Years of Upheaval

by Henry Kissinger

  Though formally similar to Europe’s, Japanese policy differed radically in spirit. The Europeans genuinely disagreed with us. Several of their leaders were angry because they believed our domestic political constraints had jeopardized their countries’ prosperity and their own political future. The Japanese were in no mood of recrimination. They were not disputing a political choice; buffered by all the exquisite Japanese forms, they were scientists coldly assessing the objective requirements of their energy situation. They needed to make a record, not conduct a policy. Unlike the Europeans, Japan would not agitate for its views nor pretend that it could produce a solution. It would adopt a posture it calculated might deflect the pressures from its shores. And if Japanese leaders could not gain our assent to their cause, they would do their utmost to ease the cost of disagreement.

  Machiavelli has been invoked for centuries as the incarnation of cynicism. Yet he thought of himself as a moralist. His maxims described the world as he found it, not as he wished it to be. Indeed, he was convinced that only a ruler of strong moral conviction could keep a steady course while engaging in manipulations on which survival regrettably depended. That, in a way, was the attitude of my Japanese interlocutors. They claimed neither justice nor even wisdom for their course of action. It reflected necessity and was thus beyond debate.

  The leaders whose task it was to convey this news to me were Prime Minister Kakuei Tanaka and Foreign Minister Masayoshi Ohira. Tanaka was the first Japanese Prime Minister to have broken the traditional mold. He was not a graduate of one of the great universities. He had come from humble origins. He was aggressive in the Western style; he did not obscure his ambition behind the patient indirection of the classic Japanese politician. He was extremely young for a Japanese Prime Minister — in his early fifties. His eminence was due to his ability to organize the largest “faction” within the ruling Liberal Democratic Party — a faction being held together by the exchange of reciprocal favors. In the normal course of events, Tanaka would have had to wait his turn for the better part of a decade while more senior leaders competed for the top post. But either he was too impatient or else he doubted that as an outsider he would be able to hold his faction together against the systematic erosion by traditional politicians who, while more subtle in their manners, were no less ruthless in their designs. (In this he turned out to be wrong. For his faction survived and even thrived amid the many vicissitudes of his career.)

  Tanaka gained the Prime Ministership in 1972 by what in Japanese terms amounted to a near-coup. And he paid the price for it. When he faced various charges, he found himself without the support by which the Japanese Establishment usually protects its own.

  Tanaka’s fate was thus oddly parallel to Nixon’s. Like Nixon he had exceptional abilities; like Nixon he was very insecure and, what is even more remarkable for a Japanese, he showed it. He was Prime Minister for only eighteen months. I found him extremely intelligent, unusually direct. He came closest of any Japanese leader to speaking in the idiom of personal power that is conventional among heads of government of other countries. And strangely enough, it deprived his statements of some credibility. They were clearer than those of his colleagues but in a curious way less informative, for one could never be quite sure whether his assertions reflected the true Japanese consensus or only a personal preference. Thus in a subtle way the Japanese method, which is almost aesthetic in nature, of having the point emerge from a context, won its victory over the rational form of discourse favored by the West.

  Tanaka in his rapid-fire, staccato delivery presented Japan’s problem without allusion or evasion. He cited the statistics of oil imports; he explained the impact on Japanese production and life-style of a reduction in energy consumption. He could not be perceived by the Japanese public as simply letting matters drift, he said; to do nothing would look as if Japan were acquiescing in being strangled. Some sort of declaration of sympathy for the Arab cause was necessary, according to Tanaka, even granting that it would not change American policy. Nor, he emphasized, was it really Japan’s purpose to influence American policy.

  I went through the exegesis of our strategy. I asked what it had benefited the Europeans to dissociate from us. It made no sense to wish us success in our efforts and then to undertake actions that were at best irrelevant, or at worst could undermine our policy by making it harder for Arab moderates to accept less than the program our allies were endorsing. If Japan followed the line of the European Community, we would be able to do no better than be silent; if forced to comment, we would have to be critical.

  But when a Japanese Prime Minister puts forward a proposition, he is not asking advice. He is announcing a decision. And therefore, both of us having stated our views, the matter was left in abeyance with Tanaka’s statement that he and his colleagues would study what I had said — which meant that they would proceed.

  Masayoshi Ohira was in the classic Japanese mold, which, it is fair to say, is not automatically compatible with my more assertive temperament. It would be difficult to find two more different personalities than the subtle, indirect Japanese Foreign Minister and the analytical Secretary of State whose policy at that moment invoked the visibly dramatic. I had first met Ohira when I visited Japan in June 1972. Our Embassy organized a dinner for me with several former Japanese foreign ministers. Unfortunately, a successor to Prime Minister Eisaku Sato was being selected at that moment and Ohira would be a key figure. He was not about to reveal his thinking to an American he did not know and whose record on matters Japanese had revealed the absence of a certain delicacy. We spent an evening together. Ohira impressed me by the extraordinary feat of saying little and yet conveying in his marvelously polite way an attitude of great goodwill.

