international law

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The Rules-Based Order

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Fri, 27/08/2021 - 5:26pm in

Empire by Another Name

During the Biden administration’s first official meeting with China in March 2021, US Secretary of State Antony Blinken declared he was ‘committed to leading with diplomacy to advance the interests of the United States and to strengthen the rules-based international order’. Yang Jiechi, the director of China’s Foreign Affairs Commission, countered by saying that China and the international community upheld ‘the United Nations-centred international system and the international order underpinned by international law, not what is advocated by a small number of countries of the so-called rules-based international order’.1

But what is ‘the rules-based international order’? And what role does Australia play in it? 

Australia and the first rules-based international order

There was no need for euphemisms when James Cook claimed the eastern portion of the Australian continent for the British Crown in 1770; the British Empire was called just that. Cook sailed up the east coast of Australia in the same year that the British East India Company’s activities caused ‘the loss of at least one-third of the inhabitants of the province’ of Bengal, or 10 million deaths, according to its governor, Warren Hastings.2 The British parliament, nearly a quarter of whose members held East India Company stock, backed it with state power, spending vast sums on naval and military operations to protect its acquisitions.3 It began exporting Indian opium to China in the same year. Two decades later, Britain’s Australian colonies benefited from the subjugation of Bengal. The colony at Sydney Cove came close to starvation because its supply ship Guardian sank. Supplies of rice, semolina, lentils, clothing, livestock and seeds from Bengal in June 1792 provided a lifeline.4 Soon, two ships a year came with supplies from India, and by 1840 a ship travelled between India and Australia approximately every four and a half days. The ships were vital for the colonies. The imperial connection saw army personnel, administrators, merchants and others moving between India and Australia.5

The Australian colonies prospered under the umbrella of British imperial power. They were the largest recipients of British foreign investment in the economic boom of the 1870s and 1880s, a period in which the Australian economy was transformed forever.6 That investment, in turn, came from the drain of wealth from the colonies. Between 1765 and 1938, Britain drained from India what amounts to $18 trillion (£9 trillion), or ten times the United Kingdom’s annual GDP today.7 It sent about 45 per cent of its foreign investments to North America and Australasia between 1865 and 1914.8 Meanwhile, Indian income collapsed by half and average life expectancy dropped by a fifth from 1870 to 1920.9 

Australia’s settlers shared the empire’s cultural, racial, economic and strategic perspectives. Their British roots, family connections and imperial consciousness led them to identify with British military supremacy in the colonies. In 1893, Alfred Deakin wrote that India ‘has been won by the sword, is still held by the sword, and can only be retained by the sword… What is certain is not only that there must always be a supremacy in India, but that it must be the supremacy of arms’.10 Australian security under this system meant much more than the military defence of the colonies. It meant a commitment to upholding the empire that guaranteed the colonies’ economic interests. The empire prioritised the rights of private investors over the sovereignty of colonised regions—an essential feature of that era’s ‘rules-based international order’. Upholding the empire wasn’t regarded as ‘other people’s wars’ but as an essential component of Australia’s security, properly understood: the security of economic interests and the military-political order that secured them. This view of security has deep roots in Australia’s geopolitical tradition. 

Intellectual justifications for empire came from the most respectable liberal sources. John Stuart Mill justified Britain’s conquests on humanitarian grounds. Britain, he said, acted ‘rather in the service of others, than of itself’. The ‘aggressions of barbarians force it to successful war’, but Britain bore the costs of war while ‘the fruits it shares in fraternal equality with the whole human race… A nation adopting this policy is a novelty in the world; so much so it would appear that many are unable to believe it when they see it’.11 Mill was writing in 1859, a date that is significant for two reasons: Britain was involved in the largest narco-trafficking operation in history, compelling millions of Chinese to become opium addicts through force of arms.12 And imperial force had just crushed the Indian Mutiny, killing around 800,000 people, although the number could well be higher.13 Yet Mill no doubt genuinely believed in the benevolence of the empire. Intellectual support for a US-led global order today has a familiar ring.  

Economics of the rules-based international order

A century before, Adam Smith had explained the economics of empire. The American colonies, he wrote in The Wealth of Nations, should focus on agriculture and leave manufacturing to Britain. If the Americans were ‘to stop the importation of European manufactures’ in favour of ‘their own countrymen as could manufacture the like goods’, they would ‘obstruct instead of promoting the progress of their country towards real wealth and greatness’.14 Having defeated Britain, however, the Americans could reject his advice and construct an industrial base behind high tariff walls. The United States became the ‘mother country and bastion of modern protectionism’, as Paul Bairoch has shown. Tariffs aimed at protecting local industry began as early as 1789. By 1816, import duties were about 35 per cent for most manufactured goods. The United States imposed ‘strict protectionism’ from 1861 until the end of the nineteenth century, resulting in very rapid growth from 1870 to 1892, a period that ‘can be regarded as among the most prosperous in the whole economic history of the United States’.15 Had the Americans followed the principle of comparative advantage, they would be exporting furs and bison meat. 

