The Dictator's Learning Curve: Inside the Global Battle for Democracy (47 page)

A chief example was Jordan. It too had taken immediate steps to raise public-sector salaries and pensions and increase food and energy subsidies. But Jordan’s King Abdullah II understood these economic measures would not suffice. After sacking unpopular government leaders and appointing a new prime minister, he proposed rewriting the constitution.
Six months later he put his stamp on forty-two proposed amendments; they included the creation of a constitutional court, limiting the power of the regime’s domestic security courts, and adding independent monitors for future elections. Naturally, none of these reforms would curb the king’s own broad powers. They were instead, as he said, intended to prove that Jordan could “revitalize itself.”

Perhaps the most surprising case was Burma. By the end of 2011, it appeared that this pariah state wanted to come in from the cold. After nearly five decades of harsh rule since the military seized power in 1962, the Burmese government unexpectedly began to embark on a series of wide-ranging reforms. The authorities lifted curbs on the Internet, unblocking foreign news sites. Domestic press freedoms expanded. A growing number of political prisoners were released. Several months later leading dissident and Nobel laureate Aung San Suu Kyi won a seat in parliament, and in late 2012 Barack Obama became the first U.S. president to visit the Southeast Asian nation. What had changed? Was the regime’s desire to have international sanctions lifted so great that it was willing to experiment with gradual political and economic liberalization? Had Yangon been spooked by the wave of revolutions whipping across the globe and calculated that it was best to confront these forces on its own terms? It seemed unlikely that Burma’s rulers had simply awoken to the desirability of democracy. The regime was more likely wagering that preemptive reforms would best ensure its survival, becoming the newest dictatorship to attempt to move up the learning curve.

The gamble will test Burma’s regime as nothing else has. Even if its rulers are able to liberalize the country without losing their political perch, they, like others before them, will soon find that they are boxed in. If they move too quickly, they could become another Soviet Union. If they move too slowly, they risk being the next Mubarak. And time and experience will not make the task easier. History—indeed,
a dictatorship’s own longevity—can itself become a vulnerability for a regime bent on nothing beyond its own survival.

As a modern dictatorship with a long history, China is perhaps the best example of this peril. The longer the Chinese Communist Party stays in power, the more politically sensitive anniversaries the regime accumulates. The calendar has become littered with dates that remind people of the regime’s crimes or serve as potential flash points. A quick rundown of the Chinese political calendar would include March 10 (the anniversary of the 1959 Tibetan Uprising), May 4 (anniversary of the 1919 May 4 Movement), June 4 (the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre), July 5 (the 2009 suppression of Muslims in Xinjiang), July 22 (the 1999 crackdown on the Falun Gong movement), and October 1 (the 1949 founding of the People’s Republic). Any of these dates are times when the regime must be on the lookout for those who might try to rally people against the Communist Party. Indeed, the fear was great enough in 2009—when many of these dates had important anniversaries—that the party reportedly established
a special high-level task force called the 6521 Group. (The numbers 6521 referred to the 60th anniversary of the People’s Republic, the 50th anniversary of the Tibetan Uprising, the 20th anniversary of the Tiananmen massacre, and the 10th anniversary of the Falun Gong crackdown.)

I ran up against the regime’s sensitivity in the reporting of this book. I wanted to travel to China when the political climate would be relatively relaxed. Originally, I had planned to go there in December 2010. But when it became clear that the Chinese scholar and dissident Liu Xiaobo would receive the Nobel Peace Prize in early December, I scrapped my trip, choosing instead to travel to China in February 2011. Besides the Chinese New Year celebrations, nothing happens in February. Of course, that was before the uprisings in the Middle East and the calls for a Chinese Jasmine Revolution. A new date was added to the Chinese calendar, another potentially sensitive moment for an insecure regime to anxiously monitor its streets and Web sites.

It would be a mistake, however, to believe that the advance of democracy over dictatorship is just a matter of time. History has not moved in some inexorable path of progress. The totalitarianism of the twentieth century—a tyranny that claimed more than 100 million lives—was worse than anything mankind had seen before it.

Nor is political freedom somehow inevitable. It is true that the wave of democratic transitions that Samuel Huntington identified, beginning with Portugal’s in 1974, led to an impressive expansion of political and economic freedom in corners of the globe that had known little of either. But it is also true that the past forty years gave rise to skillful new forms of authoritarianism that blurred our definitions of democracy and dictatorship.

Personally, I grew more optimistic about the prospects for democratic change over the course of my travels. That optimism did not stem from the rightness of the cause or even the fundamental flaws of any of the authoritarian countries I visited. Flawed regimes had long been capable of squashing the most just and inspirational ideas of political pluralism. Rather, my optimism grew as I sat down to meet with the people who had committed themselves to fight for these freedoms. These were not blind romantics. In place after place, the people I met were hardened, battle-scarred activists who approached their work with intelligence, care, and skill. They were accomplished strategists, propagandists, and political analysts. Although almost none had had careers that might have fostered these skills, they had learned quickly through trial and error—and sometimes by copying others who went before them.

And the fortunes of many of the world’s authoritarians have only darkened. In Russia, Putin returned for a third presidential term, but his political monopoly is nothing like it once was. His popularity has plummeted. After a year of protests, he is no longer the same strong, seemingly unassailable leader. The Kremlin has responded to Russia’s energized civil society with repressive new laws, penalties, and targeted prosecutions intended to intimidate the population. But rather than squashing the country’s activism these moves seem to underline the regime’s growing insecurity. Late in 2012, Putin began an anticorruption campaign targeting many of the government’s highest officials, including the defense minister. It appeared to be a gambit aimed to boost his popularity and regain some of his lost legitimacy. But it too is destined to fail: a system which relies on corruption can only fight so much graft before it turns on itself.