  As time went on, a friendship grew up based on genuine affection. Ohira taught me patiently about things Japanese. He expanded my understanding of nuance. He masked his great ability in a modest bearing; he always delivered more than he promised. He demonstrated the wisdom of the adage that friendship can reside in what is unspoken even more than in what is being said.

  In his memoirs Ohira has described the cordiality of our relationship, as well as the internal discussions in Japan when I arrived in November 1973.11 The overwhelming majority of the Japanese cabinet favored some dissociation from the United States. Ohira stood alone in arguing for solidarity with America. In his memoirs he quotes with approval my statement that obsequiousness would serve only to earn Japan the contempt, not the goodwill, of Arab leaders.

  Yet he exhibited none of the internal Japanese stresses in his meeting with me. Indeed, in many ways his approach, precisely because it was so elliptical, conveyed an even greater sense of determination than Tanaka’s blunt assertions. Characteristically, Ohira began our conversation with an indirection that revealed Japanese thinking without laying down a frontal challenge. Before there had even been one exchange of substance, he submitted a draft memorandum on the basis of which he proposed to brief the press after our talk. Its essence was that pressure had to be brought on Israel to be flexible in the peace negotiations. This served several purposes. It put me on notice as to Japanese thinking while permitting a retreat without loss of face; clearly, Ohira could not announce a joint agreement if I demurred. When I predictably objected, Ohira immediately withdrew his proposal — setting up the possibility of briefing Arab capitals that Japan’s preference had been thwarted by American pressure.

  The rest of the conversation — twice as long as my session with Tanaka — was an application of a maxim in Ohira’s autobiography:

  [I]n diplomacy, even when an agreement cannot be reached, it is essential that each party have an understanding of the other’s position. The fostering of understanding and trust, in fact, is just as important as the actual reaching of agreement. Between Japan and the United States, in particular, it is of the utmost importance.12

  Ohira subjected me to a patient, gentle cross-examination on Mideast policy that was at once tentative and inexorable,
understanding and pliantly firm. What time scale did I envision? What objective did we have — a local or a comprehensive settlement? Why did we object to a Japanese declaration in favor of the Arabs now that the Europeans had already made one? What possible damage could a Japanese statement do, especially if Japan did not press its case? Throughout, Ohira, without ever saying so, made it very clear that Japan could not face the energy crisis without stating a position divergent from ours but also that it would do its utmost to preserve the friendship with the United States.

  My own analysis was essentially irrelevant to this clinical approach, which moreover was presented in a manner permitting neither acceptance nor rejection. I argued that the Arab states had three options: reliance on Soviet pressures; reliance on European and Japanese pressures; reliance on the United States. We were determined to block the first option; we had no interest in giving credence to the second — its practical consequence might be to cause us to stop our peace diplomacy altogether. Ohira did not fall for this bluff; he knew we had our own reasons for pursuing our strategy. In his gentle manner he summed up my position precisely, as the official record indicates:

  MINISTER OHIRA said that he understood what the Secretary has been saying, and reviewed his understanding that the Secretary said that Japan, even if it paid lip service to Arab demands or took specific action, would not get relief from the present Arab oil embargo. However, he wished also to confirm whether the Secretary also was saying that it would make the United States task of working out a peaceful settlement more difficult if Japan should align itself with the Arabs. Consequently, it seemed that the Secretary was saying that Japan, come what may and regardless of Arab pressures, should follow the United States strategy as the best hope of producing an early settlement in the Middle East and consequently relief from the oil embargo.

  Ohira’s summing up was exactly on the mark; it disproved the adage that consultation can remove misunderstandings. The problem here was that we understood each other very well indeed. Our position as summed up by Ohira was clearly incompatible with what he and Tanaka had stated as the basic premise of Japanese policy that there had to be a definable and different Japanese position. Hence its very formulation implied the impossibility of acceptance while paying me the courtesy of making clear that I had been understood. Our conversation then moved to other topics: the Year of Europe, my China trip, the supply of oil to American forces in Japan. When it was over, it was clear that Japan would go the road charted by Europe. But I knew, too, that it would do so with some reluctance and no great conviction. It would make statements but not interpose its weight against our policy; it was not, like our European allies, challenging us, but pursuing its own necessities. In its silken, soft, insinuating way Japan, largely under Ohira’s guidance, had brought us with a minimum of friction to a position that it considered essential to its national interest and domestic stability without threatening the essence of the Japanese-American partnership.

  On November 22, 1973, the Japanese government issued a declaration parallel to that of the European Community. It prepared the ground in typical fashion. Shortly after I left, the English-language press of Tokyo was full of stories that there had been disagreements between me and Japanese leaders (the Japanese-language press was silent on the subject). This was technically true but misstated the essential harmony and good feeling that prevailed. But it served the purpose of conveying in the media most likely to be read by diplomats from the Middle East that Japan was champing at the bit. I complained to the Japanese Ambassador. In response, Ohira made a statement to the Japanese-language press denying any rift or disagreement. They, of course, saw no reason to print it, not having reported a disagreement in the first place. With all the complicated maneuvers, I had great confidence in Masayoshi Ohira. I instructed the State Department spokesman to comment that while we did not agree with Japan’s decision, we understood the circumstances that impelled it.