Cotton and water were the key inputs of the nineteenth century’s textile-based Industrial Revolution. History is kind enough to provide a comparison: Egypt, like the southern United States, was rich in water and cotton and was in a good position to undertake rapid economic development. Its modernising leader, Mohammad Ali, had begun to build a modern military. He constructed factories and shipyards to support this endeavour and imposed state monopolies to pay for them. British leaders had other ideas. ‘A manufacturing country Egypt never can become’, one declared. Rather, ‘by the peaceful development of her agricultural aptitude she may interest and benefit all’.16 Imperial force ended Mohammad Ali’s attempt at industrialisation and ‘Egypt was relegated to the status of a province whose sole commercial and economic function was to supply raw materials for European industry’, as an Egyptian historian recounts.17 

The different fates of the United States and Egypt are a good illustration of the economics of empire. The principle of comparative advantage promoted by Adam Smith and David Ricardo, who followed him, held that specialisation and trade according to comparative costs would lead to mutual benefit. Using a two-country, two-commodity model, Ricardo said that even if Portugal could produce both cloth and wine more cheaply than England, England should still specialise in cloth and Portugal in wine because the relative costs were different; that is, England, by producing one unit less of wine could produce more cloth than Portugal could by the same method. However, as Utsa and Prabhat Patnaik have shown, the argument contains a fatal flaw: it depends crucially on the assumption that both countries produce both goods. But Britain, unlike Egypt, could not produce sufficient cotton at home regardless of the amount of land and water it used in the attempt. More generally, capitalism as it actually exists has its home base in the Northern countries, which are primarily located in the temperate areas of the globe. They demand a range of goods that can be produced only in the tropical and semi-tropical regions. And that requires the subordination of those regions by military force or trade agreements. 

Belief in imperial benevolence supplied the ideological justification for empire. Comparative advantage supplied the economic justification. Military force supplied the hard power. Military historian Jeffrey Grey correctly observed that ‘the greatest overarching myth of Australian military history’ is the claim that ‘Australia always fights “other people’s wars”’.18 Military historians are well aware that Australian governments have not gone to war for sentimental reasons or because they were duped. The organising principle of Australian foreign policy is to remain on the winning side of a worldwide confrontation between the empire and the lands dominated by it. Australia’s strategic reflex is thus to fit into the global strategy of a great power.   

Australia and the second rules-based international order

This strategic reflex was on display in the 2016 Defence White Paper. Issued by the Turnbull government in the last year of the Obama administration, it exhibited a deep anxiety about the security of US power projection capabilities in Northeast Asia. It mentioned the rules-based order fifty-three times, didn’t mention the Asia-Pacific at all, but referred to the Indo-Pacific sixty-eight times. Clearly, China’s ability to retaliate against US bases in Okinawa is of deep concern to Australia’s defence and security establishment, which has coasted in the slipstream of US supremacy since the end of the Second World War. 

This concern was heightened by President Trump’s less than reflexive support for US alliances with Japan and South Korea. There was a palpable sense that Australia needed to be a more vocal advocate for US power in the region, and to put its money where its mouth is. This is the context for the 2020 Defence Strategic Update and Force Structure Plan, launched with great fanfare by the Morrison government, and the classified Defence Planning Guidance. The documents show that the policy planners who determine Australian defence policy will do what it takes to strengthen American resolve.

The Biden administration did not disappoint them. It announced the relocation of US marines from Okinawa to Guam, where an integrated air and missile defence system is planned. The system involves a Homeland Defence Radar in Hawaii, a Tactical Multi-Mission Over-The-Horizon Radar in Palau, and—in the second half of this decade—air power based in the Federated States of Micronesia, the Marshall Islands and Palau. The aim is a Joint Fires Network that enables anysensor from anyplatform (air, land, sea, space, cyberspace) to provide targeting guidance to anyweapon. 

Australian planners see all this as an opportunity to demonstrate greater relevance to the United States. The more vulnerable the United States becomes in Japan, Taiwan and the northern Philippines, the more attractive Australia becomes as a secure location for US forces. Australian planners have signalled that the intelligence bases at Pine Gap and the North West Cape will be joined by more facilities intended to militarise space. Australia’s role in the United States’ space surveillance network includes hosting the C-band space surveillance radar and the space surveillance telescope. Our geography covers one-third of the earth’s rotation and we look directly into the solar system, unlike countries in the northern hemisphere. Australia will develop launch capability for equatorial- and polar-orbiting satellites, benefitting from vast coastlines, open water and stable weather. 

