The Downing Street Years, 1979-1990

Hong Kong

My visit to China in September 1982 and my talks with Zhao Ziyang and Deng Xiaoping had had three beneficial effects.[66] First, confidence in Hong Kong about the future had been restored. Second, I now had a very clear idea of what the Chinese would and would not accept. Third, we had a form of words which both we and the Chinese could use about the future of Hong Kong which would provide a basis for continuing discussion between us. But there was a real risk that each of these gains would be transitory. Confidence in the colony was fragile. It was by no means clear how we could persuade the Chinese to be more forthcoming with their assurances. And — what I found most worrying — the Chinese proved very reluctant to get on with the talks which I had envisaged when I left Peking. For months nothing happened. I asked the advice of that old China hand, Henry Kissinger: his response was ‘don’t worry — that’s just their way.’ But I was worried and became more so as time passed.

On the morning of Friday 28 January 1983 I held a meeting with ministers, officials and the Governor of Hong Kong to review the position. We had learnt that in June the Chinese were proposing unilaterally to announce their own plan for Hong Kong’s future. We were all agreed that we must try to prevent this happening. I myself had been doing some fundamental rethinking about our objectives. I proposed that in the absence of progress in the talks we should now develop the democratic structure in Hong Kong as though it were our aim to achieve independence or self-government within a short period, as we had done with Singapore. This would involve building up a more Chinese government and administration in Hong Kong, with the Chinese members increasingly taking their own decisions and with Britain in an increasingly subordinate position. We might also consider using referenda as an accepted institution there. Since then legislative elections have demonstrated a strong appetite for democracy among the Hong Kong Chinese, to which the Government has had to respond. At that time, however, nobody else seemed much attracted by my ideas: and in the end I had reluctantly to concede that since the Chinese would not accept such an approach it was not then worth studying further. But I could not just leave things as they were, so in March 1983 I sent a private letter to Zhao Ziyang which broke the deadlock and got Anglo-Chinese talks off the ground again. This went marginally further than I had in Peking. There I had told Mr Deng that I would be prepared to consider making recommendations to Parliament about Hong Kong’s sovereignty if suitable arrangements could be made to preserve its stability and prosperity. I now subtly strengthened the formulation:

Geoffrey Howe and the Foreign Office wanted to go further: they argued strongly that I should concede early in the talks that British administration would not continue. I saw no reason to make such a concession. I wanted to use every bargaining card we had to maximum effect. Just how few such cards there were, however, quickly became apparent.

There were three rounds of talks over the summer in which no progress was made. When we took stock of the situation at a meeting on Monday 5 September it was clear that the talks would break down when they resumed on 22 September unless we conceded administration as well as sovereignty to the Chinese. One particular problem was that the timing of the talks was publicly known and it had become the practice at the end of each session to announce the date of the next. If the Chinese decided to hold up progress or break off altogether it would immediately become apparent and damage would be done to confidence in Hong Kong.

This is indeed what happened after the 22–23 September talks. Intensified Chinese propaganda and anxiety at the absence of any reassuring element in the official communiqué caused a massive capital flight out of the Hong Kong dollar and a sharp fall in its value on the foreign exchanges.

Early on Sunday morning, 25 September, I received a telephone call from Alan Walters, who was then in Washington and had been unable to track down either Nigel Lawson or the Governor of the Bank of England. Alan was convinced that the only way to prevent a complete collapse of the currency and all the serious political consequences that entailed was to restore the currency board system — backing the Hong Kong dollar at a par value with the United States dollar. (The Hong Kong Government’s reserves were big enough to make this possible.) Although I was largely convinced by Alan’s arguments and accepted the urgent need for action, I still had some concerns — mainly whether our exchange reserves would be put at risk. But I informed the Treasury of what I considered was a dangerous crisis that needed immediate defusing, and they got in touch with Nigel and the Governor of the Bank. The following Tuesday I met Nigel, the Governor and Alan at the Washington embassy. Although Nigel was at first reluctant and the Governor had reservations, they eventually agreed with me that a restoration of the currency board was the only solution. As always this news soon leaked out to financial markets, confidence was restored and the crisis of the Hong Kong dollar was over. We sealed it later on 16 October 1983 by fixing the Hong Kong dollar at an exchange rate of 7.80 Hong Kong dollars for a US dollar. The financial press thought it was ‘an unalloyed success’. And so time has proved it to be.

But it was also necessary to see that Anglo-Chinese talks began again. On 14 October I sent a further message to Zhao Ziyang expressing our willingness to explore Chinese ideas for the future of Hong Kong and holding out the possibility of a settlement on those lines. I had by now reluctantly decided that we would have to concede not just sovereignty but administration to the Chinese. On 19 October the talks were accordingly resumed.

I hoped that by pointing out in my message those aspects of the Chinese negotiating position which might conceivably lead to as much autonomy for and as little change in the way of life of the people of Hong Kong as possible, we might make some progress. In November I authorized that working papers on the legal system, financial system and external economic relations of Hong Kong be handed over to the Chinese. But their position hardened. They now made it clear that they were not prepared to sign a treaty with us at all but rather to declare ‘policy objectives’ for Hong Kong themselves. By now I had abandoned any hope of turning Hong Kong into a self-governing territory. The overriding objective had to be to avoid a breakdown in the negotiations, so I authorized our ambassador in Peking to spell out more clearly the implications of my 14 October letter: that we envisaged no link of authority or accountability between Britain and Hong Kong after 1997. But I felt depressed.

At this time I received further advice from someone whose experience in dealing with the Chinese I knew to be unequalled. At the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM) in New Delhi I discussed our problems in dealing with the Chinese with Lee Kuan Yew, the Prime Minister of Singapore. Unfortunately, the discussion was interrupted on several occasions and Mr Lee telephoned through to me his full advice later. This was that we should send a very senior minister or emissary to convey our proposals at the highest possible level of the Chinese Government. It was crucial, he said, that we should adopt the right attitude — neither defiant nor submissive, but calm and friendly. We should say clearly that the fact was that if China did not wish Hong Kong to survive, nothing would allow it to do so. This, of course, was precisely the point that Deng Xiaoping had put to me in September 1982. I had managed then to persuade him that there was an international price to be paid if he simply took over without any regard for the prosperity and system of Hong Kong. But I now had to accept that China’s concern for its international good name would allow us only so much latitude. Mr Lee’s advice therefore confirmed me in the course upon which I had decided the previous month. The question remained: what would be the basis of the Chinese administration? From now on we must concentrate on the questions of autonomy and preservation of the existing legal, economic and social system after 1997.

Whatever concessions we had to make, I was determined that the representatives of the people of Hong Kong — the ‘unofficial’ members of the Hong Kong Executive Council (EXCO) — should be consulted at each crucial stage. Geoffrey Howe and I met them on the morning of Monday 16 January 1984 at Downing Street. As always, I was struck by their common sense and realism about the highly unpalatable options they knew we had to consider. They basically shared our objective, which was the highest degree of autonomy for Hong Kong we could get backed by the best possible Chinese assurances. After this meeting I began to think hard about how best we could give undertakings of a right of entry to the United Kingdom to those in Hong Kong who would be putting themselves and their families at risk through sensitive work for the Hong Kong Government in the period up to 1997. When I discussed the matter with ministers and officials in July I said that we should err on the side of generosity. It must never be said that the United Kingdom repaid loyalty with disloyalty.

The single most difficult issue which we now faced in negotiations with the Chinese was the location of the ‘Joint Liaison Group’ which would be established after the planned Anglo-Chinese Agreement had been signed to make provision for the transition. I was worried that during the transition this body would become an alternative power centre to the Governor or, worse, that it would create the impression of some kind of Anglo-Chinese ‘Condominium’ which would have destroyed confidence. But I also insisted that it should continue for three years after 1997 so as to maintain confidence after the handover of administration had taken place. I wrote to Mr Zhao to this effect.

Geoffrey Howe had visited Peking in April and now returned in July, accompanied by Sir Percy Cradock, and successfully reached a compromise on the Joint Liaison Group, which would not operate in Hong Kong before 1988. Geoffrey’s patient negotiations eventually secured agreement. It was no triumph: but nor could it be, considering the fact that we were dealing with an intransigent and overwhelmingly superior power.

The terms had three main advantages. First, they constituted what would be an unequivocally binding international agreement. Second, they were sufficiently clear and detailed about what would happen in Hong Kong after 1997 to command the confidence of the people of Hong Kong. Third, there was a provision that the terms of the proposed Anglo-Chinese Agreement would be stipulated in the Basic Law to be passed by Chinese People’s Congress: this would in effect be the constitution of Hong Kong after 1997.

Geoffrey was always good at the actual process of negotiation, though we sometimes fell out as to what was possible as a result of negotiations. In this case, though, he had shown an impressive grasp of the issues throughout; moreover, his meeting with Mr Deng was highly effective in reassuring the Chinese that we were to be trusted and so paving the way for me to return to Peking to sign the Joint Agreement. I congratulated Geoffrey in Cabinet on his return — and I meant every word.

My visit to China in December to sign the Joint Agreement on Hong Kong was a much less tense occasion than my visit two years earlier. The difficult negotiations were already concluded. We had won the support, with some reservations, of the Unofficial Members of EXCO for the agreement. I had explained its contents to President Reagan and won American support as well. The main purpose, therefore, of my talks in Peking must be to strengthen the trust which the Chinese had in our good faith as regards the management of the transition till 1997 and to reinforce in every way possible their sense of obligation to carry through the agreement.

I arrived in Peking on the evening of Tuesday 18 December. The official welcoming ceremony was at 9 o’clock the following morning: at it I reviewed a Guard of Honour in Tiananmen Square, where less than five years later the massacre of protesters took place which would suddenly throw doubt on the carefully negotiated agreement I was here to conclude.

The rest of the morning was spent in some two and a half hours of talks with Prime Minister Zhao Ziyang. The mood was friendly and relaxed: but it was clear to me that the Chinese were as concerned about the transitional period as I was. They wanted to maintain stability and prosperity: but they had their own ideas about how this should be done. I emphasized that it all came down to the drafting of the Basic Law. It must be suited to the capitalist system and consistent with the Hong Kong legal system. I stressed how important it was that China had expressed willingness to solicit opinions from a wide range of people within Hong Kong. I then broached what I knew would be an even more sensitive topic. I said that the Chinese would be aware of our proposals for the constitutional development of Hong Kong — essentially strengthening in a modest way democracy and autonomy, though I was careful not to use these words. Mr Zhao answered that the Chinese Government was not prepared to make any comment on constitutional development in the transitional period. In principle, the Chinese too wanted more Hong Kong people involved in the administration. But that process must not adversely affect stability and prosperity or the smooth transfer of government in 1997. I left it at that; it was as far as I felt it was prudent to go at this meeting.

In the afternoon I talked to the Chinese Communist Party General Secretary, Hu Yaobang, whose influence I had been told was greater than some outside observers thought. I had earlier met the diminutive Mr Hu when he visited London. He was widely considered — perhaps too widely for his own interests as it turned out — to be Deng Xiaoping’s preferred successor and was known as a reformist. I had said quite openly to him in London that many of us hoped that those like him who had lived through the Cultural Revolution would bring a new approach to China’s affairs. He went on to tell me, with tears in his eyes, about the suffering he personally had endured at this time. It would be nice to believe that he could understand at least some of my worries about Hong Kong’s future: but perhaps human nature is not quite that simple.

I then went on to the crucial meeting with Deng Xiaoping. The most important immediate guarantee of Hong Kong’s future was Mr Deng’s goodwill. I told him that the ‘stroke of genius’ in the negotiations had been his concept of ‘one country, two systems’. He, with becoming modesty, attributed the credit for this to Marxist historical dialectics, or to use what appeared to be the appropriate slogan, ’seeking truth from the facts’. Apparently, the concept of ‘one country, two systems’ had been devised originally from Chinese proposals of 1980 for dealing with Taiwan. (In fact, it proved a good deal more appropriate for Hong Kong: the Taiwanese attitude was clearly ‘one country, one system — ours’ — and given their economic success and their move to democracy, I can see their point.)

