The Art of Diplomacy (eBook)

The Utility of Ambassadors

Robert Cooper

In the beginning there were princes. But it was dangerous to let them deal directly with each other. Princes grow up in a world in which everyone is their inferior, and their advisers feared that direct dialogue with another sovereign would bring disaster. So, they invented ambassadors, men of protocol and courtesy, who could smooth relations between proud monarchs and aggressive states.

To begin with, they went to foreign courts as temporary guests, to deal with specific problems, or to see whether a prospective bride was suitable for their prince—the camera may not lie, but portraits so often do. Later, endless competition among the Italian city-states of the Renaissance brought the idea of resident ambassadors, who could track the ambitions and plots of rival sovereigns. Or they were sent as courtiers to watch over a royal bride, as Sir Henry Wotton was for Elizabeth of Bohemia, daughter of James I. He is remembered for his ironic definition of an ambassador as an honest gentleman sent to lie abroad for his country; but the poem he wrote for Elizabeth, the winter Queen of Bohemia, shows him to be a man of taste and talent.1

Wars in Europe grew more frequent: the need to watch potential enemies and to keep contact with potential friends grew with them. One of the results of the Napoleonic wars and the Congress of Vienna was agreement on a more regular system of diplomatic exchange. The aristocratic tradition of diplomacy continued—countries were still ruled by kings and by courts. But that ended in 1918; and the horrors of war in the twentieth century made diplomacy no less essential.

As the century went on, people began to ask: why do we need these expensive people in their large houses, giving grand dinners? If leaders want to talk to each other, why don’t they do it directly? The first intercontinental phone call took place nearly one hundred years ago, in 1926. Since then, people have asked: what’s the point of ambassadors when we have telephones?

To answer this question, I offer some stories that friends, mostly from the British diplomatic service, have told me, together with a couple of personal anecdotes from my time with the European Union.

Nick Westcott

Nick Westcott was the British ambassador to a number of African countries. In one a British visitor was taken hostage by one of the various armed groups operating in the countryside. How do you deal with such a problem? Nick went and had a long talk with the president, who was believed to have back-channel contacts with the rebels, not allowing the conversation to end until the president had suggested a concrete way forward that had some prospect of working. The president put him in touch with a man who was generally thought to be the president’s “fixer”: his channel to the less respectable elements in his country. Then another conversation—this time in a café but also tête-à-tête—between Nick and the fixer. A long silence followed, but a few months later, the hostage was released.

In many countries, perhaps in most, really important business is accomplished face to face. In Africa getting hold of decision makers on their phones or in their offices can in any case be well-nigh impossible. This is why attending funerals is essential diplomatic work. Funerals matter: attendance is an indispensable mark of respect for the departed. In the run up to one particularly hotly contested election, Nick had found it impossible to pin down either the minister or the party boss responsible for the election process. Fraud was widely anticipated. But when, unexpectedly, a cabinet minister died, the whole government and party were present at the funeral. After the (very long) obsequies, Nick was able to get alongside both men and not only praise the late minister, but also to discuss frankly the consequences of blatantly rigging the election. The personal relationships built at the funeral enabled close contact throughout the elections, and eventually helped the government accept that they had lost and should allow a peaceful transfer of power.

Robin Christopher

Robin Christopher became British ambassador to Indonesia in 1997. At that point, President Suharto and the army were still in charge. This was a relatively benign example of military rule: literacy and living standards improved during Suharto’s time. The new British foreign secretary, Robin Cook, made a visit to Jakarta shortly after Christopher’s arrival—a good event for a new ambassador who wants to get to know the people who matter. The visit went well. Robin was recovering from it on a beach when he received a phone call telling him of the death of Princess Diana in Paris. He opened a book of condolence at the embassy, wondering whether people in Indonesia would be interes ted. In fact, Diana had visited Indonesia, and left behind a lasting memory. For a week the queues went around the block; Robin greeted and talked to some of those queuing when he could. Then he noticed in the newspaper that the Indonesian Christian Women’s Association was holding a memorial service in the cathedral. He and his wife Merril decided to attend, though there had been no invitation. As the service came to an end, the lady in charge announced that the British ambassador would deliver the eulogy. This was a surprise, but the conversations with the people outside the embassy told Robin exactly what to say.

One useful result of the Secretary Cook’s visit was that it gave him a feel for the country, its people, and its politics. He also got to know Ambassador Christopher. This helped greatly when the crisis came. Indonesia had two big issues: the financial crash that ended Suharto’s dictatorship, and East Timor. These were linked, and the crisis was a dual crisis. The foreign secretary made the policy , but it was the ambassador who proposed each move during a tense period.

Military rule came to an end in 1998. Suharto had been “reelected” in February of that year, with B. J. Habibie as his vice president. Habibie was a brilliant aeronautical engineer with a doctorate from Aachen University. He rose to be vice president of Messerschmitt in Germany. In 1974 Suharto, whose dream was for Indonesia to have its own aerospace industry, persuaded him to return to Indonesia and made him minister for research and technology. Only Suharto thought Habibie would make a good vice president; but at that point, only Suharto’s opinion mattered.

The Asian financial crisis began in 1997 and reached its peak in the spring of 1998. Indonesia was its biggest victim. In February Suharto was in full control. By May, a million people were on the streets, and many homes and businesses—especially those owned by Chinese—were in flames. (What do ambassadors do at such times? They help their national communities through the chaos, and in the last resort, organize evacuations—as Robin and his colleagues did.) Suharto held a press conference at which everyone expected him to resign. He didn’t, but instead announced a cabinet reshuffle. When every minister refused to serve, he resigned. Habibie had been vice president for just three months, but he took over. The army might have overthrown him but, perhaps in the stability and prosperity of the Suharto years, they had lost the habit. Habibie himself told Robin one evening that the military had surrounded his house the night before and demanded he resign. He had refused and eventually they had gone away. Habibie rode the wave of revolution for a year and saw Indonesia safely to its first free election in a generation.

East Timor had been a Portuguese colony until the collapse of the Portuguese Empire in 1975. With that, Fretelin, a Marxist liberation movement in East Timor, declared independence. In response the Indonesian army moved in from West Timor and began twenty-four years of occupation and atrocities. Only Australia recognized Indonesian sovereignty. Portugal had given its other colonies self-determination, and when it joined the EU in 1985, it kept the EU firmly behind the cause of self-determination for East Timor. One result of this was that no EU head of mission had ever visited East Timor, though it was now the dominant thorn in the side of Indonesia’s foreign policy.

When Suharto fell, the UK held the rotating presidency of the EU. Robin led the EU “troika”—which included the previous and following presidency ambassadors—on a fact-finding visit to East Timor. Their reception by crowds of Timorese paved the way for a change of heart by Habibie, now president, who offered East Timor “extensive autonomy” within Indonesia. He recognized that this offer needed to be legitimized and agreed to a referendum, to be organized by the UN. The East Timorese would be asked to vote for or against autonomy, with a clear understanding that a vote against autonomy would be a vote for independence. Robin was one of the international observers at the referendum, which was treated as a kind of festival. A few days later Kofi Annan announced the overwhelming rejection of autonomy. At this point, the Indonesian army again ran amok in East Timor, with arson, rape, murder, and destruction in their wake.

Following the announcement of the result, President Habibie moved the leader of the East Timor independence movement, Xanana Gusmão, from prison to house arrest. Robin had visited him in prison and saw him again on his return from the referendum. Gusmão was to be released soon, but the news from East Timor made clear that he would not be safe there. So, he asked Robin whether, instead, he could stay with him. Robin was able to get an immediate positive response from Robin Cook; the...