Australian policy planners know that Australia could become a target if key US assets are stationed here—but that is not their greatest concern. Rather, they fear that other countries in the region might become more powerful and more relevant to the United States, which would choose them over Australia as a military ally. When some writers warn that the United States has an unsentimental, cynical view of power, it comes as no surprise to Australian policy planners. ‘Speaking truth to power’ is irrelevant when those in power already know that the rhetoric of ‘mateship’ is window dressing for the public, the media and the parliament. They don’t need to be told that the true character of our relationship with the United States is a transactional, dramatically unequal one. Australian diplomats strive continuously to show their relevance to American policymakers precisely because they know how little Australia features in US thinking.

But to what end? Isn’t the economic relationship with China too important to jeopardise? Why aren’t Australia’s mining and energy billionaires up in arms? The answer is that they take seriously the government’s insistence that its highest priority is to uphold the rules-based international order—and they know that that order is the US-led imperial system, whose preservation offers greater long-term benefits to them. They know it prioritises the rights of private investors over the sovereignty of most states. They know the US-led imperial system serves as a bulwark against efforts in developing countries to extricate themselves from the integrated world system dominated largely by Western investors—otherwise, developing countries might use their resources for their own social and economic development instead of making them available under the comparative advantage system. 

The rules-based order ensures that state sovereignty is subordinated to the interests of private investors. It is an imperial order in the sense of being ‘a relationship, formal or informal, in which one state controls the effective political sovereignty of another political society. It can be achieved by force, by political collaboration, by economic, social or cultural dependence’.19 The ‘rules’ by which other countries’ political sovereignty is controlled include the investor-rights treaties misleadingly called free trade agreements. They include the policies of the World Bank, where the combined voting strength of the United States, United Kingdom, Japan, France and Germany is greater than one-third of the total.20 An internal US Treasury study of 1981 said that the ‘advantages inherent in our predominant position’, combined with expectations of ‘our ability and will to use those advantages’ and ‘our position as a world leader’, gave the United States decisive influence over the policies and practices of the World Bank and other multilateral development banks. The World Bank was particularly important because it was the ‘largest and most important’ of the lot. Its policy outcomes ‘generally determine the outcome in the other banks’.21 Similarly, Australia often channels its aid through the Asian Development Bank, where it, the United States, and allies like Japan, Canada, South Korea, Germany, France and the United Kingdom control 55 per cent of the shares.22 China’s Belt and Road Initiative challenges this rules-based order. 

On the specific question of iron-ore exports, the mining magnates understand that China has no effective alternative to Australia; the only competitor is Guinea, on the west coast of Africa. But the Simandou mine there, which has higher iron content, is yet to export a single tonne of the commodity. Developing it will require the construction of a 650-kilometre railway with multiple bridges, sidings and more than 25 kilometres of tunnels to link it to a deepwater port on the coast.23 And then the transport costs will be higher, given the longer sea route. It is no accident that the National Party, which enjoys the closest links to mining and trade interests, is out in front on war talk. When Barnaby Joyce regained the Nationals leadership and was sworn in as deputy prime minister in June, he issued a stark warning about China in his first speech to the Coalition party room. He said there was ‘a unifying cause’ that is ‘more important to the nation than anything else…what is required of us is to make Australia as strong as possible as quickly as possible in order to protect our way of life’. Pointing to the electoral benefits, Joyce added that it was ‘a comparative strength for the Coalition’.24 

In the 1950s, the ideology of anti-communism was a political bludgeon against the parliamentary Opposition and a justification to use the police and intelligence agencies against domestic constituencies. It was also a highly effective technique of mobilising the public to support intervention and subversion in Southeast Asia as Australia joined the United States in defeating revolutionary social transformation among newly independent former colonies. Of course, the Chinese Communist Party’s monopoly on state power is real enough. So is its authoritarianism towards those who challenge it, as people in Hong Kong, Tibet and Xinjiang can testify. What is a fiction is the pretext for which it is used: concern about self-determination for China’s ethnic minorities. After all, Indonesia’s West Papuan minority receives almost zero support for self-determination. The real aim is to stop China reaching the technological frontier. The new Cold War is therefore highly functional for policy planners and for private investors, who will benefit from the national security–based subsidies that will flow their way in semiconductors, 5G networks, artificial intelligence, robotics, gene editing, data flows, autonomous vehicles and rare earths.

There is another reason that the mining and energy sectors aren’t telling politicians to pull their heads in. Important parts of the Australian economy are owned by US-based investors. The top twenty companies on the Australian Stock Exchange account for approximately half its market capitalisation. US-based investors are the biggest owners of sixteen of the top twenty companies. As owners of the equity, they determine the corporations’ priorities and practices. According to data from the Bloomberg Professional Terminal, US-based investors own more than two-thirds of BHP, the largest company on the ASX. They also own two-thirds of Rio Tinto, the second largest company, and two-thirds of Woodside, Australia’s largest stand-alone oil and gas company. The only mining company on the ASX that isn’t US majority-owned is Fortescue Metals, which Andrew ‘Twiggy’ Forrest controls. It is perhaps no coincidence that Forrest has been the most visibly vocal member of his tiny class to differ from the New Cold War rhetoric. 

