“If I am the face of American foreign policy and American power,” Barack Obama mused not long ago aboard his campaign plane, “as long as we are also making prudent strategic decisions, handling emergencies, crises and opportunities in the world in an intelligent and sober way. . . .” He stopped. He wanted to make sure he got this just right, and he had got a little caught up in rebutting the claim, which Hillary Clinton has artfully advanced, that he is not prepared to handle emergencies. Obama stopped picking at his grilled salmon in order to stare out at the sky for a few moments. “I think,” he said, in that deep and measured voice of his, “that if you can tell people, ‘We have a president in the White House who still has a grandmother living in a hut on the shores of Lake Victoria and has a sister who’s half-Indonesian, married to a Chinese-Canadian,’ then they’re going to think that he may have a better sense of what’s going on in our lives and in our country. And they’d be right.”  Perhaps they would. Obama’s supporters believe that his life story and the angle of vision it affords him hold out the possibility of curing the harm they would say we have done to ourselves through our indifference to the views of others and through the insularity of a president who seems so incurious about the world. There is thus an emblematic force to Obama’s candidacy. A President Obama, says Joseph Nye, the Harvard professor who popularized the term “soft power” to describe the capacity to gain support through attraction rather than force, “would do more for America’s soft power around the world than anything else we could do.”  But Nye wasn’t quite finished. At a meeting of national-security experts in August, he played out a harrowing crisis situation involving Iran and concluded afterward that “much though I’m attracted to the freshness of Obama’s life story, I would come out on the experience side of it” — that is, on Clinton’s side. This is Obama’s problem in a nutshell. Democratic voters seem to be torn between the hope of reshaping a frightening world and the fear of being terribly vulnerable to that world. Perhaps Obama’s inability so far to make a dent in Clinton’s 20-point (or more) lead in the polls proves that many believe he’s on the wrong side of that balance.  The United States has had only one foreign policy and one national-security strategy since the transforming events of 9/11 — and this set of doctrines has been shaped by the very distinctive worldview of George W. Bush and Dick Cheney and the men and women around them. The great project of the foreign-policy world in the last few years has been to think through a “post-post-9/11 strategy,” in the words of the Princeton Project on National Security, a study that brought together many of the foreign-policy thinkers of both parties. Such a strategy, the experts concluded, must, like “a Swiss Army knife,” offer different tools for different situations, rather than only the sharp edge of a blade; must pay close attention to “how others may perceive us differently than we perceive ourselves, no matter how good our intentions”; must recognize that other nations may legitimately care more about their neighbors or their access to resources than about terrorism; and must be “grounded in hope, not fear.” A post-post-9/11 strategy must harness the forces of globalization while honestly addressing the growing “perception of unfairness” around the world; must actively promote, not just democracy, but “a world of liberty under law”; and must renew multilateral instruments like the United Nations.  In mainstream foreign-policy circles, Barack Obama is seen as the true bearer of this vision. “There are maybe 200 people on the Democratic side who think about foreign policy for a living,” as one such figure, himself unaffiliated with a campaign, estimates. “The vast majority have thrown in their lot with Obama.” Hillary Clinton’s inner circle consists of the senior-most figures from her husband’s second term in office — the former secretary of state Madeleine Albright, the former national security adviser Sandy Berger and the former United Nations ambassador Richard Holbrooke. But drill down into one of Washington’s foreign-policy hives, whether the Carnegie Endowment or the Brookings Institution or Georgetown University, and you’re bound to hit Obama supporters. Most of them served in the Clinton administration, too, and thus might be expected to support Hillary Clinton. But many of these younger and generally more liberal figures have decamped to Obama. And they are ardent. As Ivo Daalder, a former National Security Council official under President Clinton who now heads up a team advising Obama on nonproliferation issues, puts it, “There’s a feeling that this is a guy who’s going to help us transform the way America deals with the world.” Ex-Clintonites in Obama’s inner circle also include the president’s former lawyer, Greg Craig, and Richard Danzig, his Navy secretary.  The first of the Clinton people to notice this rising political star was Anthony Lake, national-security adviser in Bill Clinton’s first term. Lake says that he was introduced to Obama in 2002 when the latter had just begun considering a run for a Senate seat. Impressed, he began contributing ideas. When Obama came to Washington as a senator and joined the Foreign Relations Committee, Lake continued to work with him on occasion. Like others, Lake was impressed not so much by Obama’s policy prescriptions as by his temperament and intellectual habits. “He has,” Lake says, “the kind of mind that works its way through complexities by listening and giving some edge of legitimacy to various points of view before he comes down on his, and that point of view embraces complexity.” This awareness of complexity felt like a kind of politics itself and a repudiation of the Bush administration’s categorical thinking.  