades, it has kept the peace in Europe and prevented renewed bids by Russia for imperial expansion. The accession of Sweden and Finland to the alliance that is now underway is not a sign of Washington being taken for a ride, as Trump might imagine, but rather a reaffirmation of U.S. power and vitality in the world. Enormous prosperity has flowed from this peace, as much to the United States as to the Europeans themselves.

Ukraine has been the one major exception in the post-Soviet era, and just as Trump seems to have no idea why the United States should help protect NATO members, he seems equally clueless about why allowing Ukraine to crumble before Moscow’s aggression should matter on the far side of the Atlantic.

I write this as someone who has spent a career freely criticizing Western imperialism, including the United States’ own. But if you want to overturn long-standing constitutional arrangements or the architecture of grand alliances, as Trump seems so inclined to do, you should have a coherent plan for alternatives. In a democracy, that should mean an exhaustive discussion and adherence to legal processes and informed choices at the ballot box. From Trump and many of his most ardent supporters, one hears no hint of anything beyond grievance and will to power. Matters of democracy fall by the wayside. All that remains is to follow the great leader.

Trump is a man who personalizes everything and seems to operate on impulses, whims, and grudges. If he is given a second chance to follow and execute them, in another decade or two, historians may be writing the kinds of books one can find today about the Soviet Union in the 1980s, all asking some version of the question: How did things go so completely off the rails?

The big difference, it seems, is that if this befalls the United States, it would be the result of an election in which voters choose a dangerous and incompetent leader—and one who is, moreover, nearly as old as Biden—and not a matter of elite mismanagement of an undemocratic succession. He would be enabled by members of his own party who have repeatedly shown little inclination to stand up to him on matters of constitutional or democratic principle.

Under such a grim scenario, it would not just be the conductor driving the train into the abyss, but also half the passengers, the station master, and the switch operators all contributing to the derailment.

QOSHE - Soviet Succession Was Bad. America’s Is Worse. - Howard W. French
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Soviet Succession Was Bad. America’s Is Worse.

13 1
16.02.2024

In the mid-1980s, although its dissolution was nearly at hand, few were predicting the complete demise of the Soviet Union. But when it came to the politics of leadership succession, a country that had been widely feared or respected for decades had already begun making a mockery of itself.

In the mid-1980s, although its dissolution was nearly at hand, few were predicting the complete demise of the Soviet Union. But when it came to the politics of leadership succession, a country that had been widely feared or respected for decades had already begun making a mockery of itself.

By the late 1970s, Leonid Brezhnev, the once-vigorous man who had shunted aside Nikita Khrushchev in 1964 to lead the country, had been reduced to a shell of his former self by years of heavy smoking, hard drinking, and emphysema. He visibly huffed and puffed as he walked with a shuffling gait, and he occasionally slurred his words or displayed obvious memory lapses.

After Brezhnev, things in Moscow only got worse. He was succeeded by the former intelligence chief, Yuri Andropov, who was regarded in almost equal measure as a reformist thinker and as a corrupt and sternly authoritarian figure. No one knows which of these traits might have prevailed over time, because time was the one thing Andropov did not have. He died at age 69, his power lasting only 15 months, during the last year of which he suffered total kidney failure.

Andropov was followed by the scarcely-remembered Konstantin Chernenko, another heavy smoker afflicted with emphysema and heart problems. His rule only lasted for 13 months. The historian John Lewis Gaddis said of the ephemeral Chernenko that he was “an enfeebled geriatric so zombie-like as to be beyond assessing intelligence reports, alarming or not.” Chernenko’s death in office paved the way in 1985, finally, for the comparatively youthful Mikhail Gorbachev.

But by then it was the Soviet system itself that was running out of time.

Existential crises linked to the vagaries of succession politics are typically thought to be the province of authoritarian systems that lack regular and transparent rules for the passing of power from one leader to the next. But for the past three years, it is precisely this specter that has hung over the world’s oldest electoral democracy, the United States.

This has never been clearer than in the past two weeks. First, the mental competence of President Joe Biden, 81, was called into question in a report by Robert Hur, a special counsel appointed to look into the president’s improper handling of classified documents, and then by new flights of disturbing rhetoric by former President Donald Trump, 77, raised renewed profound questions—or should........

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