The Chinese had set out in the agreement a fifty-year period after 1997 for its duration. I was intrigued by this and asked why fifty years. Mr Deng said that China hoped to approach the economic level of advanced countries by the end of that time. If China wanted to develop herself, she had to be open to the outside world for the whole of that period. The maintenance of Hong Kong’s stability and prosperity accorded with China’s interest in modernizing its economy. This did not mean that in fifty years China would be a capitalist country. Far from it. He said that the one billion Chinese on the mainland would pursue socialism firmly. If Taiwan and Hong Kong practised capitalism that would not affect the socialist orientation of the bulk of the country. Indeed the practice of capitalism in some small areas would benefit socialism. (Since then, it has become clear that Chinese socialism is whatever the Chinese Government does; and what it has been doing amounts to a thorough-going embrace of capitalism. In economic policy, at least, Mr Deng has indeed sought truth from facts.)

I found his analysis basically reassuring, if not persuasive. It was reassuring because it suggested that the Chinese would for their own self-interest seek to keep Hong Kong prosperous. It was unpersuasive for quite different reasons. The Chinese belief that the benefits of a liberal economic system can be had without a liberal political system seems to me false in the long term. Of course, culture and character affect the way in which economic and political systems work in particular countries. The crackdown after the Tiananmen Square massacre in June 1989 convinced many outside observers that in China political and economic liberty were not interdependent. Certainly, after those terrible events we reassessed what needed to be done to secure Hong Kong’s future. I was reinforced in my determination to honour Britain’s obligations to those on whom British administration and Hong Kong’s prosperity depended up to 1997. In any case, I always felt Britain would benefit economically from talented, entrepreneurial Hong Kong people coming here.

So in 1990 we legislated to give British citizenship to 50,000 key people in the Colony and their dependants — though the essential purpose of the scheme was to provide sufficient reassurance to persuade them to stay at their posts in Hong Kong where they were vitally needed. We were also brought under strong pressure immediately to accelerate the process of democratization in Hong Kong. There were, in any case, strong moral arguments for doing so. But all my instincts told me that this was the wrong time. The Chinese leadership was feeling acutely apprehensive. Such a step at that moment could have provoked a strong defensive reaction that might have undermined the Hong Kong Agreement. We needed to wait for calmer times before considering moves towards democratization within the scope of the agreement.

If it was China’s recognition that she could benefit from extending the notion of ‘one country, two systems’ to Hong Kong which allowed the Hong Kong Agreement to be reached, something more would be needed in the long term. At some point the increasing momentum of economic change in China itself will lead to political change. Keeping open the channels of trade and communication, while firmly pressing for human rights in China to be upheld, are the best means of ensuring that this great military power, on the verge of becoming a great economic power, becomes also a reliable and predictable member of the international community.

Japan

Japan is not only a great economic power and a leading democratic nation in the region, but of great importance to Hong Kong. The confidence of Hong Kong is much affected by the confidence of Japanese investors there, who also regard it as the gateway to mainland China. For reasons of wartime history, the Japanese were shy of making public statements about China. But they had close contacts with and a deep insight into what was happening there. So I always sounded out Japanese politicians on their impressions of thinking in Peking.

However, the main subject of (often difficult) negotiations with the Japanese during my time as Prime Minister was trade. We pressed the Japanese to open up their markets to our goods, to liberalize their financial and retail distribution systems and to work towards the reduction of their huge and destabilizing balance of trade surpluses with the West.

Much of the criticism of the Japanese was unfair. They were everybody’s scapegoat. The Japanese should not have been blamed for prudently saving more — and so having more to invest at home, overseas or, indeed, financing the US budget deficit. Nor should the Japanese have been blamed for producing first-class cars, cheaper video recorders and advanced cameras, bought eagerly by western consumers. Yet in both cases they were.

Far more important was to ensure that their markets should be as open to our goods as ours were to theirs. In fact, in addition to tariffs, which of course were subject to GATT regulations, there were two big obstacles. The first was that their distribution system was inefficient, fragmented and overmanned and their administrative system was difficult to get around. The second was a cultural difference. For example, Japanese consumers automatically prefer to buy home-produced goods: government action can do little to change that. More potentially amenable to international pressure was that the Japanese offered terms of aid which we could not match and so secured foreign contracts.

The Japanese have also regularly been pilloried by western governments for not taking a more active international role in upholding security when we — and even more so Japan’s immediate East Asian neighbours — would not wish Japan to rearm and act as a great or even a regional power. As was shown in the Gulf War, Japan is increasingly willing to pay for others, particularly the United States, to uphold international order and security. The fact that, in both the economic and security fields, much western criticism of Japan is unfair does not, however, mean that we should be anything other than tough-minded and realistic in dealing with Japan. But the Japanese must also be treated with genuine (and deserved) respect and their own sensitivities understood.

My second visit to Japan was in the autumn of 1982 on my way to China and Hong Kong. It set something of a pattern. I stressed to my hosts — both politicians and businessmen — my concern at the difficulty which British companies faced in penetrating Japanese markets. The Japanese themselves had promised action to deal with this, but it was a long time in taking effect. There were, though, more positive elements to the visit. I met members of the Keidanren — the Japanese CBI — and was struck by the fact that the top Japanese industrialists I encountered seemed often to be engineers, people with a practical understanding of the manufacturing processes of their firms and able to contribute to innovation. This was in marked contrast to Britain where, all too often, ‘management’ seemed to be qualified in administration and accountancy. It was, I thought, a clue to Japanese industrial success.

While in Japan I met the President of Nissan, whose company was considering at that time whether to go ahead with the construction of the plant it eventually built in Sunderland. We had a useful talk, though I could not at this stage draw from him any explicit commitment. Negotiations were at first known only to a small group. But agreement was finally reached in January 1984. I was convinced that the Nissan project made as much sense for Japan as it did for us. By exporting investment to Britain they would undercut protectionist pressures against them, bring in income for years ahead as well, of course, as providing incomes and jobs in the recipient country.

During my visit I also went to the Tsukuba Science City. This was fascinating. But I thought the decision to concentrate scientists in one particular location away from the great industrial centres was questionable. Interestingly, I found a number of Japanese who shared that view. This is all the more important because Japan’s research is often on the technological side, whereas, by contrast, Britain’s emphasis is on basic science. (Most of Japan’s advances in industry have come from the application of well-established scientific principles.)

At this time the export of Japanese machine tools to the West was one of the most vexed issues of dispute. At Tsukuba I saw just how advanced the Japanese were. I was photographed shaking hands with a robot and, to my astonishment, found that it even had smooth, delicately jointed fingers. It was a demonstration that the Japanese not only had advanced electronics: they had managed to develop and apply that technology far more successfully than we had.

Under Prime Minister Nakasone, Japan began to play a more active role in international affairs. So, when he made a visit to Britain in June 1984, I felt that I was dealing with a Japanese leader who understood and sympathized with western values and had shown that he was prepared to make steps in the right direction on economic policy. The talks I had with him in the morning and over lunch on Monday 11 June 1984 could, therefore, concentrate as much on wider international issues as on Anglo-Japanese bilateral trade disputes. Mr Nakasone gave me an account of his dealings with the Chinese. I told him about the state of our negotiations on Hong Kong. This was, of course, nearing the end of that period of freeze in the Cold War which preceded the advent of Mr Gorbachev. Mr Nakasone showed a shrewd understanding of what Japan’s role in these circumstances should be. He said that the Soviets would come out of their hibernation only when they decided to do so and that the West should wait for this. But he had continued to urge on the USSR the need for dialogue. He believed that the Soviets would need Japanese expertise and capital to develop Siberia and that this would in the long run be a powerful influence. In fact, this accurate and imaginative approach, which could yield enormous benefits, has still not been applied, mainly because of the dispute between (now) Russia and Japan over the Kurile Islands. I also discussed with Mr Nakasone Japanese investment in Britain. He said that half of the Japanese companies now established within the European Community were in the United Kingdom. ‘Not enough,’ I replied. ‘I would like two dozen more.’ He went away in no doubt about the welcome Britain would accord to Japanese investment.

My next visit to Tokyo was for the G7 economic summit in May 1986. The main issues at the summit were not economic at all but rather political. In the wake of the US-Libyan raid, international terrorism was the principal item on the agenda. The appalling consequences of the nuclear disaster at Chernobyl were also still being assessed and discussed. On terrorism I was determined to support the Americans with a strong statement in the communiqué. I was glad to learn from President Reagan when I saw him in Tokyo on the afternoon of Sunday 4 May, on the eve of the summit, that he could go along with what I proposed.

Both President Reagan and I were keen that the summit should be a success for the Japanese. The President was a strong supporter of Prime Minister Nakasone and was rather more inclined to be optimistic about the changes which had been promised in Japan’s economic practices than I was. But I had to agree with him that Mr Nakasone had the right instincts in international affairs and it was important not to endanger his position.

In fact, there was not much practically to show for the vigorous efforts we had made to have the Japanese open up their markets. There was, for example, still heavy discriminatory tax on imported liquor. Whisky was the fourth largest single UK export to Japan. This being my own favourite nightcap, I felt a truly proselytizing zeal to encourage the taste for it. The former Governor of the Bank of Japan, Mr Maekawa, had also produced a report on ways to reform the Japanese financial and commercial system so as to allow the reduction of Japan’s huge trade surplus. But it was better on generalities than specifics.

Japan’s trade surplus was sharply up again in 1986. But the Japanese had allowed the yen to rise in value, something which was far from popular among Japanese industrialists, and this would probably be the most important factor towards achieving a better balance of international trade relations in the future. The other good news from our point of view was that by now forty Japanese manufacturing companies were operating in the UK, creating over 10,000 jobs; and the Nissan plant was expected to start full-scale production that summer with total employment of around 3,000 people. On the cultural level, contacts between our two countries were good. The Japanese had begun a policy of endowing teaching posts at British universities. The eldest son of the Crown Prince of Japan had recently completed two years at Oxford University. Our own Prince and Princess of Wales were due, in turn, to visit Japan.

I talked to Mr Nakasone shortly after the end of the summit. After congratulating him on the organization — which was far better than the previous Tokyo summit I had attended — and discussing the inevitable subject of Scotch whisky, I said that I wanted to try to ensure that in future relations between Britain and Japan were not dominated by the trade imbalance. That was still not possible at the moment. Some sizeable purchases by the Japanese of aircraft would help. But I was clear in my own mind that we must get beyond these issues to those of wider international importance if Japan was to play her proper role in world affairs.

Japanese politics are sui generis. Leaders ‘emerge’ from negotiations between factions. Decisions are taken through gradually developed consensus rather than debate. And in spite of his achievements in establishing Japan as a major player on the international stage, Mr Nakasone was unable to buck the convention by which the nominees of other factions in the governing Japanese Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) must have their turn in office.

It was his successor, Mr Takeshita, as head of the largest faction in the LDP, who took the most important decisions to make structural changes in the Japanese economy. Of most importance from our point of view, it was he who removed the discrimination against Scotch whisky and opened up the Japanese Stock Exchange to two of the best-known British stockbrokers who had been excluded. I said to Mr Takeshita when he came to London to see me that he was the fourth Prime Minister with whom I had raised the issue of the Stock Exchange. He promised action but asked for time. And he proved as good as his word. I did not have to raise it with a fifth. Partly as a result, however, of public resentment at the introduction of a new, though modest consumption tax and partly as a result of political scandal, Mr Takeshita resigned in May 1989. His successor, Mr Uno, after just a few months in office, soon resigned too. So it was the comparatively young and relatively unknown Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu who was in office when I made what turned out to be my last visit to Japan as Prime Minister in September 1989.

