by Kofi Annan
In response to this pressure, the United States Congress voted on July 9 to declare the conflict in Darfur a genocide. Many thought that surely something would now happen. But they were wrong. The problem was that Darfur, by any careful legal examination, was not clearly a genocide, and this declaration, endorsed by Congress, meant that the debate on the definition of the conflict in Darfur—as opposed to what should be done to help the millions suffering—now took center stage at the Security Council. On September 7, 2004, for example, Jack Straw, the British foreign secretary, repeatedly questioned me on what he saw as the important issue of whether the conflict was genocide—as this had become key to the international debate. “What answer would you give today if you were asked if this is genocide?”
I replied in a similar manner to how I had treated this question for many months: “The fact is, whatever we call it, there are clearly gross and systematic violations of human rights and of international humanitarian law happening in Darfur, and the situation is the largest humanitarian catastrophe in the world.” I believed this was all that really mattered. But he asked me to be clear on my view as to whether it was genocide. “I have stayed away from calling it genocide, because teams of experts have gone there, and they cannot conclude if a legal definition of genocide applies, or even, strictly speaking, ethnic cleansing, given the complexity of the situation on the ground.” Straw then continued to discuss this question of what to call the conflict, despite my attempt to cast this concern, which was vexing all leaders engaged on the issue at that time, as irrelevant. But this had clearly become an important question in domestic political debates, whether in Britain or elsewhere.
“Is it conceivable that it could fall to you to advise the Security Council on whether it is a genocide?” he asked.
“That is possible,” I said. “But let me stress that we are here debating whether this is a genocide, when we all can agree that this is a terrible situation and it has to be dealt with.”
This message, which I had been pushing in speeches and interviews and conversations with other politicians for months, failed to resonate. Instead, the obsession with the correct label for Darfur continued. Two days after my meeting with Straw, on September 9, 2004, Colin Powell referred to the conflict in Darfur as “genocide.” Rather than ending the debate on the label and moving on to the question of action, this move only stoked it. (Powell also made it clear that U.S. policy on Darfur would not change, despite the new rhetoric.) The result that then came out of the Security Council was the formation of a commission of inquiry to investigate whether the conflict in Darfur was a genocide. This investigation, led by the respected Italian judge Antonio Cassese, concluded that the campaign of the government of Sudan could not technically be deemed a systematic attempt at genocide, although there were clearly major crimes against humanity and war crimes taking place for which individuals should be held responsible. But this was not conveyed until the commission reported back to the Council, by which time it was January 2005.
There is always a danger with labels in international affairs. Protagonists become obsessed with definitions instead of focusing on what matters, namely the suffering of individuals. The label “genocide” was irrelevant to the fact that hundreds of thousands were suffering in Darfur. But as a result of the obsession with the word “genocide,” as if only genocide could signify an evil worthy of our collective horror and concern, the debate about what action should be taken was delayed further.
For the suffering of the civilians it did not matter what the situation was called, or what motive had led to their desperate situation. They were still dying, and in vast numbers, as a result of a government’s decisions and the actions of its armed proxies. This was a crime—whatever its form. What Darfur demonstrated, and hopefully should never have to be demonstrated to world leaders ever again, is that the “genocide” label does not hold a monopoly over the most heinous of crimes against humanity, and should not be the sole trigger for action. The sheer numbers that were made to suffer and die in Darfur is proof enough of that.
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In the end, it took almost four years of continued mass rape, mutilation, slaughter, and the deaths of hundreds of thousands to exposure, disease, and malnutrition, as well as the forcible displacement of millions more, before the Security Council issued anything resembling a serious response and dispatched international troops to Darfur. But even with this change, which came in late 2007 and several months after my tenure as chief of the UN had ended, the force that was sent was only a “robust peacekeeping” mission. It was not a true humanitarian intervention upholding the Responsibility to Protect. A forceful intervention was needed to have any real impact on the ground, to bring about the sustained protection of Darfur’s civilians.
Instead, a peacekeeping force of nineteen thousand was approved in August 2007, to be deployed by the end of the year. The mission would provide the usual secondary role that such a peacekeeping force can only offer. They would support largely voluntary disarmament, monitor events, and protect humanitarian efforts, and they would be able to defend themselves. They would be helping, of course, but they would not be capable of having any drastic impact on the dynamics around them.
Furthermore, the 2007 mission was also permitted to enter Darfur only with the full permission of the Sudanese government. The force was still mandated to protect any civilians it could. But in its resources, mandate, and intent, it would not answer the fundamental challenge of protecting the people of Darfur from gross violations of human rights.