Obama spoke out against the impending war in Iraq in the fall of 2002; and those members of the Democratic establishment who, like Lake, also opposed the war came to view him as a kindred spirit. Susan Rice, a former assistant secretary of state in the Clinton administration who, along with Lake, heads up Obama’s foreign-policy team, says, “You were considered naïve, wrong, weak, stupid to oppose that war.” Hillary Clinton (and John Edwards) voted for the war. Obama’s opposition to it showed Rice “a willingness not to be bound by conventional wisdom and the well-trod path.”  The deep sense of hopefulness that Obama inspires in his supporters has much to do with a life trajectory unique in the history of major presidential candidates. Obama has always been acutely conscious about the relationship between his personal arc and that of his country. In “Dreams From My Father,” published in 1995, before he ran for anything, Obama offered a vivid and strikingly introspective account of his knockabout childhood in Hawaii and Indonesia, as well as of a journey he made as an adult to Kenya, the homeland of his absent father. He presents himself in all his cultural hybridity — African and American and Asian, black and white, infused with all-American hopefulness and with the reserve that comes of living on the receiving end of power.  One recurrent theme of the book is how very little the world, at least the world in which most people live, responds to our wishes or our ideals. Obama’s Indonesian stepfather, Lolo, explains the rule of the jungle to the young boy: “Men take advantage of weakness in other men.” Obama’s mother, an innocent abroad, is shocked to learn that Lolo was conscripted into that country’s brutal repression of an insurgency and sent to the jungles of New Guinea, where he saw and did unspeakable things. In America, Obama writes, power was muted; in a place like Indonesia, it was “undisguised, indiscriminate, naked, always fresh in the memory. Power had taken Lolo and yanked him back into line just when he thought he’d escaped. . . . That’s how things were; you couldn’t change it, you could just live by the rules, so simple once you learned them.”  In 1981, Obama arrived at Columbia University, where he majored in international relations. He wrote his senior thesis on the North-South debate on trade then raging as part of the demand for a “new international economic order.” But he says that he was never much of a lefty. Obama offers himself as the representative of a new generation, free of the dogmas that still burden the Democratic Party. “The Democrats have been stuck in the arguments of Vietnam,” he said to me on the campaign plane, “which means that either you’re a Scoop Jackson Democrat or you’re a Tom Hayden Democrat and you’re suspicious of any military action. And that’s just not my framework.”  Indeed, for all his soaring idealism, Obama seems to have absorbed Lolo’s teachings about the world’s refractoriness. The foreign-policy figures whom he finds “most compelling,” he says, are the archrealists who shaped policy during the cold war, including the secretaries of state George C. Marshall and Dean Acheson and the diplomat-scholar George F. Kennan. “What impresses me is not just the specifics of what they did,” he said, “but the approach they took to solve the problem, which is, if we have assets or tools to deal with foreign policy, we know that the most costly is the military tool, particularly in a nuclear era, so we want to apply all the other tools that are less costly.” Obama said that he also admired the worldly pragmatists who served the first George Bush, including Brent Scowcroft, the national-security adviser: “The whole Bush team, I think, was not entirely aware of the opportunities of this new world, but they had a very clear-eyed assessment.” He has sought out the former secretary of state Colin Powell for counsel, and spoken with Scowcroft as well.  Obama was sitting across from me in one of the leather bucket seats of the walnut-trimmed corporate jet the campaign had just leased. He has a look as cool and unruffled as his velvety tenor. He was tieless, as always, and his white shirt billowed around his trim frame; not even the tiniest crease marred his pale khaki linen pants. Because Obama has a loose and jokey manner — fist-bumps, male hugs — you do not immediately notice the inner gyroscope that keeps everything at a level. Even in public, he rarely changes the volume, speed or pitch of his voice. He does not hurry; he lopes. He seems to have a gift for husbanding his energy. He had woken early that morning in Manchester to play a game of pickup basketball against kids from Southern New Hampshire University. (The Obamas lost, 11-10.) The plane was heading to Des Moines; Obama had four campaign events scheduled for later that day. He was yawning, and he had pushed his salmon aside, half-eaten; but he spoke for about an hour before taking a nap.  You feel, with Obama, that life experience, temperament and opinion are all of a piece. He is, on the one hand, an idealist and optimist who recoils from the zero-sum formula. If a single sentiment stands at the heart of his worldview, it’s that, as he said in a speech earlier this year, “the security of the American people is inextricably linked to the security of all people.” What’s good for others is good for us; there’s no contradiction between idealism and realism. This may strike some as naïve; and yet Obama shies away from the exclamatory rhetoric and grandiose formulations that have become George Bush’s stock in trade. Bush’s post-9/11 recognition that our own security depends on the well-being of people on the other side of the globe led him to propound the so-called Freedom Agenda and to promote democracy in the Middle East. Obama, though a more eager democracy promoter than his realist heroes were, is also far more tempered than Bush. He accuses the Bush administration of an ethnocentric fixation on elections and classic political rights. Instead, he argues: “We have to be focused on what are the aspirations of the people in those countries. Once those aspirations are met, it opens up space for the kind of democratic regimes that we want.”  