Mr Kaifu was to host a meeting of the International Democratic Union (IDU) — the international organization of Conservative Parties which Ronald Reagan and I had founded. Inevitably, the IDU comprised a variety of right-of-centre parties: but it had the advantage over its junior partner, the European Democratic Union (EDU), that it was not dominated by the Christian Democrats and included the American Republican Party. (The star of that year’s conference was undoubtedly the Swedish Conservative leader — since Prime Minister — who delivered a speech of such startling Thatcherite soundness that in applauding I felt as if I was giving myself a standing ovation.)

Mr Kaifu had his own domestic reasons for wanting the occasion to be a success. He had no strong power base of his own within the LDP and needed to cut something of an international figure in order to win back alienated LDP voters before the forthcoming general election. For my part I wanted to help him as much as I could. He was strongly pro-western, a man of integrity, and not at all in the somewhat reticent, introverted mould of some Japanese politicians that I met. I had not really got to know Mr Kaifu before I came to Japan — though he had been to see me at No. 10 as part of a group on previous occasions. I was told that his favourite sayings were: ‘politics begins with sincerity’ and ‘perseverance leads to success.’ It seemed an uncontroversial philosophy.

I had a long talk with Prime Minister Kaifu on the afternoon of Wednesday 20 September. Some of the worst causes of disagreement between Japan and the West, including Britain, were by now being overcome. Japan’s external surplus had begun to fall somewhat — though the fact that the yen had depreciated against the dollar threatened problems with the Americans in the future. Japanese investment in Britain was now greater than ever: in fact we were attracting more Japanese manufacturing investment than anywhere else in the European Community. Japan had become one of Britain’s fastest growing major markets. My discussions with the Prime Minister covered that perennial topic, Scotch whisky — where the ever ingenious Japanese had devised whisky ‘lookalikes’ to circumvent the tax changes which had been introduced.

But we were also able to range much more widely over international and indeed Japanese domestic affairs. Mr Kaifu had twice been Education minister and so we had something special in common. He spoke eloquently about social issues, in particular the decline of the family and the need to come to terms with the demographic factor of a rapidly ageing population. These were matters which were also increasingly preoccupying me. But I felt that Japan’s highly developed sense of community and ability to combine material progress with an attachment to traditional values in some ways equipped them better to face these challenges than did our western culture. I have always connected this with the fact that Japan has the lowest level of violent crime in the developed world.

At the end of our talk I gave a television interview jointly with Mr Kaifu about global environmental issues, an area in which the Japanese were beginning to play a large role. I hoped that it would boost his standing, and was told that it had done so. But after the customary two years, Mr Kaifu was soon in his turn to join the ranks of former Japanese prime ministers whose international achievements were an insufficient antidote for factional weakness.

By the time I left office, the West and Japan were beginning seriously to come to terms with the question of where Japan’s future lay. Only with the end of the Cold War has the full importance of this become apparent. Japan can have a huge role in bringing Russia to prosperity and stability by providing the capital and technology for the development of Siberia. At the same time, Japan has very close links with China. Japan’s attitude to East Asia, where newly industrialized countries’ economies are racing ahead, is also of great importance in determining whether the dominant approach will be one of free trade or protection. Above all, relations between the United States and Japan are vital to the security of the region, and indeed on a global scale too, where Japan has the resources and America the technology — and enjoys the trust — to support any kind of ‘new world order’.

East Asia and Australia

British policy ‘East of Suez’ still matters. Indeed, there is a strong argument that it will matter more and more. East Asia contains some of the fastest growing economies in the world. The newly industrialized countries of the Asian Pacific region, like South Korea, Taiwan, Indonesia and Singapore — which, together with Hong Kong, make up the five ‘little tigers’ — have to be fully integrated into a global free-trading economy if our industries are to compete effectively. They will increasingly provide us not just with competition but markets. They would all welcome more European — particularly British — contact as a counterweight to the other dominant influences in the region — the United States, China and Japan. In the longer term it is still unclear if and when countries like (an eventually reunited) Korea and Indonesia (with the world’s fourth largest population — and the largest Muslim country) will develop wider political ambitions.

Britain has a traditional presence in the region. Australia should also now be considered at least as much a power in its own right as a partner in the Anglo-Saxon world. Individually and through the Commonwealth, Britain and Australia have an interest in nudging political development in the direction of democracy. So for all these reasons I was keen to visit the region so as to exert influence and drum up business for British companies.

I had had to postpone my visit to South-East Asia because of the miners’ strike. This put out some of the initial arrangements. So when I eventually departed on the morning of Thursday 4 April 1985 it was with a schedule originally devised for a fortnight but telescoped into ten days.

The first leg of the tour was Malaysia. We ought to have had better relations with Malaysia than we actually did. This was in part because the Prime Minister of Malaysia, Dr Mahathir, felt that in the past we had not treated his country with sufficient respect as an independent nation. It may not have been just chance that Britain always seemed to be at the bottom of the list when bids for contracts in Malaysia were considered. In fact, I got on rather well with Dr Mahathir and developed an increasing respect for him. He was tough, shrewd and practical. He had a refreshingly matter-of-fact outlook on everything that related to his country. Several years later, when, almost overnight, environmental issues had become all the rage in international gatherings, he put down some of the more extreme conservationists by saying that he was not prepared to keep tribesmen in his country living under conditions which promised a life expectancy of about forty-five simply in order to allow them to be studied by academics.

When I left Malaysia I felt that Dr Mahathir and I had established a good understanding, and so indeed it proved. When I first arrived he had been highly critical of the Commonwealth, seeing it as a kind of post-colonial institution. But I persuaded him to come to the next CHOGM. I had made a convert. Indeed in 1989, he himself hosted the CHOGM in Kuala Lumpur. It turned out to be the best organized I ever attended. Slightly less diplomatically beneficial were my talks with the very cultured, sophisticated earlier Prime Minister of Malaysia, Tunku Abdul Rahman. We found ourselves, as so often seemed the case in Commonwealth countries, discussing South Africa. I remarked that it would have been better if we had kept South Africa inside the Commonwealth, where we could have influenced her more effectively. Tunku Abdul Rahman looked surprisingly displeased. I soon learnt why. He told me that he had been principally responsible for throwing South Africa out in the first place. Clang.

From Malaysia I went, via Singapore and Brunei, to Indonesia. Everything about Indonesia is remarkable. A state created out of some 17,000 islands, a mix of races and religions, based on an artificially created philosophy — the five principles of ‘Pancasila’ — it is a marvel that Indonesia has been kept together at all. Yet it has an economy which is growing fast, more or less sound public finances, and though there have been serious human rights abuses, particularly in East Timor, this is a society which by most criteria ‘works’. At the top, President Soeharto is an immensely hard-working and effective ruler. I was struck by the detailed interest he took in agriculture — something which is all too rare in oil-rich countries like Indonesia. He spent hours on his own farm where experiments in cross-breeding livestock to maximize nutrition were the order of the day. The architect of the technological and industrial base of Indonesia was Dr Habibie, a German-trained scientist of immense energy and imagination.

It was on the final day of my stay in Indonesia that I first realized that I had become an internationally known figure — and not just in Europe, the scene of so many bitter arguments, or in the United States, where I always received a warm reception, but in parts of the world entirely foreign to me. I flew up to Bandung to inspect Dr Habibie’s excellent Institute of Technology. As I got off the aeroplane I was met by girls throwing rose petals on the ground in front of me and then all the way from the airport by crowds five to six deep along the roadside crying ‘Tacher, Tacher’.

Later that day I arrived in Colombo, Sri Lanka. President Jayewardene I already knew and had liked at once. He was an elderly, distinguished lawyer of great integrity and someone who peppered his speech, as I am inclined to do, with talk of ‘the rule of law’, not a bad refrain for any politician. At this time he was beginning to be faced by Tamil terrorism, which ultimately Sri Lanka alone was not able to suppress. He explained to me in the car the various concessions he had made for regional autonomy — Sri Lanka is a relatively modern construct and real unification of Ceylon came only in the 1830s. I judged that if anyone could restore peace and order without large-scale violence it was such a man as this.

Early the following morning I set off for the opening ceremony of the Victoria Dam Power Station, which as I have explained earlier,[67] was largely paid for out of British Overseas Aid. Although it was still before 10 o’clock in the morning and we were well up in the hills, the heat was almost unbearable. First, I visited the power station and dam. Then there was a long march past of children in different costumes; dances were performed; flowers were thrown. The Sri Lankan minister with me made his speech. By now we were under a large awning and it was with relief that I saw that someone had brought him a glass of water. Then it was my turn to speak. But no water. By now the atmosphere was even more stifling. I was glad to get back in the car to be driven on to Kandy. The President came with me. But for some reason I still couldn’t get any water. Nearly five hours after leaving Colombo I reached the government guesthouse and I at last got my glass of water. I gulped it gratefully.

Next day I was due to address the Sri Lankan Parliament. It is easy to imagine my horror when, having been introduced by the Speaker, I looked around and found… no water. The Parliament building is magnificent inside and out: but it is also excessively air-conditioned and the atmosphere is dry as dust. Part of the way through my speech I had such a fit of coughing that I had to stop and wait until a glass of water was found for me. I had learnt my lesson. From now on a crate of fizzy Ashbourne water would accompany me on my travels.

I returned to Britain by way of India where I met Rajiv Gandhi for the first time since he had become Prime Minister after his mother’s assassination. (At this stage I was on good terms with him: it was only later that year at the CHOGM in Nassau that we fell out over South Africa.) My abiding impression was of the tight security which surrounded him and his wife Sonia. They were living in a small, rather cramped house, unwilling or unable to return to the house where Mrs Gandhi had met her death. I laid a wreath at the site of my old friend’s funeral pyre.

I was due to attend the Bicentennial celebration in Australia in the late summer of 1988. I had really rather doubted whether my presence was necessary at all. I had earlier suggested to the Australian Prime Minister, Bob Hawke, that, with the Queen, other members of the Royal Family and numerous foreign dignitaries, perhaps I would be one Englishwoman too many. But he insisted that I should come, and so I did. Although I had some famous rows with Bob Hawke, I found him easy to deal with: like me, he was blunt and direct. But on this occasion, he was to prove consideration itself.

I had decided to combine this Australian visit with another foray into South-East Asia. On this occasion I was able to spend rather longer than previously in Singapore. That little island’s economy continued to astonish. Its GDP was rising at over 9 per cent a year and its total trade was up over the same period by a third. It was therefore pleasant to receive congratulations from Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew about the state of the British economy, though I said that in my view we were growing somewhat too fast. His only criticism was of me personally — for undertaking a programme of foreign visits which he described as ‘absolute madness’, adding that he did not know anyone else who would even contemplate it. He was full of his usual shrewd observations about world trouble spots like Cambodia, North Korea and the Middle East. I always found him most perceptive about China. He maintained that although entrenched habits in China were deeply authoritarian, communism itself went against the grain of the Chinese character and could not in the very long term succeed. Lee Kuan Yew is of course by origin Chinese himself: I used to tell him that in many ways I wished he had stayed at home — that way China might have found its way to capitalism twenty years earlier.

Then it was on to Australia. I arrived in Perth, went on to Alice Springs, and arrived at Canberra. Here I visited the new Parliament building, erected to celebrate the Bicentennial, and was met by Bob Hawke, who introduced me to his Cabinet, in which Paul Keating was then Finance minister. Whatever differences of outlook we had on other matters, I found Mr Keating refreshingly orthodox on finance — a far cry from the British Labour Party. In my speech at the lunch which followed I stressed the importance of Australia’s role as a regional power. The fact was that the economic growth of many countries in the area was going ahead far faster than political progress. I believed that Australia, as one of the world’s oldest and most developed democracies, could make a vital contribution to regional stability.

My tour finished up in Brisbane. I visited the British Pavilion at the EXPO ’88 World Trade Fair. I was disappointed by what I saw and said so with some vigour on my return to England. It was not the fault of those directly concerned, but rather of cheese-paring by the British Government, that our pavilion just did not match those of other major countries. As with embassy buildings, I always insisted that cutting back on expenditure on generating the right image of Britain abroad is sheer foolishness. From now on I took a direct interest in the matter: for example, I told David Young, as Trade and Industry Secretary, that we must have the best national exhibition at the Seville EXPO in 1992, and I believe we did.