Paul Hasluck, the best explainer of Australian foreign policy to become foreign minister, said that ‘Any country has a foreign policy so that its domestic policy can be put into effect’.25 And that domestic policy reflects the fact that Australia is an anomaly among advanced economies. We focus on economic growth rather than economic development. Joseph Schumpeter explained the distinction almost a century ago. Economic development, he wrote, involves ‘only such changes in economic life as are not forced upon it from without but arise by its own initiative, from within’. But if an economy is ‘dragged along by the changes in the surrounding world’ and adapts itself to them, then there is economic growth without economic development.26 The distinction is captured in modern economics by the concept of economic complexity. Complexity increases with a country’s level of diversification (the number of products it exports). It decreases with ubiquity (the number of countries exporting the same product).27 A country’s level of economic development is associated with the complexity of its economy. 

Australia has the lowest complexity of all the OECD countries, and our performance over the last forty years leaves considerable room for improvement. In 1980, Australia was ranked as the fifty-first most complex economy in the world; in 2017, it was fifty-ninth. The lowest point was in 2014, when it fell to eighty-ninth.28 Australia’s exports remain highly specialised in a few products such as iron ore, coal briquettes, gold, petroleum gas and wheat, which are typically produced by many other countries. According to the chief economist in the Department of Industry, Innovation and Science, ‘Australia’s economic complexity is an anomaly among advanced economies, with the economic complexity closer to that of a developing country’. Australia is ‘comparable to the economies of Kazakhstan, Cambodia, Kenya and Saudi Arabia’.29 Our low economic complexity reflects the dependency inherent in our role in the first rules-based international order, the British Empire. British investment fostered vertical economic ties with London more than horizontal economic ties integrating the economies of the six colonies. Typically found in imperial–colonial relationships, such vertical economic relationships result in monoculture economies that produce mineral resources and agricultural goods for export. By contrast, horizontal economic linkages generate a ‘spread effect’, such that mining operations enable new domestic industries and workers who are trained for more highly skilled tasks.30

You can’t have an independent foreign policy when you have a dependent economy. Vital sectors of the Australian economy are integrated into the value chains of US corporations. Achieving economic independence will require boldness, imagination and resolute economic nationalism. Since the new Cold War will play out on a technological battlefield, an obvious first step is to assert greater policy autonomy over Australia’s critical minerals. In 2013, Geoscience Australia conducted a study of ‘Critical commodities for a high-tech world’.31 It found that Australia was rich in antimony, beryllium, bismuth, chromium, cobalt, copper, graphite, helium, indium, lithium, manganese, molybdenum, nickel, niobium, platinum-group elements, rare-earth elements, tantalum, thorium, tin, titanium, tungsten and zirconium. Some of these commodities are considered most critical by the EU, Japan, South Korea, the United Kingdom and the United States. We could establish a nationally owned company that exercised ownership and control of strategically important minerals. We would then be in a position to increase domestic innovation and support higher value-added sectors, such as high-technology research and development, advanced manufacturing, and energy efficiency. The aim here would be to increase Australia’s economic complexity by diversifying our exports into higher value-added sectors.

But Australia’s industry department is a true believer in the doctrine of comparative advantage. Its Critical Minerals Strategy isn’t concerned with nation-building or increasing economic complexity but with creating a benign environment for private investors to carve up our critical minerals. The business press reports approvingly that ‘the Aussies come to Europe’s rare-earth rescue… When the EU goes looking for supplier countries’ for critical minerals to feed its manufacturing, ‘several sets of ears around the world prick up at this, but few as eagerly as those in Canberra’.32 You could say the same thing about Australia’s Defence and Foreign Affairs officials, whose ears prick up just as easily—since their pursuit of relevance to the United States is the external expression of this economic dependence. 

Australia has established a Critical Minerals Facilitation Office, whose explicit goal is ‘to position Australia globally as a secure and reliable supplier of critical minerals’.33 The head of the office, Jessica Robinson, intends ‘to give advanced manufacturing economies such as the European Union a full-range service’.34 The industry department’s official publication celebrated the 200th anniversary of David Ricardo and comparative advantage—in a special contribution by Lisa Gropp, chief economist at the Business Council of Australia.35 There is an elite consensus that combines the pursuit of relevance to the United States in foreign and defence policy with the doctrine of comparative advantage. The ambition is for Australia to be a better quarry, not to develop formal industrial policies aimed at stimulating economic development, creating jobs and rebuilding the manufacturing base to better position us in advanced technology areas. 

Some key features of an earlier imperial relationship are therefore present in today’s rules-based international order: control of the effective political sovereignty of other countries, a belief in imperial benevolence, the economics of comparative advantage and a military strategy that fits Australia into the global strategy of a great power. Since policy planners cannot bring themselves to say empire, the ‘rules-based international order’ serves as the euphemism.

