The incentives started to change behavior, and we saw leaders from practically every poor country show up with a paper demonstrating why they would be good MCC candidates. Since a compact had to have the support of civil society (farmers’ cooperatives, labor unions, environmentalists, businesspeople), the process also brought governments closer to their people. The successful recipients formed “MCC University,” where they shared their experiences with prospective candidates.
The work was slow, and sometimes the Congress—and eventually the President—complained that the appropriations weren’t being spent expeditiously. And sometimes countries fell back—including when the newly elected Sandinistas in Nicaragua began to unravel democratic and market-oriented economic reforms in 2008. Eventually John Danilovich, who’d been our ambassador in Brazil, took over as chief executive officer of the MCC, replacing Paul Applegarth, who’d successfully launched the program. John brought new energy and focus, and the money started to flow. Yet with all the ups and downs, the MCC garnered bipartisan support and remains to this day a successful innovation in the delivery of foreign assistance.
I was especially proud when, toward the end of our term, we were able to certify Liberia’s eligibility for an MCC threshold program. Liberia stood for all that we’d tried to do in Africa: ending civil wars, promoting democracy, and providing hope and a chance at prosperity. Two years after we helped to liberate that country from Charles Taylor’s brutality, the Liberian people elected as president a Harvard-trained World Bank economist, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf. She liked to be called “Mother” or “Ma Ellen” by her people, and she fit the part. A heavyset, bespectacled woman who favored brilliantly colored traditional African dress, she looked as though she was determined to pull her people out of poverty and despair—by the ear if necessary.
First Lady Laura Bush and I attended her inauguration in Monrovia on January 16. We arrived that morning because there was no place to stay. Even the ambassador’s residence was basic, with intermittent electricity and water. In the hot midday sun, we listened to Johnson Sirleaf’s optimistic charge to her people to claim their future. I was reminded of the close connections between African Americans and Liberians when the choir sung “The Heavens Are Telling” from Haydn’s Creation, a song that was a favorite of the choirs of historically black colleges.
The assembled African leaders, gathered to welcome the first woman into their ranks, applauded heartily as she spoke—at least until she said members of her administration would be required to publish their personal finances. “In this respect I will lead by example,” she said. “I will be the first to comply by declaring my assets.” That drew silence. No other leader really wanted to follow her lead in that regard.
After the ceremony, Laura and I walked down the street to our car. We had to avoid potholes and cracks in the sidewalks that might catch our high heels and send us tumbling. The Liberians had done their best, but the infrastructure was the worst I’d seen anywhere in the world. When the Pentagon decided to establish a separate command for Africa, called AFRICOM, Johnson Sirleaf lobbied to place its headquarters in Monrovia. A U.S. military presence would bring infrastructure improvements, she reasoned. It was a good idea, but the Pentagon demurred, citing the monumental investment that it would require.
I would return to Monrovia with President Bush in 2008. The Liberian people were so grateful for what we’d done. We were met at the airport and driven to the President’s office, where the elevator malfunctioned. The President and Johnson Sirleaf climbed the five flights of stairs—the fit George Bush stopping on each landing to “rest,” so that his friend could rest too.
Shortly after that, we were led to a creaky stadium to watch President Bush review the newly minted security forces while a band played John Philip Sousa. Apparently, a retired U.S. colonel had decided to devote a couple of years to giving the Liberians a proper military band. And then the Liberians put on the best lunch they could—delicious despite the insistent flies—and invited the President to dance with their leader, an invitation he took up, much to the delight of his hosts and a bit to the dismay of his staff.
That scene would be repeated whenever we visited the African continent: women in Tanzania, wearing skirts with the likeness of the American President emblazoned on them; the President dancing with the Ghanaian first lady and “raising the roof,” blending in so effortlessly, in fact, that Assistant Secretary Jendayi Frazer questioned his bloodlines. There were numerous other examples. Responding to a question in 2008 about African pride in candidate Obama and whether they looked forward to his election, the Tanzanian president said that it was, of course, for Americans to decide. Then he added, “For us, the most important thing is, let him be as good a friend of Africa as President Bush has been.” I loved it. Africa was emotionally satisfying for me—not surprisingly, since I was the descendant of slaves. Curiously, it felt like George Bush’s home turf too, and that made me very proud.