My day ended in Brisbane with attendance at a splendid production of the ‘Last Night of the Proms’ — which the Australians immediately christened the ‘Last Night of the Poms’. Whatever the shortcomings of the pavilion, British popular culture was on vigorous form.

From Australia I flew via Malaysia to Thailand. It was my first visit. But I soon found myself in much the same frame of mind as at Brisbane, for it was clear that our large and impressive embassy building in Bangkok was not being properly maintained. Next morning I visited the United Nations Refugee Camp on the Thai border with Cambodia. It was quite a trip to get there — aeroplane, then helicopter, then Land Rover. It was huge, more like a large town than a temporary camp. Prince Sihanouk, his wife and daughter were in charge. I quickly noticed that there were very few men: it turned out that the great majority were away fighting the Vietnamese Army inside Cambodia. I also noticed immediately how the refugees venerated Prince Sihanouk, approaching him, as is the — for a westerner — rather disturbing habit, on their knees. He delivered a rousing and justified philippic against Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge while I was there. Later I detected in conversation with him that wiliness and toughness which accounted, against all odds and predictions, for his political survival in a very dangerous game.

I had worn a simple cotton dress and flat shoes to visit the refugee camp. But I was struck by the fact that many of the women there were wearing attractive new dresses, looking remarkably elegant. My hair had also suffered from the wind, heat and humidity. So when I returned to Bangkok I asked the embassy to find someone who would set it for me and was pleasantly surprised to find myself in the hands of a lady whom I still consider to be one of best hairdressers I have ever had.

It is easy to fall in love with Thailand, in spite of its seamy side which was kept well hidden from me. As a staunch monarchist myself, I was particularly moved by my discussions with the King and Queen of Thailand. Perhaps every national monarchy has to find its own particular style. Certainly, King Bhumibol Adulyadej had done so. Hearing him speak with equal passion about problems of peasant agriculture and matters of high politics I could well understand the unique regard in which the Thai monarchy was held and how, though generals and civilian governments might come and go, the monarchy itself had remained the enduring source of legitimacy.

I returned to Britain by way of Dubai and took the opportunity of visiting HMS Manchester, acting as part of the Armilla Patrol protecting shipping in the Gulf. I do not really enjoy the heat: but at least I thought I would never experience anything worse than the temperature overlooking Sri Lanka’s Victoria Dam Power Project three years earlier. I was wrong. It was over 120 degrees as Denis and I stood waiting on the tarmac for the helicopter to take us from Dubai Airport aboard HMS Manchester. I was fascinated to explore the ship, climbing up and down ladders and along the narrow gangways from the galley to the Sea Dart missile loading bay. I stayed longest in the Operations Room. It did not take much imagination to envisage how easily mistakes can be made, in spite of all the checks and double checks, under great tension, in that darkened enclosed space. Below decks it was slightly cooler, though not much. The Chief Cook who was baking an apple and blackcurrant pie told me that the temperature in the galley was 105 degrees. I decided that it was time for this particular politician to ‘get out of the kitchen’ and left. I had enjoyed myself. But that iced whisky and soda back aboard the VC10 never tasted better.

Egypt and Jordan

Little progress was made during my time as Prime Minister in solving the Arab-Israeli dispute. It is important, though, to be clear about what such a ‘solution’ can and cannot be. The likelihood of a total change of heart among those concerned is minimal. Nor will outside influences ever be entirely removed from the region. Certainly, the end of Soviet communist manipulation of disputed issues makes it potentially easier to reach agreement with moderate Arabs and allows the United States to place clearer limits on its support for particular Israeli policies. But ultimately the United States, which was the power most responsible for the establishment of the state of Israel, will and must always stand behind Israel’s security. It is equally, though, right that the Palestinians should be restored in their land and dignity: and, as often happens in my experience, what is morally right eventually turns out to be politically expedient. Removing, even in limited measure, the Palestinian grievance is a necessary if not sufficient condition for cutting the cancer of Middle East terrorism out by the roots. The only way this can happen, as has long been clear, is for Israel to exchange ‘land for peace’, returning occupied territories to the Palestinians in exchange for credible undertakings to respect Israel’s security. It may be that the (thankfully ineffective) scud missile attacks of the Gulf War, demonstrating that Israel cannot preserve her security just by enlarging her borders, will eventually pave the way for such a compromise. That is to anticipate: for during my time as Prime Minister all initiatives eventually foundered on the fact that the two sides ultimately saw no need to adjust their stance. But that did not mean that we could simply sit back and let events take their course. Initiatives at least offered hope: stagnation in the Middle East peace process only ever promised disaster.

In September 1985 I visited the two key moderate Arab states, Egypt and Jordan. President Mubarak of Egypt had continued to pursue, though with greater circumspection, the policies of his assassinated predecessor, Anwar Sadat. King Hussein of Jordan had put forward a proposal for an international peace conference, as a prelude to which US Ambassador Murphy was to meet a joint Jordanian-Palestinian delegation. The Egyptians were keen to see the Jordanian initiative succeed. But the sticking point was which Palestinian representatives would be acceptable to the Americans, who would have nothing directly to do with the PLO. President Mubarak felt that the Americans were not being sufficiently positive. I had some sympathy for this point of view, though I restated what I said was a cardinal principle for the US, as for Britain, that we would not agree to talks with those who practised terrorism. I felt that President Mubarak and I understood one another. He was a large personality, persuasive and direct — the sort of man who could be one of the key players in a settlement.

My main public gesture in Egypt on behalf of British business was the unromantic one of opening the British-built Cairo Waste Water Project, in effect the city’s sewer. But before leaving Egypt I made the statutory — though no less fascinating — tour of Karnak and Luxor. It was very hot. By this time I had learned my lesson: I had my own bottled mineral water with me in the car. But a minor disaster ensued when my staff, credulously believing that a bottle labelled mineral water at the museum actually contained such a thing, promptly all went down with severe stomach upsets. I suspect that they were even more pleased than I was when we arrived that evening (Wednesday 18 September) at Amman.

I already knew King Hussein well and liked him. He had come to see me in Downing Street on a number of occasions. Like President Mubarak, but more so, King Hussein was vexed with the Americans, believing that, having encouraged him to take a peace initiative, they were now drawing back under domestic Jewish pressure. I understood what he felt. He had been taking a real risk in trying to promote his initiative and I thought he deserved more support. I wanted to do what I could to help. So when the King told me that two leading PLO supporters would be prepared publicly to renounce terrorism and accept UNSCR 242 I said that if they would do this, I would meet them in London. I announced this at my press conference. It would have been the first meeting between a British minister and representatives of the PLO. Later, when they arrived in London, I checked to see if they were still prepared to adhere to these conditions. One did. But the other could not: he was afraid for his life. So I could not see them. I am glad to say that King Hussein supported me in that decision. But it demonstrated — if that was necessary — how treacherous these waters were.

Before leaving Jordan I was taken out to see a Palestinian refugee camp. Denis used to say to me that these camps always tore his heart out. This was no exception. It was clean, well organized, orderly — and utterly hopeless. It was in effect run by the PLO who had, of course, a vested interest in making such camps a permanent recruiting ground for their revolutionary struggle. The most talented and educated Palestinians would not remain long there, preferring to join the Palestinian diaspora all over the Arab world. I talked to one old lady, half blind, lying in the shade of a tree outside her family’s hut. She was said to be about 100. But she had one thing above all on her mind, and spoke about it: the restoration of the Palestinians’ rights.

Israel

I had been to Israel several times before I became Prime Minister; and each time I visited what for the world’s three great religions is ‘the Holy Land’ it made an indelible impression. Anyone who has been to Jerusalem will understand why General Allenby, on taking the city from the Turks, dismounted to enter it on foot, as a mark of respect.

I have enormous admiration for the Jewish people, inside or outside Israel. There have always been Jewish members of my staff and indeed my Cabinet. In fact I just wanted a Cabinet of clever, energetic people — and frequently that turned out to be the same thing. My old constituency of Finchley has a large Jewish population. In the thirty-three years I represented it I never had a Jew come in poverty and desperation to one of my constituency surgeries. They had always been looked after by their own community.

I believe in what are often referred to as ‘Judaeo-Christian’ values: indeed my whole political philosophy is based on them. But I have always been wary of falling into the trap of equating in some way the Jewish and Christian faiths. I do not, as a Christian, believe that the Old Testament — the history of the Law — can be fully understood without the New Testament — the history of Mercy. But I often wished that Christian leaders would take a leaf out of the teaching of Britain’s wonderful former Chief Rabbi, Immanuel Jakobovits, and indeed that Christians themselves would take closer note of the Jewish emphasis on self-help and acceptance of personal responsibility. On top of all that, the political and economic construction of Israel against huge odds and bitter adversaries is one of the heroic sagas of our age. They really made ‘the desert bloom’. I only wished that Israeli emphasis on the human rights of the Russian refuseniks was matched by proper appreciation of the plight of landless and stateless Palestinians.

The Israelis knew when I arrived in their country in May 1986 that they were dealing with someone who harboured no lurking hostility towards them, who understood their anxieties, but who was not going to pursue an unqualified Zionist approach. Above all, I could be assured of respect for having stood up to terrorism at home and abroad. (It was only a matter of weeks since I had been one of the very few to support the American raid on Libya.) The Israelis were also aware of the tough line we were taking with the Syrians about the attempt of Nezar Hindawi, who had clear links to the Syrian Embassy and Government, to place a bomb on an El Al aircraft at Heathrow. So if anyone was in a good position to speak some home truths without too much fear of being misunderstood it was I.

I was looking forward to seeing Prime Minister Shimon Peres again. I knew him to be sincere, intelligent and reasonable. I had met him many times. It was a great pity that he would shortly, under the arrangement reached with the Likud Party in the national coalition, hand over the premiership to the hardline Yitzhak Shamir. Both Mr Peres and I wondered in the light of past history how people would react to seeing the Union Jack and the Star of David flying side by side. But we need not have worried. I arrived to be greeted by welcoming crowds at Tel Aviv, and was driven up to Jerusalem to stay at the King David Hotel — so full of associations for me and for all British people.[68] Outside the hotel even larger crowds were cheering in the darkness. I insisted on getting out of the car to see them, which threw the security men into a fit of agitation. But it was worth it: the people were delighted.

I breakfasted the following morning with Teddy Kollek, the Mayor of Jerusalem. I knew him well: he combined a warm humanity with formidable administrative zeal and — a still more valuable combination — loyalty to his own people with a sympathetic understanding of the problems of the Arabs. The whole day — Sunday 25 May — was full of evocative demonstrations of Israel’s history and identity. Naturally, I attended the Yad Vashem Memorial to the Holocaust: as on every occasion, I came out numb with shock that human beings could sink to such depravity.

I went on to a meeting with Mr Shamir. It was impossible to imagine anyone more different from Shimon Peres. This was a hard man, though undoubtedly a man of principle, whose past had left scars on his personality. There was no hostility between us: but nor could there ultimately be any meeting of minds about the way forward. It was clear that there was no possibility of Mr Shamir himself giving up ‘land for peace’ and the Jewish settlements on the West Bank would continue to go ahead.

I believed that the real challenge was to strengthen moderate Palestinians, probably in association with Jordan, who would eventually push aside the PLO extremists. But this would never happen if Israel did not encourage it; and the miserable conditions under which Arabs on the West Bank and in Gaza were having to live only made things worse. I also believed that there should be local elections on the West Bank. But at that time one of the strongest opponents of concessions on this — or anything else it seemed — was the then Defence minister, Mr Rabin, with whom I had breakfast on Monday. He proceeded to read out his views to me for forty minutes with barely time for a bite of toast.

But I was not to be put off. I repeated my proposals for local elections in a speech that afternoon to a group of Israeli MPs at the Knesset — the Israeli Parliament — chaired by the eloquent and respected Abba Eban.

