Article
Character
Culture
Leading
Virtues
6 min read

What is Putin thinking? And how would you know?

The self-centeredness of modern culture is antithetical to strategic thinking.

Emerson Csorba works in deep tech, following experience in geopolitics and energy.

Preisdent Putin stands behind a lectern with a gold door and Russian flag behind him.
What is Putin thinking?

In a world of Google Maps when walking on city streets, or of Waze when driving, it is difficult to ever become lost.  

The AI algorithm provides us with the shortest route to our destination, adjusting whenever we make the wrong turn. We do not need to think for ourselves, technology instead showing the way forward.  

But there are times where it is possible to get lost. This happens less in a city with its clearly set-out streets, and more so when taking the wrong turn in open expanses: hiking in the mountains, traversing farmers’ fields or while navigating at sea. In each of these situations, a miscalculation may lead to peril.  

It is in these situations that we must carefully think through our steps, determining how to proceed, or whether to turn back. Often, these situations are ambiguous, the right way forward unclear.  

Much of life – perhaps more than we wish to acknowledge – is like this, more akin to a walk across an open field with multiple possible routes forward, than a technology-enabled walk through a city.  

When making important decisions, our grasp of a given situation, of others’ intentions and motives, and the networks facilitating and constraining action, are less evident than we may initially think.  

This acknowledgement of uncertainty is no reason for delay, but rather a basis for careful deliberation in determining what to do, and how to proceed. It is necessary if we are to pursue what we believe is right, in a manner that may produce positive results.   

In a recent interview with the BBC Newscast podcast, University of Durham Chancellor Dr Fiona Hill – who previously served as White House National Security Council Senior Director for European and Russian Affairs, and currently as Co-Lead of the UK’s Strategic Defence Review – provides listeners with a powerful reminder on how to proceed within ambiguous situations, especially in navigating the choppy seas, or rocky terrains, of human relationships.  

Strategic empathy requires self-restraint when natural impulses urge a person to make rapid conclusions about the reality of a given situation – the default human tendency. 

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Dr Hill uses the term “strategic empathy” to consider how the political West might proceed in its relationship with Russia, and specifically with Vladimir Putin.  

Strategic empathy is a serious commitment to understanding how another person thinks, considering their worldview, their key sources of information (in other words, their main three or four advisors, who have a person’s ear), and other emotional considerations that underpin decision-making.  

It is much more than just putting oneself in other’s shoes, as is often said about empathy. The approach is one of realism, suspending judgment based on self-protective or self-aggrandising illusions, in favour of what is actually the case.  

In the case of Putin, Dr Hill helpfully reminds listeners that his worldview is drastically different than that of Westerners, and that significant intellectual effort (and specifically, intellectual humility in setting aside one’s own default frames of reference) is necessary to consider decisions from Putin’s perspective, and so make the right decisions from ours.  

Technology is here an assistant but not a cure-all. Whereas AI might – based on a gathering of all possible publicly available information written by and about a particular person – help to predict a person’s next move, this prediction is imperfect at best.  

There are underlying factors – perhaps a deeply engrained sense of historical grievance and resentment in the case of Putin – that shapes another’s action and that can scarcely be picked up through initial conversation. These factors may not make sense from our perspectives, or be logical, but they exist and must be treated seriously.  

This empathy is strategic, because effective strategy is the “How?” of any mission. Whereas a person’s or organisation’s mission, vocation or purpose (all words that can be used relatively interchangeably) is the “Why?” of a pursuit, strategy is the “How?” which itself consists of the questions “Who?” “What?” “When?” and “Where?”  

To understand how to act strategically requires a prior effective assessment of reality. This requires going beyond what others say, our initial perception of a situation, any haughty beliefs that we simply know what is happening, or even the assessments of supposedly well-connected and expert contacts.  

Dr Hill’s strategic empathy is an appeal to listeners to ask questions – digging as much as possible – to arrive at an assessment that approximates reality to the greatest degree possible.  This exercise might be aided by AI, but it is at its heart a human endeavour. 

Strategic empathy requires self-restraint when natural impulses urge a person to make rapid conclusions about the reality of a given situation – the default human tendency. The persistent asking of questions is difficult – requiring mental, emotional and intellectual endurance. 

There is considerable wisdom in Dr Hill’s reflections on strategic empathy, which extend well beyond the fields of intelligence, geopolitics or defence. The idea of strategic empathy helps show us that in much of modern culture – which glorifies the self, individuals putting their wants, needs and desires before those of others – developing strategy is very difficult.  

