Nkrumah’s legacy is one of monuments to himself, corruption plaguing virtually the entire government establishment, and a bankrupt economy. It will take many years for the damage done by Nkrumah to be rectified by one who is a nation builder rather than just a destroyer.
In some respects Ghana represents a tragedy of good intentions. In the zeal of his drive for independence Nkrumah probably believed that he could work miracles. But in power he was consumed by megalomania. Those in the West who pressed the pace of decolonization did so for reasons of idealism. But in retrospect those who were more cautious may have been more realistic.
The world was going through a phase in which, in dozens of colonial outposts, the people were ripe for plucking by self-serving, exploitative new leaders. The cracking of the old colonial structures opened the way to a new struggle for power, for control, in many cases for extraordinary wealth for those who seized the levers of power. As these former colonies got their independence, many got the trappings of democracy without the experience of democracy. The result was tyranny, or impoverishment, or both.
What makes Ghana’s plight doubly tragic is that it was unnecessary. One of the best testaments to that is Ghana’s neighbor, the Ivory Coast. The Ivory Coast presents a stark contrast to both Ghana and Guinea. Now it is apparently on the verge of a new boom from the development of offshore oil reserves. Heretofore, however, it lacked the mineral resources of Guinea, and its economy before independence was not as rich as that of Ghana. But it had a leader, Felix Houphouet-Boigny, who had a firm grip on reality. Houphouet-Boigny had held a number of posts in the French cabinet, including Minister of State under de Gaulle. While he identified strongly with his people’s yearning for nationhood, he argued that the sudden establishment of “absolute independence,” as he put it, would plunge the new nation into chaos. When the Ivory Coast received its independence from France in 1960, he cut some of its ties to France, but not the essential ones. Instead of driving out the French and other Europeans, he invited them in. Instead of driving toward nationalization, he put his primary faith in private enterprise. As a result, the Ivory Coast became the most prosperous country in West Africa, with a growth rate of eight percent annually and a per capita income over three times that of Ghana—and nine times that of Marxist Guinea.
Politically the country’s progress toward a democratic society has not yet been as great or as rapid as many might have wished. But neither has the Ivory Coast fallen into the trap of seeking too much too soon, losing everything as a result. Certainly of all the countries of black Africa, the Ivory Coast has done more with less, in terms of natural resources, than any other.
Houphouet-Boigny insists that the economic progress that his country has made under his leadership has laid the foundation for political progress in the future. Only time will tell. But progress on one front is far better than failure on both fronts, and anyone betting on the future of Africa would have to rate the prospects of the Ivory Coast better than those of its neighbors.
A lively debate is under way in the world about the need for a massive transfer of resources from the wealthy, industrial north to the underdeveloped, impoverished south. Enthusiastic advocates of this concept say that we need a Marshall Plan for the poor nations of Africa, Latin America, and Asia. This answer is well intentioned but completely naive. The total economic assistance provided to the countries of Western Europe under the Marshall Plan was $12 billion. The U.S. provided only $2.3 billion for Japan. Because of their industrial capacity, these advanced countries would have recovered without any outside aid. The aid only hastened the process.
This is not the case with the underdeveloped economies of the Third World. Since World War II the U.S. has provided almost $90 billion in economic aid to these countries. Some of this money has been wisely used. Much has been wasted. On the whole the results have been disappointing, and dramatically so when comparisons are made with Europe and Japan. As the tragedy of Nkrumah’s Ghana testifies, the lesson for the future is to recognize that technical know-how and the kind of stable government that encourages private investment are indispensable to economic progress.
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Like Ghana’s Nkrumah, Indonesia’s Sukarno was an immensely charismatic leader who led a successful struggle for independence. Also like Nkrumah, Sukarno proved a disaster once independence was secured. Both could destroy; neither could build.
Handsome and well aware of it, self-assured to the point of cockiness, Sukarno had an electrifying presence that worked magic on crowds. However, he was a revolutionary leader who allowed revolution to become a religion—an end in itself rather than a means to an end.
