There is an interesting resemblance between T. E. Lawrence and Rory Stewart. At first glance, the comparison seems a little odd. Lawrence belonged to the First World War and became one of the most famous figures of the twentieth century. Stewart is a contemporary British former politician, diplomat and writer. Lawrence operated in the Arab Revolt against the Ottoman Empire; Stewart found himself in post-invasion Iraq. One became “Lawrence of Arabia”; the other became a rather unconventional Conservative politician who eventually left Westminster. Yet their careers share a curious pattern.
Both were unusually young, highly educated British men who found themselves operating in complicated foreign societies, apparently far beyond what their age and formal position might have suggested. Both became useful because they could move between worlds. And both acquired something of the aura of the exceptional individual: the person who seems able to accomplish things that conventional institutions and officials cannot.
The comparison also raises a more interesting question about Lawrence himself. Was his remarkable career really the result of some almost inexplicable personal genius, or was he an unusually talented man who happened to be placed in an extraordinary situation?
The answer is probably somewhere between the two. Lawrence was genuinely exceptional. But the circumstances in which he operated amplified his abilities, while the stories later told about him amplified them further.
Lawrence did not begin the Arab Revolt as “Lawrence of Arabia”. He was a young British archaeologist and intelligence officer who had acquired an unusually detailed knowledge of the Middle East. He had travelled extensively in the region before the First World War, spoke Arabic and had worked for British intelligence in Cairo.
When he was sent to the Hejaz in 1916, his formal role was essentially that of an intelligence and liaison officer. He was expected to establish contact with the Arab forces and report on the situation. That is considerably less dramatic than the opening of David Lean's 1962 film, in which Lawrence appears to be plucked from obscurity and sent into the desert to meet Prince Faisal. He rapidly demonstrates that he understands the Arabs and the desert better than the conventional British officers around him, and before long seems to be shaping the campaign himself. The reality was slower and more complicated. Lawrence became influential because he proved exceptionally useful as an intermediary between the British and Arab sides.
That is where Rory Stewart provides such an interesting modern parallel. Following the 2003 invasion of Iraq, Stewart was appointed Coalition Provisional Authority Deputy Governorate Co-ordinator in Maysan province in southern Iraq. He found himself responsible for an extraordinary mixture of tasks: elections, development projects, tribal disputes and civil-military relations. He operated in an environment of growing unrest and eventually faced a siege by Sadrist militia.
Again, the formal title does not quite convey the reality. Here was a relatively young British man dealing directly with local political leaders, tribal figures, military officers and an increasingly hostile population. Like Lawrence, he had been placed in an unfamiliar society under extraordinary circumstances and given responsibilities that appeared disproportionate to his age and formal position.
The strongest resemblance between the two men is therefore not that they were soldiers, politicians or adventurers. It is that both became useful because they could operate between institutions. Lawrence understood the British military and intelligence establishment, but he also understood Arab language, culture, geography and politics. He could explain one side to the other. Stewart found himself in a similarly awkward position in Iraq. He had to interpret local political and tribal realities to coalition authorities while simultaneously explaining the intentions and limitations of the coalition to the Iraqis with whom he was dealing. This is a particular kind of talent.
The intermediary does not necessarily possess the greatest formal authority. Instead, they become valuable because they can enter a room occupied by people who do not understand one another and make communication possible. They know enough about both sides to translate not merely words, but assumptions, expectations and fears. Such a person can become extremely important very quickly. And it is also easy to see why such people could become legends.
There is a long tradition behind the British fascination with the exceptional individual abroad. Imperial history is full of stories of men who supposedly succeeded because they possessed qualities that ordinary officials lacked. They understood the people, understood the terrain, ignored bureaucratic conventions, lived among the population, improvised and took risks. Above all, they seemed to possess an almost instinctive understanding of what needed to be done.
Lawrence fits this pattern almost perfectly. His knowledge of Arabic and the Middle East was real. His ability to establish relationships with Arab leaders was real. His willingness to travel through dangerous territory and operate alongside Arab forces was real. But these qualities could easily be transformed into something larger: the image of the extraordinary European who somehow understood an entire foreign society better than the institutions of his own government did.
David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia inevitably reinforces this interpretation. The film gives Lawrence the dramatic centrality required by an epic. The Arab Revolt becomes, to a remarkable extent, Lawrence's journey through the desert. He appears to understand what must be done before everyone else does, and to possess the imagination and courage necessary to make it happen. That makes superb cinema, but it also creates the impression that Lawrence was indispensable.
But an intermediary can be genuinely talented without being the person who controls events. This distinction is crucial in Lawrence's case. The Arab Revolt did not begin because Lawrence arrived and gave the Arabs a plan. It was an Arab political and military movement with its own leaders, objectives and internal divisions. Faisal had his own ambitions. Auda Abu Tayi had his own interests. Arab soldiers and officers were already fighting, and the Hashemite leadership had its own relationship with Britain. Lawrence entered an existing historical process. He became important within it, sometimes extraordinarily so, but he did not create it. Nor did he control it.
He could influence Faisal. He could advise British officers. He could help coordinate operations. He could encourage particular strategies and sometimes carry them out himself. But he could not determine the ambitions of the Hashemites, the interests of other Arab leaders or the ultimate decisions of the British government.
