No resistance: an anti-drone protest in Pakistan.
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Eyes in the sky: the legal and philosophical implications of drone warfare

Regardless of its critics, drone warfare is here to stay.

Drone Theory
Grégoire Chamayou. Translated by Janet Lloyd
Penguin, 292pp, £6.99

Drones and Targeted Killing: Legal, Moral and Geopolitical Issues
Edited by Marjorie Cohn
Olive Branch Press, 296pp, £15.99

The US army defines a drone as “a land, sea or air vehicle that is remotely or automatically controlled”. Missing from that jarringly prophylactic description is the use of drones as tools of death. The French writer Grégoire Chamayou, in what might be termed a philosophical investigation into drones and their implications, defines them more pithily – and accurately. “Their history,” he writes, “is that of an eye turned into a weapon.”

This weapon is now at the centre of American military doctrine. The US, Chamayou tells us, trains more drone operators than “all the pilots of fighter planes and bombers put together”. This is, perhaps, unsurprising, given that the number of US armed drone “patrols” increased by 1,200 per cent between 2004 and 2012. And these patrols are deadly. During the same period, drones killed between 2,640 and 3,474 people in Pakistan alone.

In conflicts from the Vietnam war to those in Afghanistan and Iraq, the US has always had to contend with its soldiers returning home in body bags. Dead Arabs are an acceptable consequence of war; dead Americans, not so much. This is the problem faced by super­powers since their concept first existed: exerting influence requires sending in troops. The beauty of drones is that they nullify this. In the euphemistic words of the air force officer David Deptula, “The real advantage of unmanned aerial systems is that they allow you to project power without projecting vulnerability.” Chamayou is, as ever, more blunt. Drones, he explains, allow war to go from being possibly asymmetrical to “absolutely unilateral”. They radicalise existing processes of remote warfare and extend them to their logical conclusion: doing away with combat altogether.

Yet this is true only for one side. To the many Pakistanis and Yemenis on the receiving end, these all-seeing eyes – Jeremy Bentham’s panopticon given wings – make combat not only deadly but perennial. The result is that the drones often torture before they kill. Buzzing overhead, sometimes for days before striking, they reduce subject populations to nervous wrecks, all of this achieved from the comfort of a Nevada control room in which drone operators eat M&M’s and hope they “get to shoot the truck with all the dudes in it”.

Chamayou’s moral outrage seeps on to almost every page, even if the language never loses its precision (a rarity in philosophical works). The book opens with a transcript of a conversation between members of a drone unit, in which it becomes clear that confusion (“Did they blow that up? They did, right?” “They did, yeah.” “No, they didn’t”) combined with boredom (“months of monotony and milliseconds of mayhem” is how their job is described in the introduction) are the dominating impulses of 21st-century warfare. Fear is almost entirely absent, as it would be when you’re thousands of miles from your target and he or she has no chance to strike back against you.

If the “just war” theory holds that certain criteria must be met for a conflict to be considered morally justifiable, the book makes it clear that drone warfare fails. Supporters may laud the precision of drones (especially when compared to, say, aircraft bombing) but it doesn’t matter how precise your weapon is if the humans manning it cannot discern exactly who the target is – or, indeed, if targets are decided on almost whimsically, as this 2010 conversation regarding a situation in Afghanistan shows:

Mission intelligence co-ordinator: Adolescent near the rear of the SUV.
Sensor operator: Well, teenagers can fight.
Mission intelligence co-ordinator: Pick up a weapon and you’re a combatant, it’s how that works.

Similar themes are covered in Drones and Targeted Killing, a series of essays that stress the immorality and illegality of drone warfare. The book’s tone is made clear in its foreword, written by the anti-apartheid hero Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who damns “Obama’s drones” that “have been killing thousands of people with no due process at all”. Tutu is particularly enraged by the way in which Americans called for special courts to rule in cases when their government found it necessary to kill US citizens (on US soil, no less) – but non-Americans would be afforded no such consideration. “Do the United States and its people really want to tell those of us who live in the rest of the world that our lives are not of the same value as yours?” he asks.