During the 1930s Sukarno was repeatedly imprisoned and exiled by the Dutch, and the experience left him with resentments he never overcame. Even after the Republic of Indonesia was established and secure, he continued his own personal revolution against his former colonial masters by stirring up trouble with Dutch New Guinea.
When I first saw him in 1953, he spent most of our meeting talking not about the awesome problems of his own country but about his territorial designs on Dutch New Guinea—or West Irian, as the Indonesians call it. I was not surprised. Sukarno’s obsession with Irian was legendary. In Canberra just a few days earlier Australia’s Prime Minister, Robert Menzies, had warned me to expect a lecture on the subject. I kept trying to guide my conversation with Sukarno back to his own political and economic problems, but he would have none of it, though he did manage to lecture me on Vietnam and the wickedness of the French. When I asked him what we should do in Vietnam, he bluntly said, “Nothing. You have spoiled that by not supporting Ho Chi Minh.”
In the early 1960s Sukarno ordered raids on Dutch New Guinea and eventually seized it. But his “splendid victory” was a Pyrrhic victory. Within a few years he was out of power. While he was busy fulminating over Irian, the Communists, encouraged by Indonesia’s poverty and domestic unrest, its increasingly friendly relations with mainland China, and Sukarno’s willingness to admit Communists to his government, had become stronger and stronger. He claimed he was an anti-Communist himself. “I don’t worry about the Communists,” he boasted to me when he visited Washington in the mid 1950s. “I am strong enough to handle them.” But in 1965 they staged a coup d’etat attempt that was brutally suppressed by the military, which seized all power from Sukarno and put him under house arrest in 1966. He died four years later.
Sukarno was the best example I know of a revolutionary leader who could tear down a system expertly but could not focus his attention on rebuilding it. The raw materials were there: Indonesia, next to India and the United States the most populous nation in the non-Communist world, had more natural resources than any other Southeast Asian nation, but not the proper leadership. Sukarno temporarily distracted his people from their problems, but he never even began to solve them.
Sukarno’s people were desperately poor in spite of the richness of their land. He sought to sustain them, not on material prosperity, but on what he called “the richness of symbological fantasy.” His 5,100-page economic plan, which was never put into effect, was divided into 8 volumes, 17 chapters, and 1,945 items—in commemoration of the day Indonesia achieved its independence from the Dutch, August 17, 1945. Meanwhile, like Nkrumah, he spent his country’s money wildly and foolishly; as a result, Indonesia had the worst inflation rate in the postwar world.
Sukarno was consumed by passions, both political and physical. He talked about revolution in the same sensual way that he talked about the beautiful women who filled his palace in Djakarta when I visited him in 1953. He saw revolution as a cathartic national spasm that was in itself an absolute good despite the damage it could do, and believed that it should be perpetuated indefinitely. He said once:
I am fascinated by revolution. I am completely absorbed by it. I am crazed, am obsessed by the romanticism . . . Revolution surges, flashes, thunders in almost every comer of the earth . . . Come . . . Brothers and sisters, keep fanning
the flames of the leaping fire . . . Let us become logs to feed the flames of revolution.
While I was in Indonesia, I watched as Sukarno addressed a rally attended by thousands of people. He held them spellbound for over an hour and then ended with a ritualistic repetition of the word Merdeka!—the battle cry of the Indonesian Revolution and a word that stood for freedom, dignity, and independence. The crowd chanted “Merdeka!” back at him over and over again and then fell into a frenzy that was almost beyond belief. I looked over at Sukarno: His excitement was palpable. He glowed with satisfaction.