Later I went to a dinner with carefully selected moderate Palestinians — mostly businessmen and academics — of precisely the sort I felt the Israelis should be prepared to deal with. They poured out their complaints, particularly about their treatment on the West Bank and especially in Gaza, where conditions were worst, partly because of insensitive security policing and partly, it seemed, because of economic discrimination in favour of Jewish business. I promised to take these matters up with Mr Peres — and did so in detail the following day — but I also made clear to them the need to reject terrorism and those who practised it. Although the general view was that only the PLO were able to represent the Palestinians, I also detected in conversations with smaller groups that this did not mean that there was any great love for that organization.

During my visit I had two long discussions with Mr Peres. He was conscious of the need to keep King Hussein’s now faltering peace initiative in play, not least so as to avoid destabilizing Jordan itself. But he was obviously highly sceptical about the proposal for an international peace conference. For all his understanding of the need for some kind of compromise, I did not come away with any real optimism. In fact, the succession of Mr Shamir as Prime Minister would soon seal off even these few shafts of light.

However intractable the diplomatic issues were, there was no doubt about the warmth of my reception in Israel, which indeed continued to grow as the visit went on. On Tuesday on my way to the airport for my return flight I stopped at Ramat Gan, a suburb of Tel Aviv that was twinned with Finchley. I had expected that I would be meeting the mayor and a few other dignitaries, perhaps some old acquaintances. Instead, 25,000 people were awaiting me. I was plunged into — at times, to the horror of my detectives and staff, almost sank into — a huge crowd of cheering residents, before being squeezed through and onto a large platform from which I had to give an unscripted speech — always the best. Later, during the Gulf War scud missiles from Iraq fell on Ramat Gan. The people of Finchley raised money to rebuild the houses that had been destroyed. This, I thought, was what ‘twinning’ should be all about.

The Problem of South Africa

I no more shared the established Foreign Office view of Africa than I did of the Middle East. Whereas Israel was considered the pariah of the Middle East with which we would be ill-advised too closely to associate, this role was allotted within Africa to South Africa. The basic, if usually unstated, assumption seemed to be that Britain’s national interests required that we should ultimately be prepared to go along with the opinions of the radical black African states in the Commonwealth. In fact, a clear-sighted analysis suggested something rather different.

Admitted that fundamental changes must be made in South Africa’s system, the question was of how best to achieve them. It seemed to me that the worst approach was to isolate South Africa further. Indeed, the isolation had already gone too far, contributing to an inflexible, siege mentality among the governing Afrikaner class. It was absurd to believe that they would be prepared to relinquish power suddenly or without acceptable safeguards. Indeed, had that occurred the result would have been anarchy in which black South Africans would have suffered most.

Nor, I knew, could the latter be considered a homogeneous group. Tribal loyalties were of great importance. For example, the Zulus are a proud and self-conscious nation with a distinct sense of identity. Any new political framework for South Africa had to take account of such differences. Not least because of these complexities, I did not believe that it was for outsiders to impose a particular solution. What I wanted to achieve was step-by-step reform — with more democracy, secure human rights, and a flourishing free enterprise economy able to generate the wealth to improve black living standards. I wanted to see a South Africa which was fully reintegrated into the international community. Nor did I ever feel, for all the sound and fury of the Left, that this was anything other than a high ideal of which no one need be ashamed.

It was also true that Britain had important trading interests in the continent and that these were more or less equal in black Africa on the one hand and South Africa on the other. South Africa had by far the richest and most varied range of natural resources of any African country. It was the world’s largest supplier of gold, platinum, gem diamonds, chrome, vanadium, manganese and other vital materials. Moreover, in a number of these cases South Africa’s only real rival was the Soviet Union. Even if it had been morally acceptable to pursue a policy which would have led to the collapse of South Africa, it would not therefore have made strategic sense.

South Africa was rich not just because of natural resources but because its economy was at least mainly run on free enterprise lines. Other African countries, well endowed with natural resources, were still poor because their economies were socialist and centrally controlled. Consequently, the blacks in South Africa had higher incomes and were generally better educated than elsewhere in Africa: that was why the South Africans erected security fences to keep intended immigrants out, unlike the Berlin Wall which kept those blessed with a socialist system in. The critics of South Africa never mentioned these inconvenient facts. But simply because I recognized them did not mean that I held any brief for apartheid. The colour of someone’s skin should not determine his or her political rights.

President P. W. Botha was to visit Europe on the occasion of the fortieth anniversary of the Normandy Landings and I sent him an invitation to come to see me at Chequers. He had a whole programme of visits in Europe, made possible by an agreement that he had reached earlier in the year with President Machel of Mozambique which seemed a promising development to many European states. Nevertheless, my invitation provoked accusations that I was ‘soft’ on apartheid. On Wednesday 30 May Bishop Trevor Huddleston, the veteran anti-apartheid campaigner, came to Downing Street to put the case against my seeing Mr Botha. His argument was that the South African President should not be accorded credibility as a man of peace and that South Africa should not be allowed to re-enter the international community until it changed its internal policies. This seemed to me to miss the point. It was South Africa’s isolation which was an obstacle to reform. Before his European trip, the only country that Mr Botha had visited in recent years was Taiwan.

One thing which the opponents of apartheid — perhaps because so many of them were socialists — never seemed fully to grasp was that capitalism itself was probably the greatest force for reform and political liberalization in South Africa, as it was in the communist countries. South Africa could not fulfil its economic potential unless black labour was brought in to the cities and trained. Capitalism in South Africa was already creating a black middle class which would ultimately insist on a share of power.

President Botha came to Chequers on the morning of Saturday 2 June. I had a private conversation with him which lasted some forty minutes and then I was joined over lunch by Geoffrey Howe, Malcolm Rifkind and officials — the South African President by his Foreign minister R. F. (‘Pik’) Botha. President Botha told me that South Africa never received any credit for the improvements which had been made in the conditions of the blacks. Although there was some truth in this, I had to tell him also how appalled we were by the forced removal of blacks from areas which had been designated for white residents only. I went on to raise the case of the imprisoned Nelson Mandela whose freedom we had persistently sought. It was my view, moreover, that no long-term solution to South Africa’s problems could be achieved without his co-operation. But the main discussion concentrated on Namibia, the former South African colony, where South Africa had reimposed direct rule the previous year. Our policy was to support Namibian independence. There was little progress here: South Africa had no intention of allowing Namibia to become independent while Cuban troops remained in Angola, but there was no prospect of Cuban withdrawal until civil war ended in Angola — which at the time seemed a forlorn hope. The South Africans clearly wanted to have more secure relations with their neighbours and hoped that the carrot of economic aid from South Africa might enable better relations to be built. In fact, for the reasons outlined above, this was to be a vain hope because the South African social and political system had begun to hamper economic growth.

I did not particularly warm to President Botha, whom I had met previously, but to do him justice he listened carefully to what I said. I found that when I raised specific circumstances he was willing to look into them personally and where he undertook to take action he proved as good as his word. The most important result of this meeting, however, was that from now on I was able to send him private messages on delicate matters which probably constituted almost the only helpful contact he had with western governments. As I told the Cabinet afterwards, it must be right to expose him as much as possible to our views. The arguments in favour of dialogue with the Soviet Union applied with at least as much force to the need to maintain contacts of this kind with South Africa.

The year 1985 was one of mounting crisis for South Africa. There was widespread rioting. A state of emergency was declared in many parts of the country. Foreign banks refused to renew South African credit and the South African Government declared a four-month freeze on the repayment of the principal of foreign debt. My old friend Fritz Leutwiler, former head of the Swiss Central Bank, was appointed as a mediator between the banks and the South African Government. We kept in contact so I knew what was happening. The international pressure on South Africa continued to mount. President Reagan, who was as opposed to economic sanctions as I was, introduced a limited package of sanctions to forestall pressure from Congress. It was clear that the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting in the Bahamas at Nassau that October would be a difficult one for me.

So in September I held a seminar at Chequers to clarify our thinking on tactics towards South Africa. Apart from Geoffrey Howe, Malcolm Rifkind, Paul Channon and Ian Stewart (from the Treasury), there were present a range of businessmen, academics and one or two interested and well informed MPs. None of us would have ‘started from here’ had we the choice. On the one hand the reform process in South Africa had ground to a halt: the constitutional reforms had proved a dead end because they did not involve even moderate middle-class blacks. On the other, the European Community was moving towards imposing sanctions. We had placed a reserve on the measures agreed by the Community earlier that month, though in fact, on closer inspection, most of these turned out to accord with our existing practice and I agreed to lift it before the CHOGM. One idea which was raised at the meeting was sending a ‘contact group’ of ‘eminent persons’ to try to get talks off the ground between the South African Government and representatives of the black community.

In the run up to the conference I did what I could to try to slow down the Gadarene rush towards imposing sanctions. I wrote to Commonwealth heads of government urging that instead we try to bring about negotiations between the South African Government and representatives of the black population. But it was already clear that we would be in for plenty of posturing from those intent on cutting a figure on the international stage.

The CHOGM at Nassau

I saw Brian Mulroney in Nassau on the first evening of the conference. He urged me to take the initiative by proposing a package of measures representing the lowest common denominator of Commonwealth agreement. All would be committed to it as the minimum, but it would be open to individual governments to do more if they chose. I told him that experience had taught me never to put forward ideas at too early a stage and I ended by saying: ‘I have made my final — and I mean final — step in accepting the European position on sanctions. I don’t relish being isolated within the Commonwealth, but if necessary so be it.’ I took the same line in similar meetings with Robert Mugabe, Kenneth Kaunda and Bob Hawke.

Bob Hawke opened the conference debate on South Africa, obviously seeking a compromise. Kenneth Kaunda followed with an emotional call for sanctions. I tried to meet both points of view in my reply. I began by detailing the evidence of social and economic change in South Africa. I carefully cited the number of black South Africans who had professional qualifications, who had cars, who were in business. Of course, there was a long way to go. But we were not faced with a static situation. The speech had an effect, as I saw from the reactions of those around the table. But natural caution had led me to have a fall-back position prepared: after my meeting with Brian Mulroney my officials had worked up a note of options for further measures, which I would take with me to the heads of government retreat over the weekend at Lyford Cay, where I knew that the real business would be done.

Lyford Cay is a beautiful spot with interesting historical associations. Private houses in the estate had been made available for the delegations. The central club there was effectively the Conference Centre. In a rather nice touch the Prime Minister of the Bahamas had seen that the house allocated to me and my delegation was the one where the Polaris agreement had been signed by Harold Macmillan and John Kennedy in 1962. At Lyford Cay a drafting committee of heads of government was somehow formed and in the course of Saturday morning drew up a draft communiqué on South Africa. Meanwhile I got on with other work. At 2 o’clock Brian Mulroney and Rajiv Gandhi arrived at the house to show me their best efforts. Alas, I could not give them high marks and spent the best part of two hours explaining why their proposals were unacceptable to me. I suggested that the text should include a firm call for an end to violence in South Africa as a condition for further dialogue: but this they considered far too controversial.

After dinner I was invited to join a wider group and put under great pressure to agree to the line they wanted. Bob Hawke bitterly attacked me. I replied with vigour. In a steadily worsening atmosphere, the argument went on for some three hours. Fortunately, I can never be defeated by attrition.

Overnight, I had officials prepare an alternative text to be presented at the plenary session due to begin at 10.30 next morning, before which a dejected Sonny Ramphal, the Commonwealth Secretary-General, begged me to compromise and show goodwill. There was certainly not much goodwill evident when the meeting began. The British text was not even considered. I was lectured on my political morality, on my preferring British jobs to black lives, on my lack of concern for human rights. One after the other, their accusations became more vitriolic and personal until I could stand it no longer.