1 US Department of State, Transcript of Meeting, Anchorage, Alaska, 18 March 2021,  

2 Warren Hastings, letter to the Court of Directors of the British East India Company, 3 November 1772, Appendix A, ‘Bengal portrayed in 1772’, in W. W. Hunter, The Annals of Rural Bengal, London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1868, p. 381.

3 William Dalrymple, The Anarchy: The Relentless Rise of the East India Company, New Delhi: Bloomsbury, 2019, p. xxxiii. 

4 James Broadbent, Suzanne Rickard and Margaret Steven, India, China, Australia: Trade and Society 1788–1850, Sydney: Historic Houses Trust, 2003, pp 9–10; David Walker, Anxious Nation: Australia and the Rise of Asia 1850–1939, St Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 1999, p. 13.

5 Walker, p. 13.

6 Barrie Dyster and David Meredith, Australia in the Global Economy: Continuity and Change, Port Melbourne: Cambridge University Press, 2012, p. 61.

7 Utsa Patnaik, ‘Revisiting the “Drain”, or Transfers from India to Britain’, in Shubhra Chakravarti and Utsa Patnaik (eds), Agrarian and Other Histories: Essays for Binay Bhushan Chaudhuri, New Delhi: Tulika Books, 2017, pp 278–317.

8 A. K. Bagchi, ‘Some International Foundations of Capitalist Growth and Underdevelopment’, Economic and Political Weekly, August 1972.

9 Irfan Habib, ‘Studying a Colonial Economy—Without Perceiving Colonialism’, Modern Asian Studies,19(3), 1985, pp 355–81; Mike Davis, Late Victorian Holocausts: El Niño Famines and the Making of the Third World, New York, NY, and London: Verso, 2002, pp 311–12.

10 Alfred Deakin, Temple and Tomb in India, Melbourne: Melville, Mullen & Slade, 1893, pp 129–30.

11 John Stuart Mill, ‘A Few Words on Non-Intervention’, Fraser’s Magazine (1859), reprinted in Libertarian Alliance, Foreign Policy Perspectives, no. 8, ISBN 0948317965.

12 R. K. Newman, ‘Opium Smoking in Late Imperial China: A Reconsideration’, Modern Asian Studies, 29(4), October 1995, p. 787.

13 Douglas Peers, India under Colonial Rule: 1700–1885, London: Routledge, 2006, p. 64. 

14 Adam Smith, An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, Book 2, Chapter 5, pp 486–7.  

15 Paul Bairoch, Economics and World History: Myths and Paradoxes, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1993. 

16 John Bowring, Report on Egypt and Candia, London: W. Clowes and Sons, 1840. 

17 Afaf Lutfi al-Sayyid Marsot, A History of Egypt: From the Arab Conquest to the Present, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007, p. 77.

18 Jeffrey Grey, ‘In Every War but One? Myth, History and Vietnam’, in Craig Stockings (ed.), Zombie Myths of Australian Military History, Sydney: UNSW Press, 2010, p. 192. 

19 Michael W. Doyle, Empires, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986, p. 45.

20 World Bank, Top 8 countries voting power,, accessed 12 July 2021. 

21 Timothy J. McKeown, ‘How U.S. Policymakers Assessed Their Control of Multilateral Organizations, 1957–1982’, Review of International Organizations, vol. 4, no. 3, 2009, pp 279–80.

22 Asian Development Bank, ‘Shareholders’,, accessed 12 July 2021. 

23 Neil Hulme, ‘China Consortium Wins Rights to Develop Guinea Iron Ore Deposit’, Financial Times, 2 December 2019. 

24 David Crowe, ‘China Warning: Joyce Calls on MPs to Prepare for End of Pax Americana’, Sydney Morning Herald, 22 June 2021.  

25 Paul Hasluck, ‘Australian Foreign Policy’, Current Notes on International Affairs, vol. 38, no. 1, January 1967.

26 Joseph A. Schumpeter, The Theory of Economic Development, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1934, pp 273–4.

27 Cesar A. Hidalgo, Ricardo Hausmann and Partha Sarathi Dasgupta, ‘The Building Blocks of Economic Complexity’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America, vol. 106, no. 26, 30 June 2009, pp 10570–5.

28 The Growth Lab at Harvard University, The Atlas of Economic Complexity, http://www.atlas.cid

29 Office of the Chief Economist, ‘Globalizing Australia’, Industry Insights, June 2018.

30 Gunnar Myrdal, Economic Theory and Under-Developed Regions, London: Methuen, 1963.

31 Roger G. Skirrow, David L. Huston, Terrence P. Mernagh, Jane P. Thorne, Helen Dulfer and Anthony B. Senior, ‘Critical Commodities for a High-tech World: Australia’s Potential to Supply Global Demand’, Geoscience Australia,

