A political Abilene can be any decision, strategy, project, appointment, statement or other course of action towards which a group moves with little enthusiasm but remarkable unanimity—only to ask, when things later go badly: “Why did we go there at all?”
Imagine a family in Texas. Outside, the heat is unbearable. The family is sitting peacefully at home, drinking cold lemonade and playing dominoes. In short, everyone is content with things as they are. Suddenly, one member of the family says: “Why don’t we drive to Abilene for dinner?”
Abilene is not just around the corner. A long journey lies ahead, made worse by the heat, the dust and a car without air conditioning. One member of the family does not want to go at all, but assumes that the others do. Another says it is “a good idea,” although in truth they do not want to go either. A third sees that two people appear to have agreed already and thinks: if I say no, I will spoil everyone’s plans. So the third agrees. The fourth agrees as well. Within minutes, the family sets off for Abilene in complete “unanimity.”
The journey is dreadful, and the food turns out to be poor as well. Several hours later, the family returns home tired and irritated. Only then does it emerge that not one of them had actually wanted to go. Each went because they believed the others wanted to.
With this story, the American management scholar Jerry B. Harvey described the phenomenon that became known as the Abilene paradox. Its essence is simple: a group of people may unanimously adopt a decision that, in reality, not one of its members supports. Strange as it may seem, politics is hardly unfamiliar with such a situation.
And yet, where do we find a political Abilene?
A political Abilene can be any decision, strategy, project, appointment, statement or other course of action towards which a group moves with little enthusiasm but remarkable unanimity—only to ask, when things later go badly:
“Why did we go there at all?” The answer is often: “I thought you wanted it.” “And we thought you wanted it.” That is the full irony of the Abilene paradox.
To see this even more clearly, imagine an abstract collegial body—a council, a leadership team, a committee, or something similar. Ten people are sitting in a room. A proposal is on the table. The first person thinks it is definitely not a good idea, but says nothing because they assume the leader likes it. The second also sees a problem, but notices that the first is silent and concludes: “Apparently, I am the only one who objects.” The third dislikes it too, yet now interprets the silence of two people as a sign of consent. The fourth is convinced that the idea is bad, but thinks that perhaps the others possess information that they do not. The fifth remembers their career; the sixth, their position; the seventh, party discipline. The eighth is simply tired. The ninth thinks that this is not the time for an argument. The tenth tells themselves: “If everyone agrees, why should I say anything?”
To cut a long story short, the chair asks: “Who is against?” There is silence. Then comes the announcement, “Adopted unanimously,” and off we go to political Abilene.
The most interesting part is that after the meeting, the same ten people may encounter one another in the corridor and say, “I knew from the beginning that it was a bad decision”—and each of them may even be telling their own truth.
Silence is not always consent, and this is precisely the central irony of the Abilene paradox. From the outside, there appears to be a consensus. Inside, however, there may be ten different doubts. The problem in this case is not disagreement. On the contrary, the problem is that people perceive agreement where no agreement actually exists. Each tries to accommodate what they imagine the others want. In the end, the group adopts a decision that none of its members would have chosen individually.
Silence in politics can have many causes. “If I object now, I will be seen as disloyal.” “If everyone else agrees, perhaps I am missing something.” “Why should I invite trouble?” Or, sometimes, the most practical response of all: “Fine, let’s go to Abilene. After all, it is not my car—or, at any rate, I am not the one driving.”
Why does the first person not say “no”? In theory, the solution is very simple. Someone must say: “I do not like this decision.” In practice, that single sentence can be difficult to utter. People need a sense of belonging to a group. In a political environment, relationships, trust, loyalty, office and future career prospects are often intertwined. The question is therefore no longer simply, “What do I think?” It may become: “What will happen if I actually say what I think?” That is an entirely different situation. Accordingly:
If a different opinion is automatically treated as disloyalty, the engine is already running.
If expressing doubt about the leader’s idea carries a career risk, the tank has already been filled.
If everyone in the room is trying to determine their own position by reading everyone else’s facial expression, we have already entered the highway to Abilene.
If the decision has been made, no one responsible can be found and everyone insists that they merely followed the others, then we are already in Abilene.
The Abilene paradox does not apply only to major decisions of state. It can also appear in perfectly ordinary organisational matters. Someone may dislike a campaign strategy but believe it is already too late to propose a change. Someone may dislike a candidate but assume that “it was decided above.” Someone sees that a statement is poorly written but thinks, “The specialists probably know what they are doing.” The specialists, meanwhile, may be thinking exactly the same thing: “If the leadership likes it, who are we to object?” Eventually, the text is published. Everyone then reads it and asks: “Who wrote this?”
Sometimes the most accurate answer is: no one. Or, more precisely, everyone.
After returning from Abilene, the shifting of responsibility begins. Those who swallowed Abilene’s dust must explain what they were doing there. This is where another familiar stage of political life begins—the shifting of responsibility. “I was against it from the start.” “I merely followed the team.” “The decision had already been made elsewhere.” “I thought you wanted it,” and so on. In the end, one may even be left with the impression that the decision made itself. Ten people were in the room. It turns out that every one of them was opposed. The decision was adopted nevertheless. Yet its author is nowhere to be found.
The Abilene paradox does not mean that every collective decision is suspect or that every compromise is a weakness. Working in a group often means giving up one’s initial preference in favour of a common decision. That is normal. The paradox describes something else: a situation in which, in reality, no one wants the chosen course, yet everyone supports it because each mistakenly believes that the others want it. The problem, therefore, is not compromise but imagined consensus. Everyone yields to everyone else. The misfortune is that no one actually has anything to yield.
Accordingly, the most important moment in collective decision-making is sometimes not the vote, but the instant when the first person dares to say what everyone in the room may already be thinking: “I’m sorry, but I do not like the idea of going to Abilene at all.” An awkward silence may follow for a few seconds, before someone says: “Neither do I.” A third adds: “To tell the truth, neither do I.” Suddenly, it becomes clear that what appeared five minutes earlier to be a “unanimous decision” was, in fact, wanted by no one.
And finally, at such moments, one person’s dissent does not destroy the group. On the contrary, sometimes that single “no” is precisely what saves us from an entirely unnecessary journey to Abilene.