To their palpable alarm I began to tell my African critics a few home truths. I noted that they were busily trading with South Africa at the same time as they were attacking me for refusing to apply sanctions. I wondered when they intended to show similar concern about abuses in the Soviet Union, with which of course they often had not just trade but close political links. I wondered when I was going to hear them attack terrorism. I reminded them of their own less than impressive record on human rights. And when the representative from Uganda took me to task for racial discrimination, I turned on him and reminded him of the Asians which Uganda had thrown out on racial grounds, many of whom had come to settle in my constituency in North London, where they were model citizens and doing very well. No one spoke for my position, though President Jayewardene of Sri Lanka caused something of a ripple when he said that in any case he had no intention of ending trade links with South Africa because it would throw the Sri Lankan tea planters out of work. The heads of government of some of the smaller states also told me privately that they agreed with me.

Over the lunch break I made a tactical decision as to which of the prepared options I would concede. My modest choice was to take unilateral action against the import of krugerrands and withdraw official support for trade promotion with South Africa. I would only do this, however, if there was a clear reference in the communiqué to the need to stop the violence. Then at 3.30 p.m. I went to join the ‘drafting committee’ in the library.

As I entered the room they all glared at me. It was extraordinary how the pack instinct of politicians could change a group of normally courteous, in some cases even charming, people into a gang of bullies. I had never been treated like this and I was not going to stand for it. So I began by saying that I had never been so insulted as I had by the people in that room and that it was an entirely unacceptable way of conducting international business. At once the murmurs of surprise and regret rose: one by one they protested that it was not ‘personal’. I answered that it clearly was personal and I wasn’t having it. The atmosphere immediately became more subdued. They asked me what I would accept. I announced the concessions I was prepared to make. I said that this was as far as I was going: if my proposals were not accepted I would withdraw and the United Kingdom would issue its own statement. The erstwhile ‘draftsmen’ went into a huddle. Ten minutes later it was all over. I suddenly became a stateswoman for having accepted a ‘compromise’. A text was agreed and at a plenary session later that evening was accepted without amendment.

Though I was genuinely hurt and dismayed by the behaviour I had witnessed, I was not displeased with the outcome. In particular, I was glad that the Commonwealth heads of government endorsed an idea with which several of us had been toying — the sending of a group of ‘eminent persons’ to South Africa to report back on the situation to a future conference. This had the great merit of giving us time — both to press the South Africans for further reform and to fight the diplomatic battle. I sought to persuade Geoffrey Howe to be an ‘eminent person’ but he was most reluctant to do so. He probably rated its chances of success as poor, and events proved him right. I may, myself, have been less than tactful. For when he protested that he was Foreign Secretary and could not do both jobs, I said that I could just about cope with his as well while he was away. Since by now I was firmly in charge of our approach to South Africa, making the main decisions directly from No. 10, that may have been close to the bone. One advantage of those eventually chosen as members of the ‘Eminent Persons Group’ was that a distinguished black African, the Nigerian General Obasanjo, would act as chairman of the group and would see for himself what the reality of life in South Africa was. But this advantage was more than cancelled out by the problems created by Malcolm Fraser, still full of rancour at his election defeat by Bob Hawke, longing to achieve a high international profile once more and consequently making a thoroughly ‘eminent person’ of himself.

At the press conference after the summit I described, with complete accuracy, the concessions I had made on sanctions as ‘tiny’, which enraged the Left and undoubtedly irritated the Foreign Office. But I did not believe in sanctions and I was not prepared to justify them. I was able to leave the shores of Nassau with my policy intact, albeit with my personal relations with Commonwealth leaders somewhat bruised: but that, after all, was not entirely my fault. And there were thousands of black Africans who would keep their jobs because of the battle I had fought.

More arguments about sanctions in the EC and the Commonwealth

I had no illusions that I had succeeded in doing anything more at Nassau than stave off for the present the pressure for sanctions against South Africa. It remained to be seen what would come of the ‘eminent persons’ visit to southern Africa. In fact it was an unmitigated disaster. Whether to scupper the initiative or for quite unconnected reasons, the South African armed forces launched raids against African National Congress (ANC) bases in Botswana, Zambia and Zimbabwe and the EPG cut short their visit.

This gave me a very difficult hand to play at the European Council meeting at the Hague in June 1986 — and because the actions of European Community countries, unlike most Commonwealth members, could have a real impact on the South African economy this was at least as important a forum for the sanctions issue as was CHOGM. The Dutch themselves — the Netherlands having been the original home of the Afrikaners — suffered from a pervasive guilt complex about South Africa, which did not make them ideal chairmen. But Chancellor Kohl — who, at least at this stage, was as strongly opposed to sanctions as I was — led the debate. I supported him, followed by the Prime Minister of Portugal. In the end we agreed to consider introducing later in the year a ban on new investment and sanctions on imports of South African coal, iron, steel and krugerrands. But it was also agreed that Geoffrey Howe should, as a sort of lone ‘eminent person’ and in view of the fact that Britain would shortly be taking on the presidency of the Community, visit South Africa to press for reform and the release of Nelson Mandela.

Geoffrey was extremely reluctant to go and it must be said that his reluctance proved justified since he was insulted by President Kaunda and brushed off by President Botha. I later learned that he thought I had set him up for an impossible mission and was deeply angry about it. I can only say that I had no such intention. I had a real admiration for Geoffrey’s talent for quiet diplomacy. If anyone could have made a breakthrough he would have done it.

Shortly after Geoffrey’s return I had to face the Special Commonwealth Conference on South Africa which we had agreed at Lyford Cay to review progress. It had been decided that seven Commonwealth heads of governments would meet in London in August. The worst aspect was that because of President P.W. Botha’s obstinacy we did not have enough to show by way of progress since the Nassau CHOGM. There had been some significant reforms and the partial state of emergency had been lifted in March. But a nationwide state of emergency had been imposed in June, Mr Mandela was still in prison, and the ANC and other similar organizations were still banned. With the fiasco of the ‘Eminent Persons Group’ in addition, there was no prospect of peaceful political dialogue between the South African Government and representatives of the black population. The US Congress was exerting increasing pressure for tough sanctions and later in the year forced a change in the Administration’s policy by overruling President Reagan’s veto on a new sanctions bill. It was clear that I would have to come up with some modest package of measures, though whether this would arrest the march towards full-scale economic sanctions was doubtful. In any case, I had a little list. For use as a diplomatic weapon of a rather different kind I had another little list of Commonwealth countries which applied detention without trial and similar illiberal practices — just in case.

The media and the Opposition were by now quite obsessive about South Africa. There was talk of the Commonwealth breaking up if Britain did not change its position on sanctions, though there was never any likelihood of either event. I was always convinced — and my postbag showed — that the views and priorities of these commentators were quite unrepresentative of what the general public felt. But that did not make it any more pleasant. On the eve of the conference Denis and I visited Edinburgh where the Commonwealth Games were to be held. We went to see the competitors — those at least whose countries had not boycotted the event — in the Games ‘village’, to be met by a few catcalls and some sour criticism. I did not disagree with Denis when he remarked that this was ‘one of the most poisonous visits’ we had ever made. It was a relief to dine that evening with my good friend Laurens van der Post who talks good sense about South Africa and who had been very helpful when we were negotiating independence for Zimbabwe.

Then it was back to more irrationality as the Special Conference opened in London. My meetings with heads of government before the official opening filled me with gloom. Brian Mulroney urged me to have Britain ‘give a lead’ and seemed to want me to reveal my negotiating hand to him in advance: but this I had no intention of doing, having on many an occasion seen such ‘concessions’ pocketed and then immediately forgotten. Kenneth Kaunda was in a thoroughly self-righteous and unco-operative frame of mind when I dropped in to see him at his hotel. He predicted that if sanctions were not applied, South Africa would go up in flames. I wound up the meeting smartly and said that it would be better if we postponed our discussion. Later I told Rajiv Gandhi that I would be prepared to move ‘a little’ at the conference. He seemed rather more amenable than he had been at Nassau, as indeed he usually was in private.

In fact, the formal discussions were every bit as unpleasant as at Lyford Cay, though at least they were shorter. My refusal to go along with the sanctions they wanted was attacked by Messrs Kaunda, Mugabe, Mulroney and Hawke. I found no support. Their proposals went well beyond what had been proposed the previous year. At Nassau they had wanted to cut off air links with South Africa, to introduce a ban on investment, agricultural imports, the promotion of tourism and other measures. Now they were demanding not only that these sanctions go ahead, but a whole raft of additional measures: a ban on new bank loans, imports of uranium, coal, iron and steel and the withdrawal of consular facilities. Such a package sacrificed the living standards of South Africa’s black population to the posturing of South Africa’s critics and the interests of their domestic industries. I was simply not prepared to endorse it. Instead, I had a separate paragraph inserted into the communiqué detailing our own approach which noted our willingness to go along with a ban on South African coal, iron and steel imports, if the European Community decided on it, and to introduce straight away voluntary bans on new investment and the promotion of tourism in South Africa. In the event we in the Community decided against the sanctions on coal, to which the Germans were particularly strongly opposed, though the other sanctions proposed at the Hague were introduced in September 1986.

Perhaps the most extraordinary feature of these discussions was that they seemed to be carried on without regard to what was happening in South Africa itself. P. W. Botha’s Government was unimaginative and inflexible and the nationwide state of emergency had been imposed. But, as I was informed by our excellent new ambassador, Robin Renwick, and by others who had dealings with the real rather than the bogus South Africa, fundamental changes were taking place. Black trade unions had been legalized, the Mixed Marriages Act had been repealed, influx controls had been abolished and the general policy (though not without exceptions) of forced removals of blacks had ended. So had job reservation for whites and the very unpopular pass laws. Still more important, there was a practical breakdown of apartheid at the work place, in hotels, in offices and in city centres. The repeal of the Separate Amenities Act had been proposed and seemed likely to be implemented. In all these ways ‘apartheid’, as the Left continued to describe it, was if not dead at least rapidly dying. Yet South Africa received no credit for this, only unthinking hostility.

I was less prepared than ever to go along with measures which would weaken the South African economy and thus slow down reform. So as the 1987 CHOGM at Vancouver approached I was still in no mood for compromise. In some respects the position was easier for me than it had been at Nassau and in London. Events in Fiji and in Sri Lanka were likely to occupy a good deal of attention at the conference. My line on sanctions was well known and the domestic pressure on me had decreased: I had made headway in winning the sanctions argument at home during the London conference. But it would not all be plain sailing. It seemed to me that the Canadians, our hosts, wanted to be more African than the Africans — particularly since countries like Zimbabwe knew that they could not possibly afford to implement full-scale sanctions themselves and hoped that we would do it for them. Brian Mulroney was keen to gain agreement for setting up a committee of Commonwealth Foreign ministers to monitor events in South Africa, which seemed to me not just a waste of time but counterproductive — as I told Mr Mulroney at a meeting with him on the eve of the conference. I said that its only purpose would be to satisfy the ego of the Commonwealth heads of government and I would criticize it publicly and strongly.

I also had a talk with President Kaunda who was under some pressure to set his own country’s economic affairs in order to meet the requirements of the IMF. Our views were no more similar on South Africa than they had been. At one point I said that I regretted that I had not yet been able to visit Africa, apart from my attendance at the Lusaka CHOGM in 1979. Mr Kaunda said that Africa was not at all my area, which I found intensely irritating. I retorted that he himself had charged me with the duty of bringing Rhodesia to full independence as Zimbabwe at the Lusaka Conference and that I had accomplished it. But his off-hand remark did confirm me in my intention of making a visit soon to black African countries.

In my speech to the conference I pointed out just how damaging sanctions and disinvestment were to those we were allegedly trying to help. I gave the example of an Australian firm which had just closed a fish-canning factory near Cape Town putting 120 non-whites out of jobs. I noted that a general ban on fruit and vegetable exports would destroy between 100,000 and 200,000 non-white jobs — and all those affected would have no social security benefits to fall back on. Nearer the knuckle, I said that I well understood why neighbouring countries had not imposed the whole range of sanctions. Eighty per cent of Zimbabwe’s external trade passed through South Africa. A million migrant workers earned their living there. Over half of Lesotho’s GNP came from their remittances. So I was more firmly convinced than ever that sanctions were not the answer. Of course, such arguments cut little ice with those determined on gestures.