32 Alan Beattie, ‘The EU Plan to Live in a Raw Materials World’, Financial Times, 26 November 2020.

33 ‘Critical Minerals Facilitation Office launches operations’,

34 Beattie.

35 Lisa Gropp, ‘The 200th Anniversary of David Ricardo’, Industry Insights, June 2018.

Connecting local knowledge to International Law – How social science changed the course of a landmark trial

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Sat, 12/06/2021 - 1:35am in

Researchers can play important roles bridging and connecting different communities and their knowledge. In this post, Duncan Green talks to Holly Porter about how her anthropological research has helped to inform cross-cultural understandings of sexual wrongdoing. Discussing the impact this work has had on the trial of LRA commander Dominic Ongwen, and the precedent it sets for the prosecution of … Continued

Letter from London: Viral Internationalism

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Thu, 29/04/2021 - 3:00am in

What does the coronavirus crisis tell us about the present and future of internationalism? 

February 2021

I write from the heart of a double crisis. 

On one hand, the United Kingdom, with its outrageously high absolute and per capita infection and death rates, has done very poorly in the face of the pandemic. Remarkably, when the Global Health Security Index, on 24 October 2019, ranked countries on how well prepared they were for a viral pandemic, the United Kingdom was second in the world (the United States was first). That seems a long time ago, and now most of us know someone who has been, or is presently, in hospital; ambulances seem more visible; there are many more, though smaller, funeral cortèges winding their way up Highgate Hill; and the streets of central London are eerily bereft of people. 

At the same time, the United Kingdom’s character, indeed very being, is slowly dissolving. I have three identities and a soft spot. My identities—European, Scottish and British (the soft spot is for the city of Melbourne)—are disappearing in the solvent of Brexit (and COVID-19 prevents me from travelling to the soft spot). After a lifetime in the EU (or, earlier, the EC), I am no longer politically or economically European. Meanwhile, my British identity is threatened by a resurgent Scottish nationalism. Maybe one day I will be forced to choose and find myself, unexpectedly, uncomfortably, and for the first time in my life, English.   

What should we make of these contagions, political and viral? More specifically, how should internationalists respond to all of this? Many of them view this moment as one of renovation and hope. Prompted partly by Donald Trump’s removal from the White House and the return to American ‘normality’ under Joe Biden, liberal multilateralists have urged us to grab the opportunity, learn lessons and renew our commitments to doing things together and at the global level. In the General Assembly late last year, the assembly president called for a new global compact: ‘we can work better together’, he announced”.1 COVID-19 and the disasters of Trumphave induced, among some elites, a nostalgia for globalism. Might not the very multilateralism of the virus—negotiating its way across borders, exploiting globalisation, sidelining sovereigns—be a model for a political multilateralism that does the same? The idea was to become COVID—or like COVID—and transcend national appetite and vanity. The virus, blithely dismissive of frontiers, is somehow, then, a reminder that globalisation has not gone far enough. The answer is more globalisation, an ‘international response’ to coronavirus.2 This, it’s fair to say, is the internationalist orthodoxy.

Some cautionary notes might be useful here. 

The first is that we should understand multilateralism as a choice: a decision to do something with certain people, at a certain level, in advance of certain interests, and not, as is commonly assumed, some sort of free-floating good that we ought to promote at every turn or an ideal destination that we must reach as soon possible. Multilateralism has a politics—one need only consider the way in which red and blue states in the United States might divide on this question. But I get the impression that members of the global liberal mainstream don’t like to think of it in this way. For them, enthusiasm for doing things multilaterally is more a matter of polite manners or right thinking, maybe even a tribal instinct. A lot of serious internationalism is like this and possesses a kind of syllogism: ‘global problems need global solutions’. 

But we might want to pause here and ask: what is a global problem and why would it require a global solution? And who loses and who wins when we think about problems in this way? It may be, for example, that multilateralism is the place where promising ideas go to die. Perhaps Google would prefer it if the Australian government, instead of introducing national legislation with a view to curbing the rapaciously disruptive and homogenising tendencies of the tech giants, continued to work through the OECD for a solution that may never come. Clearly this is not just a question of adjudicating between two different levels by deploying some managerial calculus in order to do things in the most efficient manner. Instead, it is a struggle of blood and bone and ideas in the pursuit of a substantive politics.     

The second cautionary note is really a reminder that what constitutes multilateralism in the first place is highly contested. There are so many different ways to be ‘multilateral’—at the UN, outside the UN, in private fora, in public places, with your friends, or with everyone, legally, extralegally or alegally. So, for example, when people use the phrase ‘multilateral intervention’, it can mean many things: intervention by a group of states, intervention by a group of like-minded allies, intervention authorised by some public body or other, or simply ‘intervention I happen to favour’. Multilateralism comes in many cultural and political forms, from Sino-imperial ‘Belt and Road’ to non-alignment to European collectivism. There are many ways to be multilateral, though we are often given the impression that there is only one.