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The Responsibility to Protect is not just about planes, tanks, and helicopters, of fast-moving military interventions sent to vanquish the forces of mass murder. While history has shown that atrocious violations of human rights, or the obvious threat of such, can sometimes make it devastatingly clear when force is needed, the Responsibility to Protect is also made up of a much broader range of activities, of a whole spectrum of interventions, to safeguard the lives and rights of individuals around the world. In some cases, this may require the urgent use of military force, as in Kosovo—but this alone can never be sufficient. Ultimately, the long-term protection of civilians depends upon the peaceful structures and institutions under which they live, their stability and robustness in the face of the subversive efforts of those who would do evil to others. The Responsibility to Protect, properly defined, is above all about ensuring lasting institutions—mostly within states—for the peaceful safeguarding of human lives and human rights.
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In the future, I see the Responsibility to Protect as becoming a norm that gives nations and peoples a yardstick—a standard by which they can hold their government to account. An example is the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which today we take for granted and refer to as a bedrock document of the international community. If the declaration had existed before the Second World War, would it have made a difference? Would it have helped people prevent the outrages committed in their name? How could governments, individuals, and civil society have used it to stop some of the excesses? Today everybody knows about a universally acknowledged set of human rights, and it is used to demand their protection. The Responsibility to Protect builds on this and puts responsibility also in the hands of those global powers with the capacity to intervene for the better.
We have challenged the argument that the lives and rights of individuals are an internal affair of state that is of no concern to outsiders. We have also told the dictators that sovereignty is no longer a shield behind which gross violations of human rights can be committed. You are responsible and you are accountable.
IV
A PEOPLES’ UNITED NATIONS
Reforming Global Governance and Restoring the Rule of Law
What is the United Nations for? That is the question that I found myself asking more and more as I looked at the range of issues facing us, and how we addressed them. My years
in peacekeeping had brought me face-to-face with the deepest tragedies suffered by men and women caught in conflict. Too often they had looked to the United Nations for safety and found an organization unable to secure it. As I sought to rethink our responsibility to our mission, I realized that we needed to make clear whom we were fighting for.
An organization of member states jealously guarding their privileges, the United Nations had drifted toward becoming an institution focused, above all, on self-preservation. In so doing, we had in many respects lost our way—forgetting the first words of the Charter: “We the Peoples.” We needed to refocus our lens on the individual man, woman, and child in need of security, health, and opportunity. We needed to bring the United Nations back to the peoples in whose name it was founded.
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Before dawn one morning in October 2001, I received a phone call from Fred Eckhard. Fred had been my spokesman since I had taken office as secretary-general, and such calls were not unusual—though they typically heralded bad news. On this occasion, however, Fred had been telephoned by someone from a Norwegian radio station who spoke little English but kept repeating my name. “I think you got the Nobel Peace Prize,” Fred concluded, in his usual calm manner.
At first I dismissed the idea. I told Fred that surely the Nobel Committee itself would contact the recipient. Then I received another call, this time from my in-laws, Nane’s parents, Gunnar and Nina Lagergren, in Stockholm, congratulating us. Later the Nobel Committee itself did, indeed, telephone, apologizing for the unusual manner of releasing their decision.
The prize—which I shared together with the United Nations—was an important act of recognition for our efforts to reenergize the institution and restore its place in global politics. The committee emphasized its own belief in the centrality of the UN in advancing global peace and security, and applauded our new initiatives in the areas of human rights and the fight against HIV/AIDS. Recognizing that the UN is an organization of member states, the committee underlined its support for our efforts to redefine sovereignty as a responsibility as much as a right—and commended me for “making clear that sovereignty cannot be a shield behind which member states conceal their violations.”
For the United Nations staff, it was a vital acknowledgment of the sacrifices made in some of the most desperate and dangerous parts of the world; for member states, it was a reminder of the values for which the UN stood. This was particularly important as we were all still reeling from the September 11 attacks. Only a month earlier, staff and diplomats alike had been evacuated from UN headquarters.
When I accepted the prize that following December, I began my acceptance speech by observing that we had entered the third millennium “through a gate of fire.” The twentieth century had been the bloodiest in human history, yet, out of the ashes of World War II, inspired leaders had created an organization with the aim of securing peace and development for all peoples. The September 11 attacks warned that the twenty-first century could be bloodier still, and that our work on behalf of the poorest and most vulnerable communities would be faced with new threats and challenges. In the UN’s fundamental choice, however, between justice and neutrality, actor and bystander, I had placed the United Nations squarely on the side of intervention and in support of the people in whose name the Charter was written.
The Nobel Prize was as unexpected as my election to the role of secretary-general four earlier. I had spent my career within the UN Secretariat, and in my last role, as under-secretary-general for peacekeeping, achieved as senior a position as seemed possible for an international civil servant. Never before had a career UN staff member been elected to lead the organization.