As usual, the main decisions were deferred for the — this time mercifully quite brief — retreat at the Lake Okanagan resort up in the mountains. The discussions took place and meals were provided at a central hotel with individual chalets dotted around it. It was bitterly cold at Lake Okanagan. But the Africans, of course, felt it more than I did. They turned up at the central hotel with blankets over their shoulders. Rajiv Gandhi obviously considered that exercise was the best way to keep warm and always seemed to appear in a tracksuit having jogged between meetings.

The atmosphere at our discussions was not much warmer. I was not prepared to go along with the draft communiqué which they wanted. At a dinner given by Rajiv Gandhi back in Vancouver I was left to kick my heels for forty-five minutes on my own waiting for other heads of government to turn up. They had in fact been holding a press conference on South Africa to which I had not been invited and of whose existence I was unaware.

But we had given as good as we got. In reply to the sanctimonious criticism of our Canadian hosts, I had figures released which showed that Canada’s imports from South Africa had risen. It was a useful comment on the Commonwealth heads’ sincerity. Not just Mr Mulroney, but almost everyone else it seemed, exploded with indignation at this intrusion of fact upon rhetoric. My suspicion that in this the political leaders were out of step with the people was confirmed when I received a rapturous reception from the crowds in Vancouver: one man kept on shouting ‘Hang in there girl, hang in there.’ I did.

Visits to Black Africa

Whatever Kenneth Kaunda thought of it, I was now determined to pay a visit to black Africa. It seemed absurd to allow the public arguments about South Africa to get in the way of that. I knew perfectly well from private discussions with African leaders that many of them wanted closer links with Britain. They also generally respect strength in leaders. No one gets very far in African politics without being tough. I also intended to use my visit for a purpose which was to become still more important during the rest of my premiership: I wanted to spread the message that a combination of limited government, financial orthodoxy and free enterprise would work for prosperity in underdeveloped countries as well as it did in the prosperous West. I chose Kenya and Nigeria for my first African political safari. In both cases this was with good reason.

Kenya was the most pro-western, most free enterprise of the important black African states. Nigeria was the most populous African state — one in four Africans is a Nigerian — and a country of huge potential, if only it could achieve sound public finances and public administration. Both President Moi of Kenya and General Babangida of Nigeria were pro-British, though Nigerian feeling towards us was more volatile and on the South African question extremely hostile. Britain was the largest foreign investor in both countries — and in the case of Kenya the largest aid donor too.

I arrived in Nairobi on the evening of Monday 4 January 1988, to be met by President Moi. He had a dignified, rather grave manner, with something of the tribal chief about him: we always got on well. But his human rights record was no better than that of many Commonwealth heads of government. Although we disagreed about South Africa, he was a moderate and one of the forces for common sense at CHOGMs.

Denis and I and our party stayed at the government guesthouse, which left something to be desired. Denis tried to run a bath but found that there was no water and it had to be brought up in dustbins from the cellar: we heated it up on gas rings in the kitchen. Then no sooner did we have hot water than the lights went out.

But whatever difficulties there were with the facilities, there was none with the welcome. President Moi, who loved nothing better than to get out of Nairobi into the countryside, accompanied me on a fascinating itinerary. Kenya, unlike some other African countries, has never lost sight of the importance of agriculture. Great efforts were clearly being put into improving it. I visited a Masai rural training centre and inspected their lugubrious cattle, toured a tea plantation, met a polygamous sugar farmer with twenty-three immaculately turned-out young children and then went on to what was described as a ‘Women’s Poultry Project’. This visit had been suggested by the British Overseas Development Administration (ODA) as a model small agricultural project. Unfortunately, the Kenyan Government, on learning that I was to go there, upgraded the whole project and moved the chickens into conditions of great luxury, which of course largely destroyed the point of the visit. Everywhere I went I was struck by the good-humoured reception I received. The bitternesses of the 1950s had clearly been forgotten. It was an encouraging start.

I then went on to make a fleeting visit to Nigeria. I arrived at Lagos on the morning of Thursday 7 January and had talks with General Babangida. He was a forceful, intelligent man, trying to put Nigeria’s economy on to a sounder footing and in due course, we hoped, to create the conditions for a restoration of democracy. We had helped Nigeria in its dealings with the IMF and this was appreciated. General Babangida seemed to be open to my suggestions about the need to curb Nigeria’s budget deficit, cut inflation and provide reassurances for foreign investors. We also saw eye to eye about the dangers of Soviet and Cuban involvement in Africa.

The next day I flew to the very north of the country to attend a Durbar as the guest of the Emir of Kano. It was a difficult landing because of the cloud of fine Sahara sand suspended in the air. Denis was sitting in the aeroplane cockpit and he told me afterwards that there had only been a relatively brief period of visibility before landing. This real danger was, however, entirely subordinated to one manufactured by the British press. On the way up to the Emir’s box, from where I was to view the horses and camels parading below, I lost contact with the rest of my staff who were jostled by an overenthusiastic crowd and then treated with some vigour by anxious security guards confused about their identity. Bernard Ingham received a none too gentle rifle butt in the stomach. Later in the day an anxious Nigel Wicks, my principal private secretary at No. 10, rang up to see whether we were still in one piece. In fact — unaware of the confusion — I had been enjoying myself hugely, holding on to a rather fabulous hat I was wearing with the Nigerian national colours on it as horsemen charged in a cloud of dust up to where the Emir, Denis and I were seated. At the end I was presented with a horse myself as a gift; but, arguing that it would be happier with its own horse acquaintances than in a British stable, I prevailed on my hosts to keep it for me.

The success of this visit convinced me that I should make a more ambitious foray into Africa the following year and this was now arranged. I would go first to Morocco — which is essentially part of the Arab world — and then on to Zimbabwe, Malawi, possibly Namibia, and Nigeria once more.

I already had the greatest regard for King Hassan of Morocco, who was always underrated as a player in Middle Eastern politics. I had met him in London two years earlier when he was on a state visit. On this occasion our talk was mainly of the Arab-Israeli dispute and military co-operation between Britain and Morocco. As well as being enormously cultivated — he speaks half a dozen languages and can make an impromptu speech in any of them — the King has an icy nerve. When I heard from him about the measures he took to protect himself from further assassination attempts I understood that he, like me, understood what it meant to live as a terrorist target.

Then I flew to Lagos. This was just a stop-over visit and General Babangida came to the airport to have lunch with me. I was glad to learn that he was not just pressing ahead with, but actually toughening, the economic reform programme on which Nigeria had embarked. With our support, Nigeria now had the approval of the IMF and its main western creditors and had secured a rescheduling of debt to its public sector creditors. It is never an easy task to govern a country like Nigeria — it is a somewhat artificial creation divided between the Muslim North and the Christian and pagan South — let alone to do so under conditions of economic austerity.

I arrived at Harare, Zimbabwe, at 10 o’clock that night, to be met by Robert Mugabe and a floodlit, noisy tribal welcome. It was nearly ten years since I had convened the Lancaster House Conference which led to Mr Mugabe peacefully taking power in Zimbabwe. Since then Britain had provided more than £200 million in aid and military training. Britain was also the largest investor. Zimbabwe could still boast of one of the strongest African economies outside South Africa. But Mr Mugabe’s doctrinaire socialism, suspicion of foreign investment and reluctance to accept the prescriptions of the IMF and the World Bank were taking their toll. I had little reason to expect that I could persuade him to my point of view on the South African sanctions question, but I hoped that I might succeed in bringing him to accept the need for changes in economic policy. At my talks with him the following morning I sought to do this by describing my own economic policies in the United Kingdom where we were reducing the role of the state in the economy and encouraging free enterprise: this, I said, was why our economy was growing and enabling us to provide aid for Zimbabwe. I also drew attention to a recent World Bank study which showed that those African countries which followed programmes recommended by the IMF did better than those which did not. Mr Mugabe recognized, at least in principle, the need to devise an investment code so as to give asssurance to foreign investors. But I was not convinced that the rest of my message really went home. Much of our discussion, however, was about the situation in neighbouring African states, not least Mozambique. I was shortly to learn more about this.

Later that morning I flew out with President Mugabe to the training camp at Nyanga on the border with Mozambique. There I was met by President Chissano of Mozambique and the three of us had lunch in a tent on a bluff overlooking a deep valley. Then I watched the British troops training Mozambique soldiers to fight the RENAMO guerillas. I could not help reflecting how impossible this prospect would have seemed back in 1979 when I was trying to bring Rhodesia back to peace and legality. It would probably have seemed hardly less improbable to those of my left-wing critics who considered my stand against sanctions as a kind of racist impulse.

The following evening (Thursday 30 March) I flew from Harare to Blantyre, Malawi. The journey was short and so my VC10 was flying lower than usual — too low for comfort, since at one point we were fired on with missiles by RENAMO. Fortunately they missed. I was met at the airport — with another floodlit tribal greeting — by President Banda. It was an unforgettable occasion. He was an extraordinary man. Although probably in his early nineties, I found him, in my talks, bright, alert and humorous. Almost alone, he had built up Malawi, a poor country, into one with sound finances and sensibly developed agriculture. I stayed with him in his official residence, the Sanjika Palace, where I would come across him wearing dark formal dress and a black hat which he would doff when I met him in the corridor. There was another, less agreeable, side to his regime. Opponents quickly found themselves in jail and traders who, like several of my own Asian constituents, tried to get their money out of the country had their property confiscated.

Early next morning I helicoptered out to the Mankhokwe Refugee Camp on the border with Mozambique. Most of the flight was over mountains which then dropped away to a plain on which a vast refugee camp housing over 600,000 people had been built. These refugees had fled from the civil war in Mozambique. What they told me about the atrocities committed and the reign of fear created in their villages by RENAMO was truly horrifying. I saw some of those who had just recently fled: they had not eaten for several days and had travelled by night. Their eyes had that deadness which total exhaustion brings. After this, I could never be tempted to regard RENAMO as anti-communist freedom fighters in the way that some right-wing Americans continued to. They were terrorists.

That night President Banda hosted a state banquet for me. It was a memorable occasion, not least because it lasted over five hours. Each new dish which was brought in was presented first to the President before being served to his guests. My own gaze fell on a giant chocolate cockerel: I can never resist chocolate. Zulus sang and danced throughout the banquet. Then Dr Banda rose to speak. An hour later his account of his life and experiences had only reached 1945. Some of his guests had actually fallen asleep. At this point the lady who acted as his hostess gave him a hard nudge and reminded him of the time. We got through the next forty-three years in five minutes flat. In consideration of those present I cut down my own speech accordingly.

Hardly anyone knew that from Blantyre I intended to fly to Windhoek, Namibia: the press who were with us were only told after we had taken off. The UN plan to bring Namibia (formerly South-West Africa) to democratic independence had been drawn up in the late 1970s but only now, as a result of American efforts to broker a settlement of the Angolan civil war — to which we had given strong support — was it possible to put it into effect. Security Council Resolution 632 of 16 February 1989 was to be implemented from Saturday 1 April — the day on which I arrived in Windhoek — with a view to elections later in the year.

On my arrival I was met by the three key figures — the UN Special Representative (Mr Ahtisaari), the UN Force Commander (General Prem Chand) and the South African Administrator-General (Mr Pienaar). Denis and I then visited and had lunch with the small British Signals contingent in their base camp, visited the Rossing Uranium Mine — where I was much impressed by the housing and welfare services provided for the employees — and then returned to Windhoek. By now it was clear that the whole UN solution to the Namibian problem was at mortal risk. In flagrant disregard of previous undertakings that no armed personnel would come south of the 16th Parallel (well within Angola) hundreds of SWAPO (South-West Africa People’s Organization) troops had crossed the border into Namibia with military equipment. I was not in the least convinced by the reaction of the SWAPO leader — Sam Nujoma — who claimed that his organization was faithfully abiding by the cease-fire and that the so-called invaders must be South Africans in disguise.