Such are the moral contradictions on which drone warfare is built. We learn, for example, the absurdly vague (and terrifying) way in which the Obama administration has counted drone casualties. The criterion is simple: “All military-age men killed in a drone strike zone are considered to be combatants ‘unless there is explicit intelligence posthumously proving them innocent’.” One suspects again that this approach would fail the “just war” test.

Even when the administration attempts to be more specific, differentiating between “personality strikes” (on “named, high-value terrorists”) and “signature strikes” (on “training camps” and “suspicious compounds”), the effect is often to strike large crowds of people, giving the lie to the supposed precision of drone killings. These lax standards have become an unpleasant joke among state department officials. When the CIA “‘sees three guys doing jumping jacks’, the agency thinks it is a terrorist training camp”, one said. But sceptics argue: “Men loading a truck with fertiliser could be bomb makers – but they might also be farmers.”

Regardless of its critics, drone warfare is here to stay. It’s too easy, too cheap (in terms of American casualties) and too established in US security and political apparatuses to be discarded now. These books remind us that, contrary to some received wisdom, using drones is not necessarily a more ethical form of warfare. And, although they may fly overhead, they do not provide governments with what they always crave in war: the moral high ground.

David Patrikarakos is the author of “Nuclear Iran: the Birth of an Atomic State” (I B Tauris) and a Poynter fellow at Yale University

This article first appeared in the 19 June 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Mini Mao

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Meet the hot, funny, carefree Cool Mums – the maternal version of the Cool Girl

As new film Bad Moms reveals, what the cool girl is to the diet-obsessed prom queen, the cool mum is to the PTA harpy.

I suppose we should all be thankful. Time was when “mum’s night off” came in the form of a KFC value bucket. Now, with the advent of films such as Bad Moms – “from the gratefully married writers of The Hangover” – it looks as though mums are finally getting permission to cut loose and party hard.

This revelation could not come a moment too soon. Fellow mums, you know all those stupid rules we’ve been following? The ones where we think “god, I must do this, or it will ruin my precious child’s life”? Turns out we can say “sod it” and get pissed instead. Jon Lucas and Scott Moore said so.

I saw the trailer for Bad Moms in the cinema with my sons, waiting for Ghostbusters to start. Much as I appreciate a female-led comedy, particularly one that suggests there is virtue in shirking one’s maternal responsibilities, I have to say there was something about it that instantly made me uneasy. It seems the media is still set on making the Mommy Wars happen, pitching what one male reviewer describes as “the condescending harpies that run the PTA” against the nice, sexy mummies who just want to have fun (while also happening to look like Mila Kunis). It’s a set up we’ve seen before and will no doubt see again, and while I’m happy some attention is being paid to the pressures modern mothers are under, I sense that another is being created: the pressure to be a cool mum.

When I say “cool mum” I’m thinking of a maternal version of the cool girl, so brilliantly described in Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl:

“Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot.”

The cool girl isn’t like all the others. She isn’t weighed down by the pressures of femininity. She isn’t bothered about the rules because she knows how stupid they are (or at least, how stupid men think they are). She does what she likes, or at least gives the impression of doing so. No one has to feel guilty around the cool girl. She puts all other women, those uptight little princesses, to shame.

What the cool girl is to the diet-obsessed prom queen, the cool mum is to the PTA harpy. The cool mum doesn’t bore everyone by banging on about organic food, sleeping habits or potty training. Neither hyper-controlling nor obsessively off-grid, she’s managed to combine reproducing with remaining a well-balanced person, with interests extending far beyond CBeebies and vaccination pros and cons. She laughs in the face of those anxious mummies ferrying their kids to and from a multitude of different clubs, in between making  cupcakes for the latest bake sale and sitting on the school board. The cool mum doesn’t give a damn about dirty clothes or additives. After all, isn’t the key to happy children a happy mum? Perfection is for narcissists.

It’s great spending time with the cool mum. She doesn’t make you feel guilty about all the unpaid drudgery about which other mothers complain. She’s not one to indulge in passive aggression, expecting gratitude for all those sacrifices that no one even asked her to make. She’s entertaining and funny. Instead of fretting about getting up in time to do the school run, she’ll stay up all night, drinking you under the table. Unlike the molly-coddled offspring of the helicopter mum or the stressed-out kids of the tiger mother, her children are perfectly content and well behaved, precisely because they’ve learned that the world doesn’t revolve around them. Mummy’s a person, too.