  By the end of 1973, for whatever reason, the unity of the industrial democracies to which we had dedicated so much effort had eluded us. And yet, despite all crises and disagreements, the seeds of our effort did not fall on stony ground. There was some vindication in events — at least for a while. Within two years the dialogue we had sought to start in 1973 was brought about by reality. The energy crisis of late 1973 forced the creation of a grouping, however tentative, of the oil-consuming nations. By late 1974 the International Energy Agency had been formed to promote consumer cooperation on new sources of energy, conservation, and resistance to new embargoes. Economic summits among the key leaders of the democracies proved necessary to seek common objectives imposed by the interdependence of nations; they emerged as a European, indeed a French, initiative.IV And they were soon broadened into political discussions and institutionalized on an annual basis. By the end of 1976, from a variety of pressures and persuasions, relations among the industrial democracies were on a solid basis, fulfilling many of the hopes with which we had ushered in the Year of Europe.

  Since then, divisions have reappeared. As before, substance, not procedure, lies at their heart. The fact that debates have persisted through three successor administrations to Nixon’s, and have in fact become sharper, indicates that something deeper was involved than clashing tactical approaches. Events have dramatized particularly the perils of allowing the Soviets to practice selective détente, playing off some allies against others — a danger we foresaw when we attempted the Year of Europe. The failure to face the changes in technology and military capabilities in the early Seventies has caused the issues to reemerge explosively a decade later, fueling a polarization between pacifists rejecting all arms and weapons experts supporting whatever is feasible. The doctrinal issue remains preeminent, for neither emotion nor technology provides a sense of direction equal to the age in which we live. The same is true in the economic area, where the industrial countries are still groping to reconcile the imperatives of their domestic policies with the realities of interdependence. The risks are plain. Free societies cannot maintain even their domestic cohesion by simply managing the present and hoping for the best. All too frequently a problem evaded is a crisis invited. The future must be shaped or it will impose itself as catastrophe. That remains the key test of democratic statesmanship.

  * * *

  I. The following excerpt from Jobert’s November 12 speech to the French Assembly illustrates this point:

  Like all peace-loving peoples, we want détente. . . . The Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe is, for that matter, the natural outcome of a trend that has characterized the international scene over the past ten years during which time the countries of the East and West, hostile and imprisoned by the prejudices of the cold war, gradually engaged first in a few talks and then developed increasingly close scientific, technical and economic relations. France’s move in this direction, taken at General de Gaulle’s initiative, has set an example. And we consider it imperative that this should be further consolidated and expanded: contacts on the highest level between France and the USSR and between France and many other socialist countries, such as those visited by the Premier during his trip to Hungary and Bulgaria, stem from our desire to show that a country like ours can overcome the obstacle caused by differing régimes and reveal the profound need people have for peace and knowledge of each other.

  But although these consultations have often made it possible to point up the same analyses, notably between the Soviet Union and France, of some of the world’s or Europe’s problems, we are worried — and we’ve said as much to our Soviet friends — that in placing too much importance on dialogue between the two superpowers we would lose the opportunity of increasing the cooperation that is so useful to Europe.

  II. This was the occasion on which he described his dramatic confrontation with Brezhnev (see Chapter XII).

  III. This was at the heart of the impasse in textile negotiations in 1969–1971. Unwilling to refuse Nixon — and to a lesser extent me — to our faces,
then Prime Minister Eisaku Sato agreed to schemes for which he knew he had no backing. This led to the bizarre situation that the Japanese Prime Minister asked us to put forward a tougher position in the implementing negotiations to give him some maneuvering room to work with in persuading his colleagues and other key decisionmakers. Our bureaucracy, looking for compromise, undercut him by putting forward moderate demands, ruining the already slight chances of a successful outcome.10

  IV. Not least ironically, it was a French President, Pompidou’s successor Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, who insisted on keeping the membership of these summits to the smallest number, preferably France, Britain, the Federal Republic, and the United States. Only over French resistance were invitations made to the other members: Japan, Italy, Canada, and a representative of the European Community.

  XVII

  The Geneva Conference

  The Strategy

  AT Geneva just before Christmas in 1973, Arabs and Israelis met to negotiate face to face at a high political level for the first time in a quarter of a century. Behind and beyond that conference lay a complex diplomacy. The enthusiasm of the Israelis, who had long demanded such a meeting, diminished directly in proportion to its imminence. But it was important for the conference to convene as rapidly as possible to preserve the cease-fire, to symbolize trends toward making peace, and in particular to create a framework for the separation of forces to which we had committed ourselves.