The key then, when deliberating on potential right courses of action in ambiguous situations, is to not begin believing that the right way is clear. It rarely is.

Why is this the case? When popular culture favours phrases such as “You do you,” the you becomes a barrier to asking questions, with some aloofness to the situation, necessary for understanding how another thinks. People are encouraged to focus on themselves at the expense of others, and so fail to understand others’ worldviews and ways of operating. 

Simply put, the self-centeredness of modern culture is antithetical to strategy. It impedes deliberation, which involves patience in the gradual formation of purpose for action. It wages war against the considered politics or statesmanship that many want to see return. In place of this is crisis or catastrophe, in which self-focus leads to clashes with others that could otherwise be avoided or worked through carefully.   

The Biblical story of the serpent in the garden is another vantage point for the idea of strategic empathy. Soon after Adam and Eve eat the apple in the garden and become “like gods, knowing good and evil,” God searches for them and asks “Where are you?” 

It is right after individuals try to become the judges of good and evil – “like gods,” that Adam and Eve find themselves lost: God’s “Where are you?”  

Put differently, when a person is convinced they are right, but without asking questions, they make mistakes, they likely suffer unnecessarily because of this, and then become anchorless – the “Where are you?”  

This applies to countries as much as it does to people: the more they moralize, seeking to become the judges of good and evil in a complex geopolitical landscape, the more they drift from their sense of purpose.  

The key then, when deliberating on potential right courses of action in ambiguous situations, is to not begin believing that the right way is clear. It rarely is. A belief in evident rightness often leads to error, whereas the ability to suspend such judgment helps reveal – often gradually – the right path forward.   

The strategic empathy approach requires both assertiveness – in asking good questions and maintaining persistence in doing so – and self-restraint in the face of believing that the right answer is clear.  

The glue between assertiveness on the one hand and restraint on the other is faith, which helps a person to move forward in a trusting manner, but without exerting oneself so much so that they become the centre of the situation.  

So, while Google Maps, Waze or other technologies might be at our disposal in our travels, both real and metaphorical, these technologies only get us so far.  

The right way forward is seldom initially clear when navigating ambiguous situations, the frequency and stakes of which increase as we embark boldly – with faith – on the adventure of life.  

Dr Hill’s strategic empathy – asking questions, listening carefully, suspending a self of sense, seriously considering diverging worldviews, and adjusting as necessary – helps us to achieve the understanding and direction we need.  

Indeed, this approach is fundamental to a more effective and resilient political West. It is necessary for sounder deliberation, better strategy and statesmanship, in an increasingly ambiguous world.    

Essay
Comment
Politics
10 min read

England needs a written constitution that defends against populism

A new resolution acknowledges what forges a sense of right and wrong.
A wide angle picture shows a king and queen on thrones before many people in ceremonial clothes.
The Opening of Parliament.
Roger Harris/House of Lords, CC BY 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

New Year is often a time for reckoning and resolutions. Nations, no less than individual persons, would benefit from such an annual reckoning with themselves.  

If in life we must always strive to find some Aristotelian ‘golden mean’, between recklessness and timidity so it is in the life of states and nations. Many countries have been brought into ruin by the excess of misdirected appetites and wrongly-ordered desires: demagogues inflaming the people; oligarchs seeking to turn the res publica – the ‘public thing’ – into their own personal fiefdom. Revolutions, corruption and public lassitude are the wages of such sins. Ultimately, it ends in the death of the state itself: the collapse of all legitimate authority into warring gangs, while refugees flee, if they can, to the borders. 

Many countries, conversely, go through their lives in cowed timidity, until they end up in an old age of regret, having never achieved their full potential. These nations do not necessarily collapse, but slowly decline – unable to reform themselves, locked in a vision of their past that was better than their present or any imaginable future.  

 England is at risk of both these dangers. On the one hand, a reckless reactionary populism, which has long laid dormant, but has been unleashed since 2016. It threatens to abandon all prudence and overthrow all restraint, to attack the civil service and the courts, to reject Human Rights, to corrode civic discourse, and to set aside all procedural propriety, until we end up sodden in the gutter of despotism. On the one hand, a persistent constitutional conservatism stands in the way of the necessary, long overdue, reforms which would breathe life and vitality back into an old, tired, country, and would give our institutions the strength to resist such destructive forces.  

