Instead, I would break off from the presidential party in Tanzania and go to Nairobi. I would try to help Kofi, who thought he was making a little progress. The Ghanaian-born diplomat had been on the ground in Kenya for nearly four weeks. I called and asked if he wanted me to come, not wanting to “bigfoot” him by swooping down as the American secretary of state. “Do come,” he said. We had worked closely before in negotiating an end to the Lebanon War in 2006. I believed he genuinely wanted me there.
The night before I left for Kenya, I was sitting with the Tanzanian foreign minister and several other officials at the dinner in honor of President Bush. Somehow the conversation turned to Rwanda and the genocide that had unfolded there in 1994. “For a while,” one of the officials who had been at the border said, “I thought the stories were made up about people being killed with machetes. It all sounded impossible. But then people started fleeing across the border.” He lowered his head and his voice cracked a bit. “There they were. People with one arm, others with one leg—limbs had been hacked off in the most brutal fashion and the wounds were still open. I couldn’t believe my eyes.” That did it for me. Ethnic violence incites the worst and most uncontrolled passions in human beings. Get on that plane tomorrow and make something happen, I thought to myself. Then I prayed. Just help us find a way.
When I arrived, our very capable ambassador, Michael Ranneberger, met me. He pulled out a newspaper from January 3, 2008. “Save Our Beloved Country,” it said. “This was the headline in every newspaper in the country and on every television and radio broadcast,” Michael told me. “Civil society, the church, and the business community have been meeting and issuing statements to the protagonists. They are determined to force a solution,” he continued. As we traveled along the road to the hotel where I would meet Kofi, people were holding signs with similar messages. It was a show of cohesion in civil society that defied tribal, social, and economic fault lines in the country. We have something to work with, I thought. I felt energized and encouraged. Kenyans wanted to save their democracy. Their leaders just had to respond.
After Kofi and I held a brief press conference, I headed off to meet Kibaki at one of the president’s offices. The building was very old, and as we climbed the rickety stairs to the third floor, I found myself wondering how the crippled president had made it up them. I entered the room and shook his hand, bringing greetings from President Bush, and then sat down. Kibaki made a few rambling comments about wanting to unify the country and then looked to me.
“Mr. President,” I said, “you led your country’s democratic transition with your election in 2002. You have a wonderful legacy. But now we are all worried that the violence and anger is overtaking politics.” He just nodded. But as I looked at the president, I heard someone break in. “He won the election,” one of his advisers said. I ignored her, trying to stay focused on the president. Justice Minister Martha Karua continued by saying that a power-sharing arrangement would undermine democratic processes. The results of the election had to stand. “I am here to support Secretary-General Annan’s efforts to bring about a unity government,” I said. “The elections were very close and there should really be no losers.” It seemed as if the president’s level of consciousness was falling. It was hard to keep his attention.
I could feel the heat rising in the miserable third-floor room. But it was not just the weather on this African summer day. Kibaki’s entourage was in no mood to compromise, and my mere mention of a unity government had raised the political temperature. At that moment it occurred to me that the septuagenarian president was perhaps the least of my problems. Those around him were determined to reap the spoils of electoral victory—no matter how narrow it had been.
As Kibaki’s aides spoke more and more—and the president less and less—I wondered if they were really the power behind the Kibaki throne, manipulating the sick old man. I asked Jendayi. “Maybe a bit,” she said. “But Kibaki is stubborn. They are doing his bidding. He believes that he won and deserves to be president.”
After very pointed, at times hostile discussions with the president, we got back into the car and headed to our ambassador’s house to meet with Odinga. The contrast in mood could not have been greater. We passed through the beautiful garden into a well-lit, air-conditioned room. Odinga was alert and challenging without being combative. He told me that he wanted to have real powers as prime minister. That would require the right to appoint and fire ministers, and he insisted that his party would hold at least one power position—finance or defense.
But then he turned stern and I became worried about his motives. His people would stay in the streets if compromise couldn’t be found, he insisted. Though he personally disavowed violence, the implication was clear—he couldn’t control all who were loyal to him. I wasn’t at all sure he was willing to try.
I looked across the room at his young aides. Among them was Sally Kosgei, who had a PhD from Stanford. We had met when Moi first visited Washington in 2001. Sally, tall and imposing, was one of those people who commanded a room when she walked in, and it was clear that the president listened to everything she said. Uhuru Kenyatta’s sister had also gone to Stanford with Jendayi. Suddenly my attention shifted back to the conversation with Odinga when he asked what I was proposing.
The key was to get Odinga to give up on the street and to get Kibaki to agree to share power. The sides had to move toward one another, and time was of the essence. I sketched out elements of a proposal for allocating ministries and shared it with Odinga. He agreed that it was a “good starting point.” I gave it to Jendayi. “Stay and talk to Sally. Then go and talk to Uhuru. You know them both. Use the connections,” I told her.