It’s amazing, isn’t it, just how well this works out. Just as the cool girl manages to meet all the standards for patriarchal fuckability without ever getting neurotic about diets, the cool mum raises healthy, happy children without ever appearing to be doing any actual motherwork. Because motherwork, like dieting, is dull. The only reason any woman would bother with either of them is out of some misplaced sense of having to compete with other women. But what women don’t realise – despite the best efforts of men such as the Bad Moms writers to educate us on this score – is that the kind of woman who openly obsesses over her children or her looks isn’t worth emulating. On the contrary, she’s a selfish bitch.

For what could be more selfish than revealing to the world that the performance of femininity doesn’t come for free? That our female bodies are not naturally hairless, odourless, fat-free playgrounds? That the love and devotion we give our children – the very care work that keeps them alive – is not something that just happens regardless of whether or not we’ve had to reimagine our entire selves to meet their needs? No one wants to know about the efforts women make to perform the roles which men have decided come naturally to us. It’s not that we’re not still expected to be perfect partners and mothers. It’s not as though someone else is on hand to pick up the slack if we go on strike. It’s just that we’re also required to pretend that our ideals of physical and maternal perfection are not imposed on us by our position in a social hierarchy. On the contrary, they’re meant to be things we’ve dreamed up amongst ourselves, wilfully, if only because each of us is a hyper-competitive, self-centred mean girl at heart.

Don’t get me wrong. It would be great if the biggest pressures mothers faced really did come from other mothers. Alas, this really isn’t true. Let’s look, for instance, at the situation in the US, where Bad Moms is set. I have to say, if I were living in a place where a woman could be locked up for drinking alcohol while pregnant, where she could be sentenced to decades behind bars for failing to prevent an abusive partner from harming her child, where she could be penalised in a custody case on account of being a working mother – if I were living there, I’d be more than a little paranoid about fucking up, too. It’s all very well to say “give yourself a break, it’s not as though the motherhood police are out to get you”. Actually, you might find that they are, especially if, unlike Kunis’s character in Bad Moms, you happen to be poor and/or a woman of colour.

Even when the stakes are not so high, there is another reason why mothers are stressed that has nothing to do with pressures of our own making. We are not in need of mindfulness, bubble baths nor even booze (although the latter would be gratefully received). We are stressed because we are raising children in a culture which strictly compartmentalises work, home and leisure. When one “infects” the other – when we miss work due to a child’s illness, or have to absent ourselves to express breastmilk at social gatherings, or end up bringing a toddler along to work events – this is seen as a failure on our part. We have taken on too much. Work is work and life is life, and the two should never meet.

No one ever says “the separation between these different spheres – indeed, the whole notion of work/life balance – is an arbitrary construct. It shouldn’t be down to mothers to maintain these boundaries on behalf of everyone else.” Throughout human history different cultures have combined work and childcare. Yet ours has decreed that when women do so they are foolishly trying to “have it all”, ignoring the fact that no one is offering mothers any other way of raising children while maintaining some degree of financial autonomy. These different spheres ought to be bleeding into one another.  If we are genuinely interested in destroying hierarchies by making boundaries more fluid, these are the kind of boundaries we should be looking at. The problem lies not with identities – good mother, bad mother, yummy mummy, MILF – but with the way in which we understand and carry out our day-to-day tasks.

But work is boring. Far easier to think that nice mothers are held back, not by actual exploitation, but by meanie alpha mummies making up arbitrary, pointless rules. And yes, I’d love to be a bad mummy, one who stands up and says no to all that. Wouldn’t we all? I’d be all for smashing the matriarchy, if that were the actual problem here, but it’s not.

It’s not that mummies aren’t allowing each other to get down and party. God knows, we need it. It’s just that it’s a lot less fun when you know the world will still be counting on you to clear up afterwards.  

Glosswitch is a feminist mother of three who works in publishing.