Sukarno was a strikingly handsome man who knew that he exerted a magnetic hold over people. Some of the most stirring political orators I have met are quiet-spoken, even shy, in private settings. I had the sense that their public charisma was a quality they held in reserve for those situations in which it was needed. But Sukarno was all of a piece: There was not even a hint of artifice or calculation about him. The fervor of a crowd was his sustenance, as important to him as food and water. A revolution unleashes passion and leads people to act with reckless abandon, and Sukarno sought to continue his revolution indefinitely. I was not surprised when I read in Khrushchev’s reminiscences that when Indonesia began requesting aid from the Soviet Union, Sukarno immediately asked Khrushchev for money to build a giant stadium. The Soviet Premier was puzzled; he had expected to be asked for food or perhaps for weapons. But Sukarno wanted a place where he could continue to hold his giant public rallies.
One of the principal problems Third World nations face is the absence of a large middle class. Therefore opulence and abject poverty frequently exist side by side. But nowhere have I seen such a contrast between rich and poor as in Sukarno’s Djakarta. In 1953, as we drove through the city from the airport, we saw open sewers and miles and miles of miserable huts. Yet President Sukarno lived in a palace set amid hundreds of acres of lush gardens. When we arrived at the main entrance, he was waiting for us outside at the top of the steps, wearing a brilliant, impeccably tailored white suit. The palace itself, also pure white, gleamed so in the bright sunlight that it strained our eyes to look at it directly.
Sukarno was a dignified host who showed not a trace of the obsequious manner that many leaders of smaller nations lapse into when they greet the representatives of major powers. Unlike them, he had no inferiority complex whatever. On the contrary, he gave the impression that he considered himself not just equal but superior. He spoke excellent English and was almost condescendingly charming as he showed us through the palace, which was filled with priceless Indonesian art—and with beautiful Indonesian women. Dinner that night was exquisite. We ate by the light of a thousand torches, near a large artificial lake whose shimmering surface was covered with white lotus blossoms. Our meal was served on gold-plated dishes.
Yet Sukarno still cared for the simpler things. He told me that in the guest bathroom were both a modern shower and an old-fashioned bucket. He said he preferred the latter. Despite the excesses of his lifestyle he also retained a remarkably empathetic relationship with the poorest of his people. Throughout my political career I always enjoyed stopping along the route of motorcades to shake hands and talk with the people. Some of the leaders I met in other countries, as well as many of our foreign service personnel—particularly in Asia—thought this was undignified. But not Sukarno. He did the same thing as we traveled through the Indonesian countryside, which was even more poverty-stricken than the sections of Djakarta we had seen. We stopped in one peasant’s home and watched him fry sweet potatoes for his dinner. We also visited a village coffee shop and chatted with the proprietor. While the people seemed surprised to see an American Vice President among them, they hardly raised an eyebrow at the sight of their own President. He periodically made trips into the countryside, mingling with his people and spending the night in rundown village huts.
Sukarno’s charisma worked on Americans as well as Indonesians. In 1956 I escorted him when he arrived in the United States for a state visit. As part of the welcoming ceremonies, we went to the District Building, the capital’s city hall, where Sukarno was to receive the key to the city. He was gracious and good-humored, and he struck a dashing figure with his khaki uniform, Muslim pitji cap, and ivory-inlaid swagger stick. Suddenly, to the horror of our security detail but the delight of the crowd, he plunged across the police lines, shaking hands with the men, striking up animated conversations with the children, and kissing the women, most of whom squealed with delight when he did so.
Sukarno’s political self-indulgence had a parallel in his physical self-indulgence. Recently I mentioned Sukarno to President Habib Bourguiba of Tunisia, who himself had been a revolutionary leader of the same era but was also a nation builder. When I commented that Sukarno had been a great revolutionary leader, Bourguiba frowned and shook his head. No, he said. First he protested that Sukarno had been put in power by the Japanese, with whom he had collaborated during World War II as a means of getting the Dutch out of Indonesia. But then he added another objection: “I recall so well,” he said, “when Sukarno came to this country. We had a great many important things to talk about. But the first thing he asked me for was ‘une femme.’ ”
Sukarno was married at least six times. Throughout his time in power, his sexual prowess and sexual appetite were the subject of countless rumors and stories. The State Department briefings I received before my 1953 trip stressed this side of his character and suggested that he appreciated flattery along these lines. It was clear that both sex and revolution fulfilled in him the same need to be adored, to have others abandon themselves to him. Unfortunately this is precisely the opposite of the quality that an effective leader of a developing country needs. The enormous and pressing needs of his people, not his own, should have been paramount to Sukarno. Yet he allowed government to become an obsessive exercise of his own political and physical virility. To him Dutch colonialism was a personal disgrace and humiliation, a challenge to his manhood. He spent his twenty years in power reaffirming his manhood by living an undisciplined personal life and making threatening noises in the direction of Dutch New Guinea. Eventually these passions engulfed him.