Before leaving, I joined a gathering of civil society leaders and listened to their pleas for a unity government. They were impressive people—university leaders, businesspeople, and human rights advocates. They were pressuring their leaders publicly and privately. I encouraged them to keep doing it and held a press conference with them to talk about the importance of civil society in democracy. I explained that the two sides were not too far apart and that only will was lacking. “It is the Kenyans who are insisting that its leaders and political class find a solution,” I said to remind Kibaki and Odinga of their obligations to their people. But I added that the United States would be supportive if they agreed upon a path forward. “I don’t want to talk about threats and sanctions,” I said. Still, I made clear that the half billion dollars of annual American aid to Kenya was a part of the Bush administration’s policy of rewarding those who embraced democracy.
Then I stopped off to see Kofi before heading to the airport. We reviewed the results of my meetings, and he thought the compromise might work. As I walked out of the room I thought to myself, He looks really tired. I wondered how long he would have to stay here to get this done. Kofi had been the director of UN peacekeeping during the Rwandan genocide. He knew that the stakes were very, very high. He’ll stay as long as it takes, I thought.
Ten days later, after many ups and downs, he succeeded in closing the deal. A powerful prime minister post was created for Odinga, weakening the authority of the president. “I call on Kenyans to embrace the spirit of togetherness,” Kibaki said. Our ambassador reported that Odinga was smiling widely at the ceremony. He had won almost everything he wanted.
I phoned the two Kenyans the next day to congratulate them, expressing my relief for their country. It was one of those rare really good moments when diplomacy works to forestall catastrophe.
Let me be clear: Kofi Annan did the hard work, staying in Nairobi for over a month to bring the sides together. But it helped to throw the weight of the United States behind the compromise. Odinga would later say that I had been tough and influential in getting the president to agree. People in the Kibaki camp conceded that pressure from “donor nations like the United States” had led to their change of heart. And who would have thought that connections made long ago at Stanford between members of the next
generation might help too.
The power-sharing agreement allowed Kenyans to put the divisive election behind them and to get back to work, at least for the time being. Sometimes young democracies need breathing space, a chance to survive a crisis, to live to fight another day, and to get it right the next time.
It took two months for the camps to agree on the formation of a new government, but it was done with virtually no violence. Kibaki and Odinga jointly visited the Rift Valley in the west of the country, the scene of so much ethnic conflict after the flawed election. They appealed for unity. “Please forgive one another for what happened so that once again you can start living as Kenyans and build one nation,” Kibaki said. Added Odinga, “We are here as leaders.… We can solve all the problems in order for peace to exist.”24
Later that year, Prime Minister Odinga came to visit me at the State Department in Washington. He was on a trade mission to attract business to Kenya. “How is it going with the president?” I asked.
“I respect him as an elder,” he said. “It works okay.”
Still, the moments of unity could not mask the lingering bitterness and desire to blame someone for the events of 2007. The Kenyans were reluctant to open the wounds, fearing that prosecutions would ignite new violence. But the issue could not be simply swept under the rug. Official commissions were launched to investigate the post-election violence, improve the country’s electoral system, and promote reconciliation. The commission that investigated the violence recommended setting up a special tribunal to try those involved.
The Kenyan people also wanted to see the constitutional reforms agreed upon in 2008 passed and the fight against corruption reinvigorated. The Obama administration sent warning letters to several prominent Kenyans, including some government ministers, telling them that they would be denied visas to the United States if they did not act on these matters; take steps to root out corruption; and pass the constitutional reforms agreed upon in 2008.
Eventually, the internal demands and international pressure succeeded. The draft constitution was finally approved on April 2, 2010, putting an end to the “imperial presidency” that had characterized Kenyan politics since the country’s founding. There were new and explicit guarantees of women’s rights, minority rights, and efforts to reach out to marginalized communities. In addition to weakening the presidency, the document devolved power to regions and localities. People were hopeful that at least in political matters, tribal ties would become secondary. Sixty-seven percent of Kenyans voted in favor of the new constitution, and there was no violence and relatively few charges of fraud.
Kenyan democracy had survived the near-death experience of the contested 2007 election, and political leaders, including Odinga and Kibaki, made good on the pledge to work toward unity in the country. Still, as Kenya prepared for the next election, observers wondered if the relative peace would hold. Kenyatta and William Ruto, who had been on opposite sides in 2007 and were allegedly implicated in the violence, announced an alliance to challenge Odinga, who was now planning to run for president. There was some isolated unrest in the country, but nothing on the scale of 2007. The election process was smoother and more orderly. Kenyans would even watch their first presidential debate. The national media sent a clear message that the violence of the last election should not be repeated. It gave voice to concerns about instability and defended the country’s democracy by actively calling for the elections to proceed peacefully.
But the cloud of responsibility for the violence of the prior election hung over the new process. Kofi Annan had threatened to use the International Criminal Court if the parliament failed to set up its own tribunal. When it did not, he and others supported the ICC’s decision to launch an inquiry. Even though the cases were eventually dropped for lack of evidence, six high-ranking political figures—three from Kibaki’s side and three from Odinga’s—were named in the investigation, among them Kenyatta. The government agreed to cooperate. Human rights groups wanted more, appealing to the Kenyan high court to disqualify politicians who were being investigated by the ICC. The court refused, saying that it had no standing to do so. Kenyatta was allowed to stand for election.