But when I returned from a mission to Bosnia as special representative of the secretary-general in April 1996, the tension between the United States and Secretary-General Boutros Boutros-Ghali was palpable. Secretary of State Albright and Boutros-Ghali were increasingly at loggerheads. Rumors started to circulate that the United States might not support him for a second term. He had been appointed at the start of 1992 for a five-year term, and each previous secretary-general had served two full terms, except for Trygve Lie, who resigned and Dag Hammarskjöld, who died in a plane crash in present-day Zambia.
Boutros-Ghali brought to the role of SG a fierce intelligence and a global perspective, an academic mind-set and a visceral distaste for the post–Cold War dominance of the United States. However, his souring relationship with the Americans was as much a function of his own leadership style as it was a perennial U.S. intolerance for any UN leader acting independently. Though he had escaped criticism for the UN’s failure in Rwanda, in 1994 and 1995 he seemed to obstruct the increasingly robust U.S. position on the Balkan war.
Added to this was Boutros-Ghali’s autocratic and secretive style, which had long caused difficulties within the UN, alienating large numbers of staff and diplomats. This left him in a highly vulnerable position when the Americans turned on him. In mid-1996 Albright arranged a meeting with me and said that they were considering my candidacy for secretary-general. I had worked well with her and over time developed a genuine friendship based on our common interest in a more relevant and responsive United Nations. A critical advantage was my knowledge of the workings of the United Nations system—from its far-flung missions to its New York staff to the diplomats who crowded its corridors.
By the time the United States used its veto in a special meeting of the Security Council on November 11, 1996 to prevent Boutros-Ghali from winning a second term, I was prepared to step into the role of secretary-general, with all the challenges and difficulties that I knew it would entail.
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The UN Charter is a stirring document, setting out a vision for world order based on right, not might. On the role of secretary-general, however, it is far less clear and comprehensive. It defines the secretary-general as the chief administrative officer of the organization, but that doesn’t capture all that the job entails. There is, naturally, a great deal of administration, overseeing an annual budget of around $10 billion and a staff of forty-four thousand. On top of that, the bureaucracy of the UN has grown organically, and not always logically. Alongside the intensive work of marshalling the divisive and deeply contentious Security Council—the supreme decision-making body in international law, peace, and security—and providing overall leadership for the UN’s diverse work around the world, a big part of the job is simply making sure all the agencies and associated organizations that make up and work with the UN are working together properly.
From my years as head of peacekeeping, I had learned important lessons about the limits of the UN’s capabilities, the value of building constituencies of support, and of forging consensus in a universal organization tasked with meeting global challenges. I knew—from extensive and often trying experience—that a secretary-general’s effectiveness comes from his ability to convince others of the justice and urgency of his cause. Convincing others that my success was in their own interest—and that I was neither a threat nor an obstacle to their own agenda—was a key condition of progress. Without the support of member states—and the other actors in global affairs, from businesses to NGOs and citizens’ groups—there was little I could achieve. With it, I knew we had the power to change the dynamic of progress in every arena of global affairs, from poverty to health to human rights and conflict.
As for the great geopolitical questions of the day, it is essential for a secretary-general to choose where he can make a difference. One advantage of the position is that you can serve as the honest broker, the interlocutor acceptable to most parties. It is usually quite clear that the only interest the secretary-general has is in achieving peace and advancing development. However, it can also be a problem when member states use the secretary-general as an alibi for inaction. Within the organization, my title was routinely abbreviated as “SG.” I sometimes joked that this stood for “scapegoat.”
; Of course, no decision in an organization of states escapes some degree of politicization. If I asked for money for human rights, developing states would complain that I had forsaken their interests; if I pressed for resources for development, the developed states would protest that I was letting their agenda slide. Here it was helpful that I had worked in the UN for a long time before moving to the thirty-eighth floor of the UN’s main building in New York—where the secretary-general’s office is—and understood better than most of my predecessors how the system worked.
Contrary to what many suspect, the UN has few resources of its own. For a peace operation, I had to go to the troop-contributing countries and ask for peacekeepers. For development assistance and humanitarian relief, I had to go to the donor governments. Given the stakes involved, I realized that this was something that I had to become good at. So I learned how to ask, what buttons to push and, importantly, how to listen and judge my response. And also whom to ask, because sometimes it is a bureaucrat rather than the minister or even the head of state who can get resources moving. This is the soft power of a secretary-general—the ability to convince others that your success is in their own best interests.
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The Nobel Peace Prize of 2001 was an important vote of confidence in the institution, and for me as its secretary-general, at a critical moment in our institution’s history. Less than a year later, the inexorable march to war in Iraq was dividing the member states and calling into question the relevance of the organization. The architecture of global governance was tested almost to the breaking point. And whatever the particular agenda of the U.S. administration—or the specific roots of the Iraq War—it was clear to all that we needed a new vision of security and of the place of the UN in achieving it. Out of crisis I saw an opportunity—and the urgent necessity—for reform.