Sergey Radchenko is the Wilson E. Schmidt Distinguished Professor at the Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies. He has written extensively on the Cold War, nuclear history, and on Russian and Chinese foreign and security policies.
In an opinion piece published this month, historian Timothy Snyder launched a fiery critique of tech billionaire Elon Musk for his apparent refusal to turn on Starlink satellite coverage for Crimea last year, which would have enabled a Ukrainian drone attack on Sevastopol.
Snyder argued that the failure to provide Starlink coverage was inexcusable, and that the entrepreneur was “duped” by Russian nuclear blackmail, leading to needless casualties and making nuclear war more likely.
Not only is this argument quite unsound, but its vehement presentation also falls far short of what academics — as opposed to political activists — should be aiming at.
The key point in Snyder’s take is that Ukraine’s successful operations in Crimea against military installations, infrastructure and the Russian fleet haven’t resulted in much-feared “escalation” by Russia. In fact, “the net effect of such operations was de-escalatory, as such [Ukrainian] attacks reduce Russia’s capability to attack Ukrainian territory,” he argued.
But the assertion is misconstrued. If it’s true that actions which reduce an enemy’s capability to attack are “de-escalatory,” then any military action could be deemed de-escalatory.
For example, by this measure, Stalingrad was de-escalatory for both sides. The Korean War was de-escalatory all the way: from the North Korean attack on the South to America entering the fray and the Chinese decision to intervene. Former United States President Lyndon B. Johnson’s decision to escalate in Vietnam in 1964-1965 could then also be reframed as de-escalatory, for its purpose was clearly to degrade Hanoi’s capability to continue the war.
Now, it is true that some escalatory moves can, in fact, become de-escalatory.
For example, the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki (which was unquestionably escalatory) helped bring Japan around to capitulation — as did the Soviet entry into the war — and it can thus be said to have a “net de-escalatory effect.” However, this was only because Japan lacked the ability and the willingness to respond in kind.
If the German or the Japanese had atomic bombs at the end of World War II, then perhaps they too would have moved up the escalation ladder rather than surrendered.
Snyder’s argument that Ukraine’s escalation — whether in Crimea or elsewhere — can have de-escalatory effects hinges on the assumption that, as a result of such escalation, Russia will have similarly lost the ability or the willingness to prosecute its brutal war. There is very little evidence that would support this assertion.
The argument misleads readers into a false sense of confidence, confusing matters by using a play on words that presents an obvious escalation as de-escalation. And as a result, we may well gain in hubris but lose in analytical clarity.
Historians attempt to make sense of the confusion of the past by stringing together facts and arguments from archives, memoirs and recollections. With luck, and a good deal of indulgence on the part of their readers, they may even succeed in putting forward convincing interpretations of what may have happened.
By contrast, historians who attempt to make sense of the confusion of the present have very little to go on but gut feeling. Although a commendable methodology, it is rarely sufficient.
Thus, what are we to make of this argument that Musk’s actions “have increased the chance of nuclear war”?
The logic of behind it runs like this: Musk became overly worried that Ukrainian strikes on Crimea would lead to Russia’s nuclear retaliation. This means that Russian nuclear blackmail was successful, which, in turn, means Russia will be more likely to resort to nuclear blackmail on future occasions, making actual nuclear use more likely.
Again, the argument is fundamentally misconstrued.
The possibility of nuclear use is inherent in any conflict involving a nuclear power. U.S. policy makers weighed the use of nuclear weapons on multiple occasions during the Cold War — from Korea to the Second Taiwan Straits crisis, and from the Cuban Missile Crisis to Vietnam.
On those occasions there were also leaders like China’s Mao Zedong, for instance, who claimed the atomic bomb was merely a paper tiger. And perhaps he was right, for despite all the tension and brinksmanship, a nuclear war was avoided after all. Historians will tell you, however, that we just got lucky.
The bottom line is this: Neither Snyder nor anyone else save for Russian President Vladimir Putin knows what his actual red lines are, and the fact that he failed to escalate to the nuclear level in response to drone attacks on Crimea neither implies nor refutes the notion that he may do so at some later date, in response to some future threat.
What we’re dealing with is fundamental uncertainty. We cannot wish away the nuclear threat by simply pretending it doesn’t exist.
The only reasonable position to take amid such radical uncertainty is to test Putin’s alleged red lines carefully, while signaling to the Kremlin that nuclear use will incur unacceptable costs. This is precisely what U.S. President Joe Biden’s administration has done very effectively.
Has this strategy cost Ukrainian lives? Probably. Has it also saved Ukrainian lives by avoiding escalation? We don’t know. But the stakes are too high to simply assume Putin will bluff his way to a complete defeat.
Historians and public intellectuals are neither prophets nor revolutionaries unfurling heroic banners on behalf of great causes. Our role is to cool heads by weighing words: carefully, methodically, pedantically and with an abiding sense of humility — the historian’s sole refuge.