Nations, like people, can experience decisive moments of what might be termed repentance. When they wake up in the gutter – their capital city bombed, their army disbanded, their people starving – they can turn from the paths which took them to that place, and find a newness of life, a new hope, embodied in a new constitutional order. This is what Germany, Italy and Japan did after 1945. They can also experience a kind of conversion, away from false principles to truer ones, as much of Central Europe did after the fall of the Berlin Wall.  

I am using theological language here to describe merely civic and political attitudes, which is always a dangerous thing to do. It would be a misreading of my intent if one were to conclude that I conflate a well-ordered polity with the Heavenly City. Nevertheless, a well-constituted polity, in which freedom and justice, peace and the common good, are not only treasured but actually – to some practical extent – achieved, is an inestimable blessing. We should strive to obtain it.  

A well-constituted polity is based upon the principle of ‘public government’. The state is a public entity, belonging to the public, in which public office is a public trust to be used for public ends, and where citizens in public life must be faithful stewards of the public good, for which they are responsible to the public. 

Democracy is our shorthand term for this arrangement, although it is a rather clumsy one. Democracy, properly understood, is not unlimited majority rule, nor the unconstrained rule of the person elected by the majority. It is, rather, a complex political system that combines representative and responsible government with civil liberties and the rule of law.  

Populism is a caricature of democracy. Populists attempt to undermine the barriers that restrain abuses of power. Their attempts to weaken the judiciary and civil service, sideline those who disagree with them, infringe fundamental rights, centralise power, and restrict public dissent, must therefore be seen as attacks on democracy. They put arbitrary power into the hands of particular persons. 

England’s position is not that of Germany in 1945. It might, in some ways, be analogous to that of Central Europe in the 1990s. Much of England today looks like I remember my first visit there then: the same grey faces, the same cheap clothes, the same visible effects of bad housing, bad food, and lack of opportunity. If anything, England is worse off, because at least those countries had hope of better days ahead. No one yet has imagined an English future better than its past.  

England has been let down by a failed ideology – that of neoliberal capitalism, which, as Dr Abby Innes points out, is every bit as rigid and doctrinaire as the official Marxist ideology of the former Communist states. England has been let down, too, by decades of corrupt, incompetent, short-sighted and careless government. The symptoms of misgovernment can be seen in England’s economic record, its social problems, its crumbling infrastructure and over-stretched public services.  Outside the Customs Union and the Single Market, England is isolated from its European neighbours.  The country is not living up to its potential.  

This should spur us to consider the weakness of English democracy. As currently established, the state often fails to serve the common good. The English do not live in a well-constituted polity with ‘public government’ as its foundation, but in a fiefdom-state that has been cut, privatised, deregulated into near oblivion.  

If it were only a matter of specific individuals, or of one party, the problem could easily be fixed. But the country has not only been let down by this government or that government, by this party or that Prime Minister. It is the system of government, the constitutional order as a whole, that has failed us. 

Restoring England’s hope for the future, its prosperity, and its quality of life, must begin, then, with the improvement of English democracy, and that with a refoundation of its constitution. This is hard to hear, because, as Mr Podsnap put it in Charles’ Dickens 1864 novel Our Mutual Friend, ‘We Englishmen are very proud of our constitution, Sir. It was bestowed upon us by Providence. No other country is so favoured as this country.' It is hard to admit that something is broken, when once it was so highly prized – indeed, so intrinsically bound up in England’s sense of national identity. 

The Westminster Model of democracy is not without its virtues. Its origins can be traced far back into English history. Yet it did not develop into maturity in England alone. Bagehot was carried around the world, read under palm and pine, and drilled into the ruling classes from Vancouver to Colombo. The Westminster Model owes much to Magna Carta and Simon de Montfort’s ‘Model Parliament’ of 1295, but it owes just as much to the developments of the Victorian age: (nearly) universal suffrage, political parties, manifestos, and the establishment of a permanent, professional and non-partisan civil service.  

The transformation of Empire to Commonwealth ended British rule, but not the British way of ruling. Westminster Model democracy had to be set down, of course, into a written, supreme-and-fundamental law, through which all the essentials were faithfully reproduced. If you want to discover the Westminster Model of democracy at its peak, read the constitutions of Belize or the Solomon Islands.

The rejection of written constitutions has been a prevailing English conservative principle since Burke. However, it leaves us defenceless against authoritarian reactionary populism. 