I RETURNED to the Middle East in February to continue to lay the groundwork for a resumption of negotiations between the Palestinians and the Israelis. The Quartet’s position on Hamas had allowed the Israelis to follow suit and distinguish between Abbas and the PA and the Hamas legislature. The Arabs were upbeat, believing both in the President’s commitment to Middle East peace and in their capacity to keep Hamas at bay. I always found the press conferences a bit distressing since the Arabs would never admit what they had told me: that they wanted to see Hamas out of business. But it was good enough to have them quietly engage in policies to isolate the terrorists who they feared almost as much as the Israelis did.
I’d just boarded the plane in Egypt heading to Riyadh. David Welch followed me into my cabin. All the blood had drained from his face. A powerful bomb had exploded at the Askariya Shrine in Iraq. Called the “Golden Mosque” because of its gilded dome, the shrine is one of the most revered religious sites in Shia Islam. I got hold of Zal Khalilzad, our ambassador in Baghdad, who said that he’d been making the rounds of Iraqi leaders. We’d quickly learn that the attack had been the work of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, whom Osama bin Laden had hailed as the “prince of al Qaeda in Iraq.” Zarqawi was a fanatic who hated Shia. He was also diabolically brilliant and had decided to set Shia against Sunnis in a bid to spark an Iraqi civil war.
The attack had come in the aftermath of national elections, as the Iraqis were trying to form the first government under their new constitution. Yet, for the moment, they seemed to be responding to the tragedy with maturity. Iraqi leaders from across the religious and political spectrum boldly condemned the attack using similar terms. Zal said that the leaders wanted to visit the shrine together to show interfaith solidarity. I thus landed in Lebanon focused not on Iraq but on the work ahead to support March 14, the political alliance dedicated to Lebanon’s independence, in escalating pressure on Syria.
Lebanon is a beautiful country with an alpine climate to the north and Mediterranean vistas along the coast. On this particular February day—perhaps it was the sense of possibility—Beirut seemed to be sparkling. The forces that had come together after Hariri’s assassination just one year before were clearly in control. Syria, Hezbollah, and their Iranian patrons were off balance and seemingly in retreat.
We made the turns through the streets of Beirut toward the Grand Serail, a distinctly Ottoman-themed sandstone building with beautiful multicolored tiled floors and walls. Fouad Siniora, the prime minister, came forward to meet me as I rushed past the crush of press. We paused briefly and posed for a picture and then moved into Siniora’s cavernous conference room. Fouad was almost an accidental prime minister. He was known as an honest but somewhat uninspiring economist who’d taken the job largely because Rafik Hariri’s son Saad was not seasoned enough just yet. Fouad spoke very quickly, sometimes making it hard to understand him, and he was not an imposing presence. But as time passed, we’d come to marvel at Siniora’s toughness and competence and long for similar leadership in Afghanistan and Iraq.
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br /> Fouad was circumspect in what he said as we sat sipping Middle Eastern coffee. His government, balanced between Lebanon’s political and religious groups, included more than a few Syrian sympathizers, such as the foreign minister, a Shia, who was at the table. I told myself to be careful to say nothing that would force Fouad into an uncomfortable dialogue about Syria or Hezbollah. There was no doubt in my mind that the foreign minister would be on the phone to Damascus moments after I left the building. I even managed to invite the gentleman to Washington, though I sincerely hoped he wouldn’t come.