But nor did I believe that it would do anything but harm — not least to South Africa — if the South Africans now responded by unilaterally moving their own forces out of barracks to drive SWAPO back. I met Pik Botha, the South African Foreign minister, at Windhoek Airport. I said that SWAPO had done wrong and therefore South Africa must act with scrupulous correctness. ‘Never put yourself in the wrong’, I said, ‘particularly when your opponents have just done so.’ I told him that he must get in touch with the UN representative and General Prem, present his evidence before them and ask for their authority to get his troops and helicopters out of barracks. I rang Mr Ahtisaari myself to alert him to what was happening.

In fact, the UN did authorize the South Africans to use their forces. But it was all legal. Though there were many casualties, a full-scale confrontation was avoided, assembly points were designated to which SWAPO units reported to be escorted back across the border with their arms by UN forces, a new cease-fire was agreed — and this now held. That autumn SWAPO won the elections for the Namibian Constituent Assembly and Mr Nujoma became President — in which capacity he thanked me when I was at the United Nations in September 1990 for my intervention. In fact, I had held no brief for SWAPO. But I did believe that only with the issue of Namibia sorted out could there be peaceful change in South Africa. I had been the right person in the right place at the right time.

But my activities in black Africa had little impact on ‘Commonwealth opinion’. Nor, it seemed, did changes in South Africa itself.

Rhetoric and Reality in South Africa, 1989–1990

I had always felt that fundamental reform would never take place while P. W. Botha was President. But in January 1989 Mr Botha suffered a stroke and the following month was succeeded as National Party Leader by F. W. de Klerk, who became President in August. It was surely right to give the new South African leader the opportunity to make his mark without ham-fisted outside intervention.

The 1989 CHOGM was due to take place in October in Kuala Lumpur, hosted by Dr Mahathir. I went there with a new Foreign Secretary, John Major, and a renewed determination not to go further down the path of sanctions. I also tried to raise the sights of those present to the great changes which were taking place in the world around them. Introducing the session on the ‘World Political Scene’ I drew attention to the momentous changes occurring in the Soviet Union and their implications for all of us. I said that there was now the prospect of settling regional conflicts — not least those in Africa — which had been aggravated by the international subversion of communism. Throughout the world we must now ardently advocate democracy and a much freer economic system. I secretly hoped that the message would not be lost on the many illiberal, collectivist Commonwealth countries whose representatives were present.

But the debate on South Africa brought out all the old venom. Bob Hawke and Kenneth Kaunda argued the case for sanctions. I intervened to read out a letter I had recently received from a British company which had invested in pineapple-canning in South Africa, but found its export markets in the USA and Canada cut off by sanctions and had therefore been forced to close, putting 1,100 black and 40 white South Africans out of work. That was the only sense in which sanctions ‘worked’. I also quoted figures to show that Britain’s share of South African imports and exports had fallen further over the last eight years than that of the rest of the Commonwealth, adding that our share had largely been picked up by Japan and Germany. I pointed out that Britain was providing substantial help for black South Africans, their education, their housing, rural projects, refugees from Mozambique and aid to the ‘front line’ states. We were assisting ‘Operation Hunger’ which provides meals for millions of poor South Africans. By contrast, the aim of many others at the CHOGM seemed to be to multiply the number of those who were hungry.

By now I was quite used to the vicious, personal attacks in which my Commonwealth colleagues liked to indulge. John Major was not: he found their behaviour quite shocking. I left him back in Kuala Lumpur with the other Foreign ministers to draft the communiqué while I and the other heads of government went off to our retreat in Langkawi. While I was there my officials faxed through a text which the Foreign ministers apparently thought we could all ‘live with’. But I could only live with it if I also put out a separate unambiguous statement of our own views. I had it drafted and sent back to John Major in Kuala Lumpur. Contrary to what the press — almost as eager for ‘splits’ as they were for describing Britain’s ‘isolation’ — subsequently alleged, John was quite happy to go along with issuing a separate British document and made some changes to it, which I agreed. I suspect that he had had his fill of Commonwealth diplomacy already. The issue, however, of our separate document prompted howls of anger from the other heads of government. At the session of CHOGM at which Dr Mahathir reported on the retreat at Langkawi Bob Hawke intervened to protest about what Britain had done. Brian Mulroney followed this up. It was, in fact, clearly planned. They arrived at the meeting together and signalled to each other before Bob Hawke spoke. I replied by saying that I owed nobody an explanation and was astounded that anyone should object to a nation putting forward its own viewpoint. They had put forward their views in speeches and press conferences and Britain had as much right to free speech as they did. That ended the discussion.

In South Africa as 1990 opened the movement which I had hoped and worked for began. There were indications that Nelson Mandela would, after all the years of pressure, not least from me, shortly be released. I told our ambassador, Robin Renwick, that I would welcome the chance to see President de Klerk at Chequers if he visited Europe in the spring. I told the Foreign Office — who did not like it one bit — that as soon as Mr Mandela was freed I wanted us to respond rapidly by rescinding or relaxing the measures we had taken against South Africa, starting with the relatively minor ones which rested with us alone and did not have to be discussed with the European Community.

On 2 February 1990 President de Klerk made a speech which announced Mr Mandela’s and other black leaders’ imminent release, the unbanning of the ANC and other black political organizations and promised an end to the state of emergency as soon as possible. I immediately went back to the Foreign Office and said that once the promises were fulfilled we should end the ‘voluntary’ ban on investment and encourage the other European Community countries to do likewise. I asked Douglas Hurd — now Foreign Secretary — to propose to other Community Foreign ministers at his forthcoming meeting with them an end to the restrictions on purchase of krugerrands and iron and steel. I also decided to send messages to other heads of government urging practical recognition of what was happening in South Africa.

In April I was briefed by Dr Gerrit Viljoen, the South African Minister for Constitutional Development, on the contacts between the South African Government and the ANC, now effectively led once more by Mr Mandela. I was disappointed by the fact that Mr Mandela kept repeating the old ritual phrases, arguably suitable for a movement refused recognition, but not for one aspiring to a leading and perhaps dominant role in government. The South African Government was formulating its own ideas for the constitution and was moving towards a combination of a lower house elected by one-man one-vote with an upper chamber with special minority representation. This would help to accommodate the great ethnic diversity which characterizes South Africa, although in the long run some sort of cantonal system may be needed to do this efficiently.

By the time that President de Klerk set off for his talks with European leaders in May, discussions with the ANC had begun in earnest. I was also glad that the South African Government was paying due regard to Chief Buthelezi, who had been such a stalwart opponent of violent uprising in South Africa while the ANC had been endorsing the Marxist revolution, to which some of its members are still attached.

Talks with President de Klerk and Mr Mandela

President de Klerk, Pik Botha and their wives came to talks and lunch at Chequers on Saturday 19 May. I felt that Mr de Klerk had grown in stature since my last meeting with him a year ago. It struck me that there were parallels with Mr Gorbachev — though perhaps neither would have welcomed the comparison: in each case one man brought to power through an unjust and oppressive system had the combination of vision and prudence to set about changing that system. My talks with Mr de Klerk focused on his plans for the next steps in bringing the ANC to accept a political and economic system which would secure South Africa’s future as a liberal, free enterprise country. The violence between blacks, which was to get worse, was already the single biggest obstacle to progress. But he was optimistic about the prospects for agreement with the ANC on a new constitution; and he thought that the ANC wanted this too.

We discussed what should be done about sanctions. He said that he was not like a dog begging for a biscuit, seeking specific rewards for actions he took. What he wanted was the widest possible international recognition of and support for what he was doing, leading to a fundamental revision of attitudes towards South Africa. This seemed to me very sensible. Mr de Klerk also invited me to South Africa. I said that I would love to come but I did not want to make things more difficult for him at this particular moment. There was, I knew, nothing more likely to sour his dealings with other governments who had been proved wrong about South Africa than for me to arrive in his country as a kind of proclamation that I had been right. (In fact, it is a disappointment to me that I was never to go to South Africa as Prime Minister and I only finally accepted his invitation after I left office.)

On Wednesday 4 July I held talks and had lunch at Downing Street with the other main player in South African politics, Nelson Mandela. I had seen him briefly in the spring when he had been feted by the media Left, attending a concert in Wembley in his honour, but this was the first time I really got to know him. The Left were rather offended that he was prepared to see me at all. But then he, unlike them, had a shrewd view as to what kind of pressure for his release had been more successful. I found Mr Mandela supremely courteous, with a genuine nobility of bearing and — most remarkable after all he had suffered — without any bitterness. I warmed to him. But I also found him very outdated in his attitudes, stuck in a kind of socialist timewarp in which nothing had moved on, not least in economic thinking, since the 1940s. Perhaps this was not surprising in view of his long years of imprisonment: but it was a disadvantage in the first few months of his freedom because he tended to repeat these outdated platitudes which in turn confirmed his followers in their exaggerated expectations.

I made four main points in our discussion. First, I urged him to suspend the ‘armed struggle’. Whatever justification there might have been for this was now gone. Second, I supported the South African Government’s arguments against having an elected Constituent Assembly to draw up a constitution. It seemed to me that in order to maintain both the confidence of the white population and law and order it should be for the Government, the ANC and Inkatha (Chief Buthelezi’s movement) and others to agree on a constitution now. Third, I pointed out the harm which all his talk of nationalization could do to foreign investment and the economy in general. Finally, I said that I thought he should meet Chief Buthelezi personally — which he was refusing to do. This was the only hope for ending the violence between their supporters. Our relationship was unharmed by my straight talking. In spite of his socialist outlook, I believed that South Africa was lucky to have a man of Mr Mandela’s stature at such a time. Indeed, I hoped he would assert himself more at the expense of some of his ANC colleagues.

It was only shortly before I left office that President de Klerk again came to see me at Chequers — on Sunday 14 October. There had been some progress since I had seen Mr Mandela in June. The ANC had agreed to suspend the ‘armed struggle’ and the two sides had agreed in principle on the arrangements for the return of South African exiles and the release of the rest of the political prisoners. The remaining features of the old apartheid system were being dismantled. The Land Acts were due to be repealed and the Population Registration Act — the last remaining legislative pillar of apartheid — would go when a new constitution was agreed. Only state education remained segregated but movement on this — for the whites — very sensitive matter had also begun. However, violence between blacks had sharply worsened and this was poisoning the atmosphere for negotiations.

The South Africans were being careful about pressing for the lifting of the remaining sanctions. The most important contribution to this would have been that of the ANC: but they stubbornly refused to recognize that the case for sanctions — to the extent it had ever existed — was dead. Within the European Community, the key to a formal change of policy now was Germany, but for domestic political reasons Chancellor Kohl was still unwilling to act. The Americans held back for similar reasons. However, as President de Klerk told me, in practice most of the economic sanctions were being steadily eroded and what really mattered to the South Africans now was access to foreign loans and investment. (In fact, sanctions were gradually dismantled over the next few years: indeed the international community began to prepare financial aid for South Africa to undo the damage that sanctions had wrought.)

President de Klerk was clearly frustrated that the further round of informal talks with the ANC on the constitution for which he had been pressing had still not occurred. The longer the process continued the more opportunity there was for hardliners — on either side — to derail the negotiations. The main principle to which he held was that there must be power sharing in the Executive. In the new South Africa no one must have as much power as he himself had now. In some respects he thought that the Swiss Federal Cabinet was a guide to what was needed. This seemed to me to be very much on the right lines — not that either hybrid constitutions or federal systems have much inherent appeal, but in states where allegiances are at least as much to subordinate groups as to the overarching institutions of the state itself these things may constitute the least bad approach. It remains to be seen whether the ANC leadership is prepared to recognize this. With all the risks of violence and all the shortcomings of the various political factions, South Africa remains the strongest economy on the continent and has the most skilled and educated population. It would be a tragedy if it cannot exploit these advantages to build a genuine democracy, which respects minority rights, on the foundation of a free economy.