Peacerunner

by Penn Rhodeen

  On December 1, 1994, Clinton took what would prove to be a key step toward peace with his appointment of retiring Senate majority leader George Mitchell as his economic envoy to Northern Ireland. Although this didn’t precisely fulfill Clinton’s campaign pledge to appoint a peace envoy, subsequent events would obliterate the distinction. In many respects, Clinton’s appointment of Mitchell marked an important shift in the dynamic of the American involvement, because he made the appointment without a hard push from Morrison and the Irish Americans. This was Clinton taking full ownership of his Northern Ireland policy, the Clinton of whom Morrison said, “When he gets something, he really gets it, and he gets his arms completely around it.”

  Clinton’s administration also made good on its commitment to allow Adams and Sinn Féin unfettered access to the United States. Adams soon embarked on an American tour that took him from Boston, where he met with Ted Kennedy; to Detroit, where he met with Rosa Parks; to Hollywood, where he was given a lavish birthday party; to New York, where Mayor Giuliani affirmed his approval of the visa; and then finally to Washington, where Vice President Al Gore told him by telephone that Sinn Féin was no longer classified as a banned organization and that American officials were now free to meet directly with its leaders. In December of 1994, Adams finally got to visit the White House, meeting with Gore and the National Security Council (NSC) staff that had been so influential in Clinton’s visa decision.

  Adams returned again in March of 1995 for the opening of the new Sinn Féin office in Washington, funded by Chuck Feeney. They grandly called it a diplomatic mission. At a reception, English journalist Peter Hitchens, an unrelenting critic of Adams who seemed determined to make his American visits as difficult as he possibly could, demanded to know whether the Sinn Féin mission would have a military attaché. Adams shot back that it was time for Hitchens to decommission himself.

  On that same visit, Adams got to participate fully in the St. Patrick’s Day celebrations for first time, both the House Speaker’s St. Patrick’s Day lunch and the White House party. At both events, handshakes between Clinton and Adams were choreographed in excruciating—one might even say ridiculous—detail.

  Bruce Morrison had his own special moment with Clinton at that White House party. As the two old classmates shook hands, Clinton said, with intense feeling and good cheer, “Well Bruce, I delivered for you.” From one politician to another, this was the most elevated and profound declaration Clinton could make. For all the cynicism that can be mustered about politics and politicians, delivering on a promise is their highest, noblest act. With these simple words, Clinton was claiming the full measure of the purpose and solemnity of his promises on Northern Ireland, and he was claiming the acknowledgment he knew he richly deserved for delivering. At the same time, the president was reflecting back at Morrison his sheer delight in what his classmate and his friends had gotten him into and in the progress made so far.

  The British, of course, had plenty to say about actions the Clinton administration was taking, calling them “rash,” “irresponsible,” and a host of other pejoratives. Major dispatched Northern Ireland secretary Sir Patrick Mayhew to Washington for St. Patrick’s Day 1995, and he called for an arms decommissioning process with three elements, the third of which restated Major’s requirement of decommissioning before Sinn Féin could be included in negotiations. Mayhew’s restatement of Major’s long-standing precondition was made so firmly that it became known as “Washington 3” and remained the immovable obstacle to all-party peace talks. On later occasions, the British would claim that the United States had agreed that decommissioning should be a precondition to all-party talks, but each time they made that claim, Nancy Soderberg or another administration official would reaffirm that the only precondition the administration supported was that Sinn Féin agree to “seriously discuss” decommissioning and that they were satisfied with its commitment on that score. Indeed, Clinton was so satisfied that he decided to allow Sinn Féin to fund-raise in the United States—a step the British steadfastly opposed. The British response was one of enormous consternation, even though Sinn Féin had long been permitted to raise funds throughout the UK. Major’s personal response was once again not to take Clinton’s telephone calls for several days.

  During that same period, a split in the Irish government became apparent. John Bruton, who became Taoiseach in December of 1994 after Albert Reynolds had to resign when an old scandal (having nothing to do with Northern Ireland) came to light, argued in favor of prior decommissioning, whereas Foreign Minister Dick Spring said it was unrealistic to expect the IRA to begin disarming before talks. In subsequent months, however, the gap between them had obviously narrowed considerably when Spring, reflecting what was now apparently the official Dublin position, said on a visit to the United States that the Washington 3 should be dropped so all-party talks could begin; soon after that, he declared at the UN that the precondition of prior decommissioning entirely ignored the psychology and motivation of the paramilitaries.