After almost an hour, Fouad asked to see me in his private office. There he gave full voice to his hopes and his fears—reminding me that he was walking a tightrope, trying to lead Lebanon toward greater sovereignty and democracy with Syria and Hezbollah ready and able to pounce at any time. He asked for economic assistance, help in building the army, and one other favor: Could I talk to the Israelis about returning Shebaa Farms? The roughly ten square miles that constituted Shebaa Farms weren’t objectively worth very much. The land had been occupied in 1967 and was tied up in the dispute between Syria and Israel over the Golan Heights. The Israelis now maintained an important surveillance post there.
The United Nations had determined that Shebaa Farms was a part of Syria, so when Israel pulled out of Lebanon in 2000, the United Nations had certified the Israeli withdrawal and declared the matter closed, as all Lebanese land had been vacated. But some Lebanese didn’t accept that view and dredged up old maps to “prove” their case that it was Lebanese land. Hezbollah seized on Shebaa as a convenient rationale for their militancy. I promised to talk to the Israelis about it and thought that I had a fair chance of convincing Olmert of the wisdom of evacuating Shebaa Farms.
At the time of my February 2006 visit, there was a dispute about Émile Lahoud’s presidency because his term had been extended at Syria’s behest in contravention of the Lebanese constitution. Lahoud was not, to put it mildly, a friend of democracy or the United States, and our allies wanted him out. Publicly, I stayed out of the controversy, saying only that the Lebanese needed a president in whom they had confidence and who would defend their sovereignty. But I pointedly decided not to meet with him. As his Syrian connections were well known, the message was clear enough.
When I had met him in 2005 on my first trip to the country, he had been dressed in a mustard-colored suit that only highlighted his almost cartoonish artificial tan. After I shook his hand, I felt like I needed a shower. I didn’t mince words with him, saying that he needed to press his “sponsors” to fully comply with UN Security Council resolutions that called on Damascus to respect Lebanese sovereignty. Lahoud made his case that he was a Lebanese patriot first and, of course, wanted his country to control its own affairs. Right, I thought and ended the session as quickly as I gracefully could. This time I hoped that the decision not to meet with him would fully underscore our disdain for him and what he was doing to his country.
After an audience with the Maronite Catholic patriarch of Lebanon at a monastery high in the mountains, and a meeting at the equally cloistered residence of Walid Jumblatt, the former Communist who now led the Druze community (one of Lebanon’s politically important religious minorities), I felt I’d touched all the necessary bases. Lebanon was a very complicated place and every trip there required the utmost in tact and discretion. I loved Beirut but was always relieved when it was time to leave.
THIS WASN’T the case in the United Arab Emirates, where the ruling family was disciplined, organized, young, and direct. I always felt relaxed and at ease in the UAE, the only federal state in the Arabian peninsula. True, there was the complication of having to meet two separate royal families: the ruler of Dubai and the bin Zayeds in Abu Dhabi. There is a big difference between the two most powerful emirates. Abu Dhabi is conservative and controls most of the oil and power in the confederation. That oil wealth is being used to fund an Arab renaissance with great museums and concert halls and cutting-edge international business investments.
Dubai, on the other hand, is known for its man-made island in the shape of a palm tree, its claim to have the tallest building in the world, and its indoor ski slope—yes, an indoor ski slope—right in the middle of the desert. It would soon become known too for profligate spending and near bankruptcy. But in 2006 it was the banking center of the Middle East and a growing international business hub.
So I headed toward the UAE focused on the upcoming conversation about the war on terrorism, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, and the Israeli-Palestinian issue. I looked forward to my meeting with the mother of the bin Zayeds, Sheikha Fatima. A power in her own right, she was a fierce defender of her family and a real patron of women’s education and empowerment. She wore an abaya (the black robe) and a traditional silk mask that covered all but her eyes. Yet it wasn’t hard to see that Sheikha Fatima had a major voice with her sons and thus in the direction of her country. The sheikha didn’t meet men outside her family, but she could meet with me. There were some real advantages to being a female secretary of state in the culture of the Middle East.
