No Higher Honor: A Memoir of My Years in Washington

32 DEMOCRACY IN LATIN AMERICA AND BEYOND

ONLY FOUR DAYS AFTER arriving home from South Asia, I was scheduled to travel to Indonesia and Australia. But that March itinerary would be a clear demonstration of why the secretary of state has a dedicated plane. It turned out that Chile had elected its first woman president, Michelle Bachelet—exciting both because of her gender and because Chileans were managing to orchestrate the transfer of power peacefully. Our ambassador had sent a message that the President-elect very much wanted me to go to Santiago for the inauguration. She would consider it a personal honor if I did. I wanted to protest that Chile was somewhat out of the way in getting to Southeast Asia and Australia. I didn’t. I just got on the plane on March 10 and headed for the momentous event. I’m glad I did.

That morning I met with Bachelet, discussing with her briefly the challenges in the region. I noted our concerns about Hugo Chávez and accepted her promise to defend democracy in Latin America. I knew, though, that Chile would keep its head down and never confront Chávez. Bachelet had to watch her left flank, and there were many in the country who sympathized with Chávez’s radical views. My purpose there was to acknowledge Chile’s long and difficult path to democracy. Seeing little girls all dressed in white who’d come to see history made was inspiring. And watching Ricardo Lagos, Bachelet’s predecessor, escort her to the podium before leaving the stage—an act that underscored the peaceful transfer—was remarkable too. Chile had endured so much trouble with military coups and socialist revolutions. The show of democratic stability was worth the trip. And I was really glad that the United States of America had shown up when I spotted Hugo Chávez there to mark the moment. He saw me too—but from across the room. Our paths didn’t cross.

Earlier in the day, however, I’d met two of Latin America’s new leftist presidents, both expected to be allies of Chávez. (We were observing a worrying trend toward radical populism in the hemisphere’s elections.) Evo Morales in Bolivia and Tabaré Vázquez in Uruguay could not have been more different, though. Vázquez, an oncologist by trade, was thoroughly professional. I liked him immediately, especially his emphasis on trying to improve the lot of his people—and his invitation to have the United States join him in doing so.

Morales, on the other hand, seemed completely out of his depth. He had no ideas—only slogans. When he handed me a ukulele, saying that he knew I was a musician, I didn’t think much of it. At the press availability shortly after, the two of us walked out and held the “gift” up for the cameras to see. Later, members of the press told me that it was decorated with coca leaf, a banned substance that Morales had threatened to legalize in his country. I was appalled, and it spoke volumes about his immaturity. I told the President that he would like Vázquez and that we could work with the Uruguayan. Not so with Morales, who was a clone of Chávez, only lacking his master’s cunning.

Nonetheless, as I boarded the plane for Jakarta, I felt good about what I’d seen in Latin America. It was easy to focus on Chávez and Morales, but for a region that had until recently been known largely for military dictators, our neighbors had come a long way.

And the countries of Latin America were not the only places that were moving forward. When President Bush came to office, Indonesia was a troubled place. The longtime dictator Suharto had been overthrown. Elections had produced two weak governments, including one headed by Megawati Sukarnoputri, the daughter of Indonesia’s first authoritarian president, Sukarno, and a well-meaning but ineffective leader with an allegedly crooked husband. The terrorist challenge from the al Qaeda affiliate Jemaah Islamiyah was threatening to make the Indonesian archipelago a safe haven and hub of operations across Southeast Asia.

But with the election of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, known as SBY, in September 2004, Indonesia had come back from the brink. SBY was a military officer who’d been trained in the United States. He was the personification of the success of our International Military Education and Training program. One of the first decisions I made as secretary was to reinstate the program with Indonesia, which had been suspended in light of Jakarta’s crackdown on the breakaway (and soon to be independent) region of East Timor.

Paul Wolfowitz, who’d been ambassador to Indonesia, had for years been advocating that the United States restart the exchanges. He was right. Often the United States severs ties with militaries in protest of human rights violations. Though such action is an important signal and sometimes has an effect on the policies of governments, it does have a downside, as the United States loses contact and influence with those institutions. The impetus for this severing often comes from the Congress, where a few senators use the power of the purse to force changes in the policies of the executive branch. In this case, Patrick Leahy of Vermont had been the loudest proponent of the suspension. Fortunately, when I called him and told him that I was going to recertify the program he surprisingly didn’t fight back.

SBY is a thick-framed man of few words who brought stability and competence to the presidency. And he was tough—tough on terrorists despite Indonesians’ well-deserved reputation for preferring conciliation to conflict. SBY turned out to be a great counterterrorism partner, and after the bombing in Bali that killed 202 people in October 2002, he was able to mobilize his security forces and his population to support him.

Moreover, the world needed examples of the peaceful coexistence of Islam and other religions. Indonesia was turning out to be a wonderful case. When I visited a local madrassa, I didn’t know what to expect. But there I found boys and girls studying together, and I had fun joining forces with someone dressed as Elmo to launch an Indonesian version of Sesame Street. I will long hold in my mind’s eye a picture of little girls frantically waving their hands to answer my questions while the little boys seemed quite shy. If only this same scene plays out in the Middle East someday, I thought as I left the elementary school classroom.