But third—and this is what I want to focus on—is that COVID may also end up having a chastening effect on support for multilateralism or, at the very least, fondness for Euro-American practices of internationalism. Perhaps this will be because the WHO might have made some mistakes too, or because internationalist expertise was itself ambiguous and divided, or because of a wider loss of faith in global governance or because of a moral and technical failure at the Atlantic core of liberal internationalism.3  

Liberal multilateralists have a stock response to all of this: when multilateralism goes wrong it means we have adopted the wrong type. So, their support for a reversion to multilateralism tends to be accompanied by a very familiar set of reform proposals. As always—and we have seen this in the midst of the virus—international institutions are said to be ‘slow to react’ or the regulations are inadequate or there is a need for ‘an independent review’ or international organisations defer too much to the Great Powers or to sovereignty, or there is an inability to ‘enforce compliance’. So, for example, in relation to the WHO, the French and the Germans have called for more funding and ‘more independence’. Independence and funding to do what, though? These calls to be ‘international’ operate alongside an almost mythical belief in the angelic quality of the space of the international, a space potentially beyond politics, if only states, Great Powers and self-interest would get out of the way—an imperfect but perfectible place, a project of reform cynically deferred.   

Yet when international lawyers have weighed in on what, say, the 2005 WHO International Health Regulations (IHR) required of states, the results have been decidedly contentious. My old friend Gianluca Burci was the co-author of an essay in The Lancet in which the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties was applied to IHR Article 43, which concerns the lawfulness of travel restrictions: ‘Upholding the rule of international law is needed now more than ever. Countries can start by rolling back illegal travel restrictions that have already been implemented and by supporting WHO and each other in implementing the IHR’.4 These restrictions, they argued, are illegal because the scientific evidence does not support them (the footnotes relate to earlier pandemics like Ebola) and because the WHO recommended against them in February 2020.5 

But if this is the rule of international law then there would be widespread rebellions against it in Australia and New Zealand, and maybe now in the UK, too. But it is more likely that, as usual, the rule of international law is not subject to authoritative determinations along these lines, that this is not a matter of technical expertise. Instead, the international rule of law turns out to be the usual hodgepodge of vaguely enunciated norms, questionable interpretation, shooting-in-the-dark expertise and scientific dissensus.6 

But there are two deeper problems for multilateralism. The first is that COVID has made it even more obvious that that we are always operating in some inscrutable space between national and international. But the second, more specific to Anglo-American multilateralism, is related to what I sense might be a shift in internationalism’s moral and technical centre of gravity. 

Global governance is felt and experienced at home, in local places. So UNICEF has been taking out large adverts at my local bus stop saying that, along with the WHO, it will be distributing two billion vaccines. Multilateralism has always been at home, but now it is advertising its own localism. But in a more obvious way the crisis has summoned the state back in. A puzzling new state nationalism has emerged out of this crisis. First, we’ve had the naming of the virus—the Wuhan pneumonia, Trump’s ‘Chinese virus’, the South African variant, the Brazilian variants, the English mutation. It all sounds very Andromeda Strain. And for a virus declared to be global, its various incarnations sound decidedly local. 

In the meantime, the British government is engaged in a chauvinistic boosterism—we are told we have the best genome-splitting laboratory in the northern hemisphere, the quickest roll-out of vaccines in history. And one senses a glee in some countries about the record in other countries. The appalling death rates in Brazil are evidence of Bolsonaro’s unfitness for office (ditto Trump in the United States), the lockdown in Australia or China proof of a carceral mindset or authoritarian discipline, the infection rate in the United Kingdom punishment for British insouciance. 

At the same time, here in the United Kingdom at least, and also in Australia, there is a muscular sub-nationalism. As one Australian friend put it as the state of Victoria locked down its citizens: ‘Now I know what the states are for’. In the United Kingdom two things have happened. The first has been an extra-constitutional or proto-constitutional accretion of power in Scotland and Wales. Suddenly a devolved health policy becomes a very powerful tool of government, especially when placed alongside an accrual of symbolic prestige (Nicola Sturgeon is now sounding more and more like the prime minister of Scotland). Alongside this is the emergence of regional bases of authority in places like Greater Manchester, with its threatened mini-rebellion at the beginning of one of the lockdowns.7 It’s not quite Game of Thrones, but one gets the picture.   

What can we say about all of this? Well, on one hand, there is no there—no place that is beyond the relentless, endless negotiations of the global and the local, the national and the international, the cosmopolitan and the provincial, the private and the public. Nothing is essentially global or local; we act politically to make it so. At a deep level we are all at the same time multilateralists and unilateralists, cosmopolitans and sovereingntists. That is how I am able to deplore the failure to get vaccines to states in Africa, say, and at the same time condemn the failure to get one to my 93-year-old mother in West Sussex. This makes global governance a terribly complicated, even enigmatic, concept or practice or ethics. 