I landed in Abu Dhabi, the capital, feeling more relaxed and glad that I had only one more relatively easy stop before returning home from a grueling trip. When I got in the car, however, the ambassador asked what I would say about the Dubai Ports World controversy. I knew that there was a simmering problem because the huge conglomerate had purchased a company that operated terminals in six U.S. ports, including New York. For more than a week, there had been angry congressional reaction to the proposed deal, but I assumed it would pass. I called the President just to make sure. “Tell them we believe in the deal, free markets, and our friends,” he said.
I visited first with the ruler of Dubai, who was visiting the capital, and delivered that message, moving quickly to talk about the other issues on my agenda. Over dinner with Mohammed bin Zayed al Nahyan, the crown prince, and his brother Abdullah, the foreign minister, I repeated what the President had told me. When I left the UAE, I assumed that all was well.
I flew home to Washington. A few days later the President called. “We aren’t going to be able to fade the heat on Dubai Ports World,” he said. “You need to call the Emirates and tell them.” That afternoon I called Abdullah bin Zayed al Nahyan to deliver the bad news. I invited him to Washington so that we could show that our relationship hadn’t been affected by the collapse of the commercial deal. Perhaps we could sign the civil nuclear deal that had been pending for a while. Abdullah accepted my invitation but said that it might be better to wait. (We eventually signed the agreement for Congress’s consideration in January 2009.)
Dubai Ports World pulled the offer to manage the ports on March 9. To this day I don’t know why we didn’t see it coming. Arabs, ports, New York—that should have been a red flag. When I teach this case to my business school students at Stanford, they’re unfailingly critical of our being blindsided. I try to explain the factors that led to the deal’s demise—among them the fact that the clearance of the acquisition never got beyond the deputy secretaries because there was no national security issue; overconfidence that others saw our relationship with the UAE the benign way that we did; and a deep belief in the importance of low barriers to foreign investment. There were many reasons. But we should have seen the uproar coming, and we didn’t.
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BUILDING A NEW RELATIONSHIP WITH INDIA
THOUGH IT CONTINUED to make headlines, the Dubai Ports World debacle didn’t occupy our attention very much longer. On February 28, the President left for India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. The trip required the most delicate balancing act to get the messaging right in each of the places. Our delinking of relations with Islamabad and New Delhi was working—there was no more talk of U.S. policy toward India-Pakistan, or Indo-Pak, as it was sometimes called. We now had distinct approaches to both important countries. And we were doing really well with India: while there the President would sign the landmark civil nuclear deal.
The nuc
lear deal was the centerpiece of our effort to build a fundamentally different relationship with India. From the earliest stages of the 2000 campaign, it had been our intention to change the terms of U.S.-Indian engagement. As I noted earlier, the crucial nuclear agreement required breaking many taboos. India had refused to sign the NPT in 1968 and had then conducted a nuclear test in 1974. Only five countries had been “grandfathered” as nuclear powers in 1968—the United States, the Soviet Union, Great Britain, France, and China. Any country that subsequently acquired a nuclear capability was deemed to be in violation of this important set of prohibitions. In 1978 President Jimmy Carter signed a bill that cut off all nuclear trade with India.
The United States thus maintained a web of restrictions on technology transfer and cooperation with India. The list of prohibitions grew over the years, with the condemnation reaching its height in 1998. That year, in response to a long-range missile test by Pakistan, Prime Minister Atal Vajpayee authorized the Indian military to conduct a series of underground nuclear tests, including India’s first test of a thermonuclear weapon. When Pakistan followed up with its own nuclear test, the two countries became linked as the poster children for crimes against the non-proliferation regime. Their behavior was different, however. India had developed an excellent record of respecting proliferation safeguards in terms of not transferring technology to other countries. Pakistan—well, it was the home of the nuclear proliferation entrepreneur A. Q. Khan, who had spread nuclear enrichment technology to North Korea and Iran, among other places.
No Higher Honor: A Memoir of My Years in Washington Page 52
