False Situations

 No sooner had I finished my recent post about Julien Gracq's 1951 novel The Opposing Shore than tensions flared between our real-life Orsenna and Farghestan in the Pacific: by which I mean Taiwan and the People's Republic of China. This week, the PRC military engaged in an unprecedentedly aggressive set of war games, completely encircling Taiwan in what can only be seen as a dangerous sign of escalating tensions between the countries—if not a threat of something even worse (like a looming invasion). 

As you may recall, the mythic nations in Gracq's novel are engaged in a long-simmering conflict in which there are no active hostilities—but neither has peace been officially declared. In this regard, Gracq's fictional premise could be regarded as a stand-in for any number of real-world geopolitical conflicts dating from the twentieth century that have never been formally resolved: the uneasy truce between North and South Korea, say—or, to the point here, the dispute over the political status of Taiwan. 

But even beyond these obvious parallels, the themes of Gracq's novel are particularly relevant here. The storyline of The Opposing Shore, after all—which builds to a climax that never quite arrives, at least not in the pages of the book that we see—depicts how a fragile and undeclared peace of this sort—the same type of anxious truce that prevails in the border between the Koreas, or between China and Taiwan—comes to unravel. Gracq's point is that such peaces, no matter how awkward, are perhaps worth preserving.

One of the characters in the book, an envoy from Farghestan, admits in one scene that the two nations (his own and Orsenna) have managed to get themselves into a "false situation." "[B]etween states, as between individuals," he acknowledges, "can be created quite singular false situations. By the very fact of their... longevity, they can last that much longer." (Howard trans. throughout.)

And it must be admitted that Taiwan and the PRC are in precisely such a "false situation." As is the United States, with regard to both countries. After all: no one could pretend that the "One China policy," according to which both nations refuse to acknowledge the legitimate existence of the other's government, yet both agree that they are not technically separate countries either, makes any logical sense. Nor, for that matter, does the U.S.'s "maybe we'll defend Taiwan, maybe we won't" official posture of "strategic ambiguity." 

Yet, it cannot be denied any less that this "false situation" has endured. It has shown great "longevity," just as the envoy notes. And, I would maintain, there is no intrinsic reason why it should not continue indefinitely. 

To be sure, the situation is tense and imperfect. In an ideal world, I would prefer that Taiwan could declare its independence and live as a free and autonomous liberal democratic republic (actually, in an even more ideal world, I also wish that the PRC would become a free and autonomous liberal democratic republic too, instead of the Orwellian superstate it currently is). But we do not live in an ideal world. And in this world that we have, a tense but prolonged peace way well be preferable to the available alternatives. 

Some of the characters in Gracq's novel doubt this. They maintain, at last, that it is better to simply have the war and end the "false situation" than to continue without resolution. The book's protagonist, Aldo, and the rest of the younger generation, are hungry for action. They want to solve the Farghestan situation once and for all—the same way Rome ended the Punic wars. Farghestan delenda est. 

Aldo declares, in one scene, that reviving open hostilities is surely better than living indefinitely with a tense and paradoxical peace. "Orsenna can't live forever with its head in the sand," he argues, to the aged captain who has mentored him, but who wishes to prolong the peace. "You're the only one who's been able to live here without choking to death," he goes on. As for the option of simply accepting the "false situation" that had prevailed hitherto between the two countries, he argues, "It wasn't... possible any more" to do so. 

But to this, the captain replies: "Yes, it was [possible], Aldo. [...] You can't understand because you're not from around here. But for those of us who've taken the blood in our veins from Orsenna—to what is elsewhere, to what will come later—it's a great feat just to be. Here. Now. [...] You don't know what a deliverance that is[.]"

Unfortunately, there are all too many people in our present world who seem to be siding with Aldo in this dispute, rather than the captain. There is President Xi and his nationalist and expansionist ambitions, which have shifted the PRC's foreign policy in a far more aggressive direction, for instance. 

There are also forces in the U.S. that threaten to destabilize the peace. Some want to resolve the conflict by backing Taiwanese independence overtly. Even if it might trigger a war, they think, it is better to simply have it out—better than living with one's "head in the sand." In both China and the United States, then—but from competing perspectives, there are some in the party of "Farghestan delenda est." 

Meanwhile, there are also the forces militating to abandon "strategic ambiguity" from the opposite direction. Trump, for instance, in line with his usual affinity for strongmen and our authoritarian adversaries, has hinted he would openly abandon Taiwan to its fate. His open indications that his administration would refuse to come to the island's defense, of course, significantly weaken any unspoken deterrent effect that might currently be holding Xi's government back from an invasion. 

What none of these people seem to realize is that there are in fact worse things than living in a "false situation." As tense and awkward as such situations may be, they are in fact infinitely preferable to open war. It is better for Taiwan and the PRC and the US to go on living indefinitely with our "heads in the sand"—talking about "One China" and "strategic ambiguity" and other frank paradoxes—than to take our heads out of the hole and see a cruise missile heading toward us. 

The young, like Aldo, may struggle with this. To them, it feels like a demand to live a lie. But the aged, like Aldo's captain, know that life is short enough as it is. There is no reason to hasten its end. It is a privilege "just to be. Here. Now." A false situation, however flawed, can in fact be a "deliverance," as the captain says—so long as it preserves us from war. 

Of course we all look ridiculous with our heads in the sand (no one can pretend that "One China" and "strategic ambiguity" are anything better than punchlines). And the young will never suffer lightly being made to look ridiculous. But perhaps it is better, at last, to be ridiculous than dead? And if you have trouble accepting that, could we at least agree: it is better to be ridiculous than to kill?