The same distinction applies to Stewart in Iraq. Stewart could negotiate with a tribe, organise an election, attempt to resolve a dispute or defend his compound. His position gave him considerable responsibility at ground level. But he could not determine British foreign policy, the overall strategy of the occupation or the eventual political settlement. This is what makes the comparison more interesting than a simple claim that Stewart was a modern Lawrence. Both men illustrate the limits of individual agency inside a much larger political structure.
The exceptional individual can sometimes achieve remarkable things at ground level. They can solve problems that bureaucracies struggle to solve. They can establish relationships that formal institutions cannot. They can improvise when procedures fail. He can sometimes achieve an extraordinary amount precisely because he is willing to operate outside normal institutional boundaries. But they cannot necessarily overcome the political assumptions of the institution above him.
Lawrence eventually encountered this problem in its most painful form. He became increasingly disillusioned with the gap between British promises to the Arabs and the political settlement that followed the war. The man who had helped persuade Arab leaders to cooperate with Britain discovered that his own influence was limited when confronted by the larger strategic and political interests of the British Empire.
Stewart encountered a different version of the same problem in Iraq. His responsibilities placed him close to the consequences of coalition policy, but proximity to a problem is not the same thing as control over it. He could see the difficulties of the occupation at ground level and attempt to respond to them, but he could not redesign the entire intervention.
The circumstances were obviously very different. Lawrence was operating during a world war and within an imperial system; Stewart was working during an occupation undertaken by a modern coalition. The comparison should not be pushed too far. But the underlying pattern is worth noticing.
Both men entered situations in which conventional institutions struggled to understand the environment around them. Both became useful because they possessed unusual personal abilities. And both demonstrated how easily such abilities can be mistaken for comprehensive power. This is perhaps the central problem with the mythology of Lawrence.
The popular story encourages us to imagine that the right man (and historically it usually was a man), possessing sufficient courage, imagination and understanding, can solve an apparently insoluble problem. History is generally less obliging. Courage is not omnipotence, and intelligence is not control.
Lawrence's later reputation complicates matters further because he participated, to some extent, in the creation of his own legend. Seven Pillars of Wisdom is not a neutral record of events, and some of Lawrence's claims and descriptions have been questioned or challenged. This has sometimes encouraged a reaction in the opposite direction: if Lawrence exaggerated his achievements, perhaps the achievements themselves were largely fictitious. That does not follow.
Lawrence really did undertake dangerous journeys. He really did operate with Arab forces. He really did expose himself to considerable danger. He really did become an important liaison between Faisal and the British. The fact that his experiences were later shaped into a powerful personal narrative does not mean that the underlying achievements disappear.
The more interesting question is not whether Lawrence was brave or whether he was a fraud. It is how much of the Lawrence legend should be attributed to the man himself and how much to the extraordinary circumstances in which he operated, the institutions that relied upon him and the storytellers who came afterwards.
Rory Stewart provides a useful modern perspective on this problem precisely because he never became “Stewart of Iraq”. Modern Britain is much less receptive to the imperial hero-making that produced Lawrence's reputation. Stewart nevertheless possessed several of the qualities associated with the older archetype. He was a highly educated young British man who went somewhere difficult, abandoned the comfortable headquarters when necessary, immersed himself in local society and attempted to understand political realities through direct personal contact.
His willingness to walk through towns and villages and talk directly to people distinguished him from the image of the distant Western official operating behind institutional walls. It also made for compelling stories. And compelling stories have a tendency to simplify. The young official who understands the locals becomes the man who understands the country. The administrator who solves a difficult problem becomes the man who can solve the crisis. The intermediary becomes the hero.
The comparison should not be taken to mean that Stewart deliberately created a heroic persona comparable to Lawrence's. Lawrence's relationship with his own legend was unusually complicated, whereas Stewart's story belongs to a very different media and political culture. The similarity lies instead in the way an individual operating in an unfamiliar environment can become the focus of a much larger story.
That transformation is important because it reveals something about how historical reputations are constructed. Exceptional individuals are often easiest to understand when history is reduced to a story about character. It is more satisfying to say that Lawrence possessed extraordinary courage and imagination than to explain the complicated interaction of Arab politics, British strategy, imperial interests, local rivalries and wartime circumstances that made his particular career possible.
The same temptation exists with Stewart. His ability to operate among very different groups in Iraq was real. His willingness to experience the consequences of policy at ground level was real. But neither quality made him master of the situation. His story is interesting partly because of what he could accomplish, and partly because of what he could not. That may be the most useful way to understand Lawrence as well.
Lawrence did not merely participate in history; he became a character in the story of his own history. Stewart offers a fascinating modern echo of that phenomenon. His career reminds us that Britain still occasionally produces the same kind of figure: the unusually capable young outsider who enters a foreign crisis and suddenly finds himself carrying responsibilities far greater than his formal position would suggest. But the comparison ultimately tells us less about the similarities between the two men than it does about the limits of the exceptional individual. Neither man could control the larger forces surrounding him.
That is perhaps the most revealing lesson of all. The intermediary can influence events without commanding them. The exceptional individual can compensate for institutional weaknesses without overcoming them. And the person who appears, from a distance, to have mastered a crisis may in reality have been operating within a narrow space between forces far larger than himself.