In China, for more than a year, political developments were held hostage by one thing—the question of succession, always a delicate moment in the life of a dictatorship. In November 2012, China had its largest political transition in a decade, as a new senior leadership was installed and Chinese President Hu Jintao was replaced by Xi Jinping. The year leading up to the power handover had hardly been smooth, with intense power rivalries, a murder scandal that led to the ouster of senior party official Bo Xilai, and new revelations about the extent of corruption at the highest levels of the Chinese Communist Party. Almost immediately the top leaders delivered speeches lashing out against corruption and promising greater reforms. But these promises had been made before, and there was little to suggest the system would be more open to them now. Indeed, four of the country’s top seven leaders are so-called princelings—privileged children of the country’s former ruling elite.

In Venezuela, Hugo Chávez won another six-year term in office, defeating Henrique Capriles in the October election. Although Capriles and the opposition ran a nearly flawless campaign, it was no match for Chávez’s mixture of fear and free goods. The government channeled its massive oil wealth to hand out washing machines, home appliances, even new homes, to those who promised to vote for El Comandante. At the same time, Chávez’s supporters spread rumors that the ballots were not truly secret, a powerful caution for the millions of state employees and citizens who depend on a government check. Still, the opposition made real progress. Chávez added only 135,000 votes to his 2006 election victory; the opposition added nearly 1.9 million. And two months later Chávez revealed that his cancer had returned. Although only Chávez and his Cuban doctors know how serious his condition may be, it is likely grim: For the first time, Chávez named a successor.

In Egypt, the June 2012 election of Islamist president Mohammad Morsi was at first welcomed as a sign of progress. Despite liberal Egyptians’ misgivings about Morsi’s ties to the Muslim Brotherhood, they saw his narrow victory as a possible rupture from the old authoritarian days under Mubarak. If nothing else, Morsi would be a potential counterweight to the military’s dominance. Those hopes were short-lived. In a matter of months, Morsi began to appear every bit as autocratic as Mubarak himself. Indeed, he decreed himself powers that, at least on paper, were greater than those enjoyed by the former dictator. Although he eventually backed away from some of these measures after massive demonstrations in the streets of Cairo, the new president still insisted on rushing through a new constitution that would seriously erode personal freedoms, expand presidential power, and protect the military from civilian oversight. Far from challenging Egypt’s generals, Morsi appeared to have only reached a new accommodation with them. But there was an important difference this time: Unlike Mubarak’s early days in power, Morsi would have to contend with an Egyptian public that was not afraid to raise its voice in protest.

And so, even as many of the world’s modern authoritarians hang on, their vulnerabilities become better known, and their margin for error shrinks. These regimes may be durable, and in some cases, they may even maintain a measure of sophistication. But if recent events have revealed anything, it is that the people who challenge them are moving up their own learning curve, too. From one authoritarian capital to the next, one truth is increasingly inescapable: The people actually matter. For a dictator, there is nothing more terrifying.

A
ltogether it came to 93,268 miles. That is my best estimate of the distance I traveled over two years for the writing and reporting of this book. If the next destination never seemed that far away, it was because I was never alone. Over the life of this project, a countless array of people came forward to help me find my way, offering advice, wisdom, and sometimes a place to sleep. My deepest respect and admiration go to the activists in each of these countries who risk so much for an idea that many of us take for granted. They did not need to take the time—and sometimes added risk—to meet with a journalist with a notebook full of questions. But they opened their homes, told me their stories, and introduced me to their families, friends, and neighbors. Some, because of the risks they continue to take, must remain nameless here. For me, they are nothing short of heroes and the best hope for freedom’s future.

The journey would have never begun without my champions back in New York, in the offices of Doubleday. Chief among them is my editor, Kristine Puopolo, who from Day One understood what this book could be and offered her wholehearted support for it. She never asked me to cut corners, and she patiently awaited every dispatch and installment. I am also grateful for the support of her colleague William Thomas and for the efforts of Stephanie Bowen, who saw to it that the trains ran on time and that the author remained on track.

I did not know it at the time, but one of the most important moments for this book came when I met my agent, Will Lippincott.
An advocate, counselor, and friend, Will played an integral role every step of the way. His enthusiasm and optimism kept my spirits high when they might have otherwise flagged. Quite simply, I cannot imagine this book existing without him.

In the last several years, I was fortunate to have the support of several fine institutions. The Carnegie Endowment for International Peace provided me with an intellectual home for the first twelve months of the book. I am especially grateful to Jessica Mathews and Paul Balaran, whose support was instrumental in getting this project off the ground. A media fellowship to Stanford University’s Hoover Institution offered me a timely opportunity to conduct additional research, and I am grateful to David Brady and Mandy MacCalla for helping to arrange a productive week of meetings and workshops while on campus. During the height of the Arab Spring, Fred Hiatt, the editorial page editor of the
Washington Post
, offered me an incredible opportunity to provide daily analysis of those dramatic events for the paper’s
PostPartisan
blog. Likewise, Carlos Lozada, editor of the
Post
’s Outlook section, commissioned pieces from me at almost every significant milestone for dictators in 2011. I am exceptionally grateful to Fred and Carlos for those assignments that forced me to clarify my thinking at a time when clarity seemed in short supply.