Obama speaks with special passion about the need to change America’s image in the world — and not only by proving that it can elect a 46-year-old black man with roots in the Muslim world. He returns again and again to the question of what America means to the rest of the world. In one of his speeches, he observed that United States senators typically see “the desperate faces” of Darfur or Baghdad from the height of a helicopter. “And it makes you stop and wonder,” he added, “when those faces look up at an American helicopter, do they feel hope, or do they feel hate?” Obama would like to restore the era when people in capitals all over the world could go to the local American cultural center to read books and magazines, the way he could in Jakarta — though now he would add English lessons and vocational training, and “stories of America’s Muslims and the strength they add to our country.” He argues that we must give emerging powers like India, Brazil, Nigeria and South Africa “a stake in upholding the international order.” Obama is an unabashed fan of multilateral institutions. At an event in New Hampshire this summer, I heard him say, “I want to go before the United Nations and say, ‘America’s back!’ ” This is a bit too multilateral even for some of his advisers, who take a more skeptical view of the U.N. than he does. But for Obama, our willingness to be constrained by rules that govern others may take precedence over the rules themselves.  By the time he announced his candidacy earlier this year, Obama was already a media phenomenon thanks to his star turn at the 2004 Democratic convention and the publication of his second book, “The Audacity of Hope.” He moved in a bright nimbus of expectation; but he had arrived so recently on the national stage that the idea of a President Obama seemed almost impertinent. And Americans were all too familiar with the dangers of callow presidents. This spring, Obama tried to prove his readiness for office by laying out his foreign-policy views in a series of speeches and the obligatory essay in Foreign Affairs. He was obviously far more knowledgeable about the world, and far more nuanced in his understanding, than George Bush was in 2000. But was this junior senator with the boyish mien seasoned enough for the Oval Office? This was the threshold he had to cross. And Hillary Clinton wasted no time in planting the seeds of doubt.  In the CNN/YouTube debate in early July, Obama was asked, “Would you be willing to meet, separately, without preconditions, during the first year of your administration, in Washington or anywhere else, with the leaders of Iran, Syria, Venezuela, Cuba and North Korea, in order to bridge the gap that divides our countries?” Obama replied, “I would,” and added that it was a “disgrace” that the Bush administration had refused on principle to do so. This was pretty standard Democratic rhetoric; but Clinton shot back, “Well, I will not promise to meet with the leaders of these countries during my first year.” She would “pursue a very vigorous diplomacy” but would never allow herself to be “used for propaganda purposes” by rogue leaders. The next day, sensing an opening, Clinton lashed into Obama’s offer as “irresponsible and frankly naïve.” Obama, in turn, accused his opponent of advocating a “Bush-Cheney Lite” brand of diplomacy and insisted that our standing had fallen “because people think that the United States wants to dictate across the world instead of cooperate across the world.”  Here was a false debate that was nevertheless extremely telling. When criticizing Bush rather than Obama, Clinton mocked the administration’s unwillingness to engage with enemies. “Direct negotiations are not a sign of weakness,” she said in a 2006 speech to the Council on Foreign Relations. “They’re a sign of leadership.” She advocated direct talks with both North Korea and Iran, observing in the latter case that our willingness to talk tells the Iranian people that “our quarrel is with their leaders, not with them” and shows the international community that “we are pursuing every available peaceful avenue.” And only a few days before the debate Obama said that he would set conditions before meeting with President Hugo Chávez of Venezuela. In short, you would need a very fine instrument to calculate the difference between Clinton’s and Obama’s willingness to talk to bad guys. The dispute looked like classic political posturing, with Clinton trying to box her opponent into a frame reading, “Not Ready for Leadership in This Grave Era,” and Obama fighting back with “A Prisoner of Old Thinking.”  The post-debate spin was that Clinton won the battle of the narrative frames; but a CNN focus group concluded that the dust-up was Obama’s best moment. And Obama found that he was as comfortable with his side of the debate as Clinton was with hers. “It accentuated a difference between the two of them that I’m not sure either of them fully appreciated beforehand,” said Samantha Power, the author and Harvard professor, who is another one of Obama’s chief advisers. “It was orienting and galvanizing.” But the difference between them wasn’t really a matter of preconditions and propaganda points. The debate was “orienting” because it exposed the very different orientations of the two — one toward tough-mindedness and resolve, the other toward transparency and dialogue; the one toward the peril that we face, the other toward opportunities we must explore. How you felt about the debate had to do with how you felt about the world.
Barack Obama says his experience gives him a guide to making a “post-post-9/11” foreign policy. Whether Americans will relinquish their fear is another question.