Sukarno and Nkrumah together illustrate one of the unfortunate truths about leadership: that those best able to reach the people on an emotional level often have the worst programs.
Demagoguery works. Precisely because he lacks a sense of responsibility, the demagogue is free to craft his appeal solely in terms that have the strongest emotional force and reach the audience’s basest instincts. Fear and hate are powerful forces; demagogues can mobilize these. Hope is also a powerful force, and demagogues are skilled at raising false hope, at conning those who so desperately want to believe, into investing their future in a fantasy.
Sukarno had one program—freedom from colonial rule—around which he built his appeal. Beyond this his rule was a disaster for the people of Indonesia. But he held them in his hand, partly because of the emotional force of merdeka, partly because of his own animal magnetism and oratorical flair, partly because his swaggering ways appealed to the hero-worshiper in them.
Perhaps it was no coincidence that, as colonialism ended, so many of the new leaders of the new nations were essentially demagogues. Throwing off colonial rule was the sort of one-issue campaign that is especially suited to demagoguery and to which demagoguery is especially suited. It requires a high degree of emotional mobilization, in effect turning the nation into a citizen army or at least presenting the credible threat that it can be turned into a citizen army. It requires none of the careful, intricate balancing that is the essence of successful democratic rule. It simply requires molding the populace into a force sufficiently threatening to persuade the ruling power that it would be either dangerous or futile to try to retain control any longer.
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India’s Jawaharlal Nehru was what Nkrumah and Sukarno were not: a charismatic revolutionary leader who was also a nation builder. He also shared with them, and with Sukarno in
particular, a critical flaw. Nehru’s obsession with Kashmir paralleled Sukarno’s with West Irian, and his concern with his own role in Third World politics often seemed to overshadow if not to eclipse his concern with India’s needs.
Nehru was brilliant, haughty, aristocratic, a man of quick temper and enormous ego. He was also passionately devoted to India and to the ideals of both independence and national unity. Unfortunately for India, like so many intellectuals of the time, he also developed a gripping attraction to Socialist theory. India has paid an enormous price ever since for his and his daughter’s determined efforts to impose this theory arbitrarily on the teeming sprawl of India, with its centuries of resistant tradition and its millions living a hand-to-mouth existence.
Nehru was born in 1889 in Allahabad, in what is now part of Pakistan. His father was a wealthy Kashmiri Brahmin and one of India’s most prominent attorneys. His ancestral tie to Kashmir was probably at least partly responsible for his later obsession with the Kashmir question: for his fierce determination to make Kashmir part of India and equally fierce resistance to letting the people of Kashmir themselves decide the issue, a decision that almost certainly would have favored Pakistan rather than India.
Nehru himself had an English gentleman’s education at Harrow and Cambridge and was admitted to the English bar in 1912. Returning to India, he practiced law there for a while. But he was inflamed by the British massacre of Indian troops at Amritsar in 1919 and from then on devoted himself to the cause of Indian independence. A disciple of Mahatma Gandhi, he nevertheless moved to the left of Gandhi politically and was less committed than Gandhi to nonviolence; he preached nonviolence for others, but was not above using force himself when it suited his or India’s purposes. He could be a tireless campaigner. Before the 1937 elections, as chairman of the Congress party’s executive committee, he traveled 110,000 miles in 22 months and in a single week made 150 speeches.
Leaders Page 36