This time, despite technical flaws and delays, the Kenyan people experienced a relatively peaceful and smooth election day. The results were again close, but after two days Kenyatta was declared the winner. Odinga refused to admit defeat and appealed to the Supreme Court to overturn the results and hold new elections. Kenya was on edge as the court ordered a partial recount, allowing that there may have been some irregularities. Then finally, on March 29, three weeks after the balloting, the court released the retallied votes, showing that there had indeed been errors in the original count. A day later, however, the court unanimously ruled that the errors had not affected the outcome, upholding the original result. “The court has now spoken,” Odinga conceded.25 He wished Kenyatta well, though he did not attend the inauguration. Kenyatta declared, “Our nation has now successfully navigated the most complex general election in our history. Our journey began three years ago, with the promulgation of a new constitution, and ended eleven days ago, with a landmark Supreme Court decision.”26
It was a good summary of Kenya’s progress along the path toward a more stable democracy. There was a stark contrast in the reaction to a flawed election in 2007–8 and the response to a tight contest in 2012–13. This time the candidates for office put their faith in the country’s institutions, which were respected as the legitimate intermediaries of political and social conflict. More important, the leaders accepted the outcome and encouraged their supporters to do so too. Perhaps they had learned from the events of 2007 that the Kenyan people expected no less.
This is not to suggest that Kenya’s democracy is fully consolidated. The tribal basis of some of the country’s regions, and its political parties, is a continuing challenge for stability. Corruption is still too prevalent and undermines the population’s faith in their government. Moreover, political institutions are still suspect. Indeed, the devolution of authority as a result of constitutional changes in 2010 has exacerbated the problem. Local governors and regional leaders have used the new rules to ignore the central government in matters ranging from education to economic affairs. Federalism has been a double-edged sword, reinforcing some of the tribal tensions that threaten the country’s unity.
Still, the hope is that over time the forces that lead people to vote in lockstep with their tribal affiliation will eventually break down. Kenyan leaders appeal to their people as Kenyans. But in times of challenge and adversity, the temptation to revert to tribal support has been irresistible. Breaking that pattern is the next step in Kenya’s transition. Until then, every election holds the potential for violence and ethnic passion.
Kenya has come a long way in the sixty years since its independence, and perhaps the experience with peaceful elections and the constitution of 2010 will temper behavior the next time around—and again and again. Each time the country will get closer to stable democracy. And in time, the people will gain confidence that their faith in democracy is justified, whatever challenges lie ahead.
Chapter 6
COLOMBIA: THE ERA OF DEMOCRATIC SECURITY
This is where Pablo Escobar was killed,” my colleague Carolina Barco, now Colombian ambassador to the United States, said flatly. There wasn’t much drama in her voice as we stood on the rooftop looking out over the city of Medellín. But there had been excitement and relief throughout Colombia when the notorious drug lord was eliminated in 1993. He had been the most wanted man in Latin America, responsible for thousands of assassinations and orchestrating an international drug empire that earned him more than $420 million per week at its height. In many ways, his life—a violent cocktail of drugs, money, and power—personified his country’s troubled existence. And for many Colombians, his demise signaled the beginning of the end of the chaos. But it was just a beginning. A lot of work remained to be done.
Now, fourteen year
s later, we were in Medellín, a place that for decades had been synonymous with unspeakable violence. On the lovely summer afternoon, the city was dotted with green spaces and children playing on jungle gyms and swings. “It seems so normal,” I blurted out to no one in particular.
“It is normal now,” Carolina responded.
For so long in Colombia, normal meant something very different. The revered leader Simón Bolívar defeated the Spanish in 1821, establishing an independent republic of Gran Colombia that encompassed modern-day Colombia, Ecuador, Panama, and Venezuela. By 1830, only Colombia and Panama remained, and the country’s political structures began to take shape.
Contested presidential and parliamentary elections, functioning courts, powerful business and agricultural groups, and a largely free press did exist. The Conservative and the Liberal political parties formed in 1849 and traded electoral victories for almost a hundred years. Yet these institutions and political practices, usually associated with stable democracies, belied the real state of affairs. They were unable to contain competing interests—rural and urban, rich and poor, social liberals and religious conservatives. The country would experience repeated civil conflicts throughout the remainder of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth. At its worst, the terror known as La Violencia raged on and off during a nearly twenty-year period between 1946 and 1964, and was characterized by gruesome brutality. The country was in a near-perpetual state of war and civil conflict. Democratic institutions simply could not take hold.
For a short time, the violence lessened under the iron fist of Laureano Gómez, who took power in the deeply flawed election of 1950. But he did not last long, and Colombia, like so many of its Latin American neighbors, succumbed to a military coup in 1953. The seizure of power was originally seen as a liberalizing step, reversing the authoritarian rule of Gómez and the Conservative Party. But of course, the military regime of General Gustavo Rojas Pinilla was every bit as repressive as the one it overthrew—if not more so.
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