The irony is that those who are most comfortable with the imperial legacy are also those who are doing most to destroy public government at home. While fetishizing ‘The British Constitution’ and ‘Our Eight Hundred Years of Unbroken History’, the populist right rejects the principles and the values upon which that achievement rested. Just as they seek to create a pastiche of 1950s Britishness (absent of strong workers’ rights, strong unions, a generous welfare state, and publicly owned utilities and services), so likewise they seek to create a pastiche of the 1950s British Constitution, without the self-restraint, moderation, decorum, public service ethos, and high levels of social trust and cohesion, which made that system of complex unwritten rules work.  

The Blair-Brown reforms of 1997-2010 are a particular target of reactionary ire. The Human Rights Act mitigated, although it did not remove, the absolutism of Parliament. It gave the people who have little voice under a purely majoritarian system – ‘the weird, the wicked, the weak’ – a means by which to challenge the exercise of power. Devolution broke the prevailing English notion of British uniformity: it not only allowed Scotland and Wales to have a (muted) political voice and some (tightly constrained) freedom to craft their own policies, but also forced England into a reckoning with its own national identity. So far, this has played out mostly through the doubling-down on what the former Labour MP and scholar of English identity John Denham calls ‘Anglo-centric British nationalism’. The Tory – and Reform UK – constitutional agenda is obsessed with restoring the unlimited power of Parliament and of reinforcing the Anglo-centric British state. 

As we can see, from every NHS waiting list to every pothole in the road, the Anglo-British state is no longer working very well. It has all the vices of its past, and few of its virtues. A return to the pre-1997 status quo ante is impossible – it would be like trying to retake Hong Kong. Parliamentary absolutism tempered by the ‘good chaps’ theory is no longer a viable option. Either we must accept an untampered absolutism – which is the agenda of the reactionary populist right – or else we must deepen constitutional reform, and arrive at a new constitutional settlement which accepts that the British Imperial state, oriented to the needs of maritime imperial commerce, is over, and that an English nation-state, oriented to the common good of the ordinary people of England, is now needed.  

This entails a new, democratic, constitutional foundation. Small-c conservatives might baulk at this. The rejection of written constitutions has been a prevailing English conservative principle since Burke. However, it leaves us defenceless against authoritarian reactionary populism. Moderate, sensible, responsible conservatives should learn to think differently about written constitutions. Paradoxically, constitutionalism strengthens the state. By bounding and limiting state power, and providing a robust system of responsibility, accountability, and restraint, constitutional government actually enables the state to draw upon a deeper well of public legitimacy.  

What would English identity look like, if it were forged between the Channel and the Tweed, and not between the Nile and the Irrawaddy? What might an English constitution look like, and what values and principles might inform it?  

A constitution for England must recognise that England is a society of many faiths and none. It is, however, an acknowledgment that Christianity has forged and formed not only our institutions, but also our understandings of right and wrong. 

In addressing the last of these questions, the Christian tradition has much to add to the conversation.  

Christian theologians and political philosophers have spilled a lot of ink, in the past two millennia, on questions of good government, on the relationship between church and state, and what it means to be a Christian and a citizen of an earthly state.  

There seems to be an assumption – amongst both supporters and opponents of written constitutions – that a written constitution would have to be based on secular values. This stems, in part, from our ignorance of our own Westminster Model constitutional tradition. The constitutions of the United States and of France might be strictly secular, but the constitution of Antigua and Barbuda claims to be ‘founded upon principles that acknowledge the supremacy of God’, while that of Tuvalu explicitly refers to ‘respect for Christian principles’.  

This is not a bid for theocracy. A constitution for England must recognise that England is a society of many faiths and none. It is, however, an acknowledgment that Christianity has forged and formed not only our institutions, but also our understandings of right and wrong. To give all that up would produce an ethical vacuum in society, which will be filled only with ever more grotesque forms of exploitation.  

The cardinal ethical principle of constitutional democracy is a recognition of human dignity. At the origin and foundation of all institutions, and laws, and norms, we find ourselves having to cling to the fundamental command that Christians call the Golden Rule: ‘Do unto others as you would have others do unto you’. If we abandon that principle of human dignity, there is no solid ground on which to build a decent, well-ordered, democratic polity. Perhaps then we can build a new ‘Jerusalem’ in England’s grey and drizzly land. 

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