My geographically challenging journey ended in Australia, where at least I was in the same country for several days. The United States’ relationship with the Aussies was so smooth that there seemed to be little real work to do. The two countries were so bonded that, in fact, the government of John Howard was doing a lot of heavy lifting in Iraq and Afghanistan. President Bush and Prime Minister Howard were much alike: tough, resolute, and not at all afraid of controversy. Australia was taking on and solving conflicts in the South Pacific. Because the U.S. secretary of state is the address for almost every issue, it was a relief to have an ally like Australia that was willing to fix problems, not just talk about them. It was a joy to get a call from Alexander Downer, the foreign minister, simply saying, “We’re handling that issue in the Solomon Islands,” or “We’re working on East Timor.” “Is there anything I can do to help?” I’d ask. “No. I’ll let you know if I need anything,” he’d answer. It was great to hear.

On that particular trip, Alexander had arranged several relaxing activities to complement our long strategic discussions. Oh yes, I spoke at the university and faced, as I often did, several noisy protesters. I always found that simply letting them shout their slogans and then reminding people of the blessings of democracy and free speech usually brought the crowd—even an unsympathetic one—to my side. “People are now able to speak out in Kabul and Baghdad too,” I’d say. Some of the press there remarked that I’d taken questions that I hadn’t seen in advance. Apparently that was a bit risky or unusual. Why would anyone expect to see the questions in advance? I thought. There were some advantages to having been a university professor for many years, where one could always rely on having to face a nineteen-year-old who wanted to play “gotcha” with the professor. I was used to it.

And I got to attend the swimming competition at the Commonwealth Games. I found that my love of sports, like my love of music, often gave me an easy bridge to the population. Sitting with the great swimmer Ian Thorpe, or “the Thorpedo,” as he was called, was a real thrill, as was the chance to present the medals to the winners. There were some really fun perks that went along with my job.

The truth is, though, there was little time to take advantage of opportunities in the beautiful places that I visited. Not too long after my trip to Australia, I was in Nassau for a meeting of the Caribbean Community (CARICOM), chaired by the Harvard-trained Bahamian Foreign Minister Fred Mitchell. The organization unites all of the small countries of the Caribbean. I’d built good relations with the foreign leaders of the island states, more than anything by showing up personally and engaging them on their problems of tourism, disaster relief, and security for the world cricket championships. They were fun people and always asked if I wanted to stay for a few days to enjoy the superb weather, beaches, and golf. I could never do it. Usually I stayed for less than twenty-four hours and headed home—to repack and hit the road again.

In fact, I didn’t mind the travel so much—my staff and plane made it fairly easy. I tried to keep a regular routine, even on the road. In Washington, I got up every morning at 4:30 A.M. and trudged upstairs to work out so that I could be at my desk by 6:30 A.M. I tried to go to bed no later than 10:00 P.M. On the road, few foreigners wanted to meet at 6:30 A.M., so I got to sleep in until 5:30 A.M. I usually flew overnight, sleeping on the plane and working out immediately upon arrival. By the end of the day I was tired and able to sleep despite the time change. I will admit that I sometimes slept for a few moments in the car while moving from place to place. This meant that the U.S. ambassador in the country had to shorten his or her briefing so that I could take advantage of my uncanny ability to fall into a deep sleep for ten minutes and awake refreshed and ready to go.

Unless negotiations demanded it, I rarely attended meetings late into the night, telling my counterparts that dinners needed to end no later than 9:30 P.M. “You don’t want me making decisions on behalf of the United States on four hours’ sleep,” I told my staff early on. And I tried to stay away from local “delicacies.” That was easier than one might have thought. Food is largely homogenized around the world these days. It isn’t hard to get grilled fish or meat and cooked (always cooked) vegetables. I made an exception in the Middle East because I love meze (hors d’oeuvres) and the tasty rice and meat dishes. The discipline of exercise, diet, and enough sleep kept me healthy throughout my tenure and the crazy travel schedule that I endured.

But I loved nothing more than a few days in Washington when I could enjoy a sense of normalcy. My exceptional house manager, Amy Gilbert, took care of me, and it wasn’t really necessary for me to grocery shop or run errands. Yet I liked to show up at the Watergate Safeway once in a while, my security detail trying not to intrude as I walked along the rows of foodstuffs. Heads would turn a bit, but people usually left me alone to fend for myself in the vegetable aisle.

In addition to my own workouts, I trained twice a week—or whenever possible—with Tommy Tomlo, a former marine who had no mercy on his fifty-plus-year-old subject. Tommy, who is also from Alabama, is an Auburn and Redskins fan, but we somehow got along anyway. I enlisted him to participate with me in the Susan G. Komen walks/runs for breast cancer awareness—something that he still does to this day.[1] Tommy made it hard—but fun—to stay in shape.

And I tried also to set aside time each week for activities that I enjoyed. I’d learned a hard lesson after 9/11, when I became tired and rattled after working thirty-nine days in a row. Sunday afternoons became my refuge. I’d get up and make phone calls around the world, including a standing call with the British foreign secretary. Then I’d attend church at National Presbyterian at 11:00 A.M., listening to the inspiring sermons and sometimes calling on the pastoral care of my friend Reverend Eunice McGarrahan.

When I came home, I tried not to work, often playing golf at Andrews Air Force Base with my friends Sandy Langdon, Anne Johnson, and Mary Bush, or my great friend and golf pro Alan Burton would meet me and walk the course—even in 37-degree weather, my lower limit for an outing. On one occasion, the ground was so frozen that Alan had to hammer the tee into the ground with a club. Well—I didn’t have much time to play, so a little cold weather couldn’t be a deterrent.

At other times I’d watch the NFL or play music with my quintet. I just cherished those five or six hours when it was possible—sometimes—not to think about all that was swirling around me. But at 7:00 P.M. or so I’d check in with the Operations Center and get my head back into the game for the upcoming week. I actually experienced what I came to call “sundowning,” a little sense of dread that Monday morning was nigh.