But on the other hand we look out at the world and see circumstances that seem cruelly unjust (extreme asset wealth, dire poverty, general inequality, preventable child mortality). Our problem—which is also a solution—is to put together these instincts with some sort of understanding of what global governance might be intellectually and to participate in a debate about the globe or global politics without giving in to the platitudes that count as respectable thought or the morally pacifying intellectualism that declares the destitute too complicated to save. 

Another question has arisen, though, about the location of the centre of geopolitics. This is partly related to the rise of China, partly the slow recession of US power, partly the fragmentation of European identity. But now we have a collapse in confidence in places that understood themselves to be a kind of centre. Not only can the centre not hold, it is no longer experienced as a centre. The way in which coronavirus has spread sometimes feels like an accelerated version of this uncentring. 

Seen from Europe, it began with a familiar set of motifs. Like SARS, like avian flu, like Ebola, this was an exotic ailment happening elsewhere, in places with inadequate health care or low levels of expertise. We would send experts from the centre; we would provide aid, medical support. Thousands would die, but not here, not now, not us. People in London warned me against flying to Singapore in March. Was it wise? ‘You’d be safer at home’, they said. Ten months later, the United Kingdom’s chief medical officer, Professor Chris Whitty (a famous, and famously baleful, figure seen nightly on the BBC News), was gravely informing me that it was best to assume that everyone I met in London had coronavirus. 

So, state failure, infrastructural collapse in the West (Italy, United Kingdom, United States) and relatively successful medico-political interventions in the East (South Korea (testing); Taiwan, Singapore (border controls, exhortations)). Since then—and let me put this out as a provocation—there has been a cultural, maybe even a moral, shift in the understanding Europeans have about their place in the world. The Wuhan pneumonia was one thing, but the Kent mutation? Then Europeans were denied entry to other states. 

And, for the first time in my adult life, we Amero-Europeans ceased to gaze out at the world with our usual mixture of transient humanitarianism and inactive charitableness and instead became the subject of a sorrowful gaze from elsewhere.  

It’s easy to overplay a crisis, but this might mark an adjustment in the structure of our thought about the world, an undermining of our instinctive faith in multilateralism and a shift in our assumptions about where global expertise and good governance—even pity—might be located. 

1 The plan emerging from the meeting was anti-climactic to say the least. In a lonely little paragraph at the end of the minutes there is a paragraph entitled ‘Action’. This ‘action’ apparently required the adoption of a resolution commemorating the seventy-fifth anniversary of the UN and the decision to allow observer states and political entities to deliver a pre-recorded statement to be played in the General Assembly Hall. 

2 Hathaway et al., ‘Covid and the WHO’, Just Security, 2020. There is a lot of understandable enthusiasm for the COVAX Programme, with $2 billion allocated for vaccinations around the world. This is pretty much exactly the same as the bailout for BA and EasyJet airlines in the United Kingdom, and around 4 per cent of Jeff Bezos’s increase in wealth as a result of the pandemic (billionaires have dedicated $7.2 billion to relief during the pandemic).

3 The WHO is an interesting example of this. Many people have been outraged by the attacks on the WHO from the Trump administration, the defunding of it just one more disgraceful, impeachable act and a decision that rendered the WHO more appealing than ever. Initially, in the United Kingdom too, people seemed to like the idea of WHO expertise. First, they wanted the government to tell them what to do, then they wanted scientists to tell the government what to do via SAGE (its committee of medical experts), then they wanted international experts to tell our experts what to do. Every week or so, a WHO official, David Nabarro, would appear on the BBC News or Radio 4. He was afforded an enormous amount of deference—someone speaking to us from the international centre and thereby capable of acting as an adjudicator between our experts (some of them stay-at-home types who wanted us to lock down forever; others cavalier types who insisted that we should ‘eat out to help out’). It soon became clear that WHO expertise was just as unreliable as its national analogues. An examination of the WHO’s performance in the COVID crisis reveals a very mixed record. The history of the Johnson government’s response to COVID has been met with ire by people who believed that lockdown and travel bans should have been instituted in a more timely manner, along the lines of the East Asian, Southeast Asian and Australasian models. And yet, UK government policy tacked fairly closely to the recommendations emerging from Geneva in the critical early stages of the pandemic. For example, at the first meeting of the WHO Emergency Committee in early 2020, ‘Several members considered that it is still too early to declare a PHEIC (a Public Health Emergency), given its restrictive and binary nature’. See WHO Emergency Committee at



6 The WHO had declared an emergency during the Indonesian H1N1 outbreak (with a 61-per-cent fatality rate), and having jumping the gun there for a flu that was normalised it seemed less inclined to make the same mistake twice (so it made a different mistake).

7 Things have taken a Schmittian turn, we might say, with the capture of sovereignty through extra-constitutional means. In early January, who was in charge of the US armed forces or the Nuclear Football? Pence? Pelosi? Trump? Who called in the National Guard after the attack on Capitol Hill? Pence or Pelosi? Who determines the Brazilian response to COVID? The governors or the president? Whose writ runs in the favelas