  In May of 1995, the Clinton administration sponsored a major conference in Washington promoting investment in Northern Ireland. This was a major event on the road to peace, especially noteworthy because it was attended by many important unionist and loyalist leaders, a contingent that showed up in the United States in force for the first time.

  To Morrison, that event signaled a profound shift in the peacemaking effort:

  When the Clinton administration sponsored its economic conference, the center of gravity for peace in Northern Ireland had moved from London to Washington. This included a dramatic change in the contacts between parties that previously never spoke: On the unionist side, on the loyalist side, and on the nationalist and republican side. In Washington there was space to meet those who were anathema to be met or talked to in Northern Ireland itself. This creation of a new opening, a new venue, was part and parcel of what the Clinton administration had accomplished. They were facilitating a peace process with an American eye for what might work, opening the door at the White House and elsewhere in Washington for people to start to talk in realistic terms about changes on the ground in Northern Ireland. This conference wasn’t happening in Dublin or London or Belfast but in Washington. It really marks the end of the old view that London would decide the outcome for Northern Ireland and made it clear that Washington would facilitate the peace process.

  On June 1, 1995, Morrison was sworn in as chairman of the Federal Housing Finance Board. He was now officially part of the administration, but he intended to remain fully involved in his unofficial peacemaking activities, and he negotiated an agreement with the administration that would enable him to do so. Both Morrison and the administration found that the new situation took some getting used to. When Morrison said on television that London should move on its preconditions, Nancy Soderberg promptly called and firmly reminded him that he was now part of the administration and needed to be more careful in his public statements.

  In July of 1995 Clinton took another huge step forward and announced that he would visit London, Belfast, and Dublin in late November. This wasn’t entirely unexpected: The 1996 election was fast approaching, and a rousing welcome in a Northern Ireland enjoying the peace the paramilitary ceasefires had brought about would be a fine thing to see. But it was a brave commitment nevertheless, because the peace process was so stuck. If the British intransigence persisted, the situation could deteriorate so badly in the coming months that Clinton’s visit would end up showcasing not a triumph but a mess, or, even worse, the visit might end up having to be scrapped altogether. Clinton’s willingness to make that commitment in the face of such uncertainty—Britain had still given no sign of relenting on the demand for prior decommissioning, and Sinn Féin had finally abandoned as futile the endless “exploratory talks” the British said would eventually lead to all-party talks—was a powerful indicator of his determination to redouble his efforts to help bring about peace.

  In the fall of 1995, Soderberg and N
ational Security Advisor Tony Lake went to London to try to help untangle things. As Lake later recounted to Conor O’Clery, they were careful not to let the process turn into an American negotiation in which the parties would look to Washington for solutions instead of finding them for themselves. Lake stressed how important it was that the United States not tell the parties how things should come out, because “we honestly don’t know.”

  One of the ideas getting attention during this discouraging period was a twin-track process, under which all-party political discussions would move forward concurrently with an independent commission evaluating the decommissioning issue and making recommendations. Economic envoy George Mitchell said he would be willing to chair such a commission if asked, and Lake and Soderberg both supported that approach, but Major and Sinn Féin both opposed it. Another idea came from unionist leader David Trimble, who advocated new elections in Northern Ireland as a confidence-building measure: A body would be created to conduct all-party talks, and participants would be selected in proportion to the votes they won. Lake and Soderberg felt that idea had merit as well, but the nationalist parties resented having to prove themselves yet again and dismissed the idea as another unionist tactic to delay all-party talks.

  Major argued throughout the duration of the ceasefire, and long after he left office, that Britain repeatedly took meaningful action during this period, but the truth is that no actions he took ever came close to overcoming his words. During the many months in which the British pursued “exploratory talks” with Sinn Féin, there was never a moment when they displayed a willingness to set aside their precondition of prior decommissioning. They made great efforts to persuade the Irish and American governments to make the same demand, but they were never able to get them fully on board. Of the three Irish prime ministers to hold office during the peace process, John Bruton was the most amenable to the British position. But while his administration flirted with adopting it, ultimately they did not, if for no other reason than the fact that Bruton realized the IRA would never agree. As the Irish saw it, the British position created an insuperable barrier to the all-party talks that were essential to reaching a settlement.

  Late in September, Clinton’s advance team went to London to work out the details of his trip with British officials—where he would go, whom he would meet, where he would stay, what he would do— and encountered a wall of British resistance to pretty much everything. They cited old security concerns that might have made sense when the Troubles were at their worst, but that in the present circumstances seemed to be more about British determination to limit the impact of Clinton’s visit. It was made particularly clear that they didn’t want Clinton meeting with Gerry Adams; obviously a boost to his status and legitimacy was something they couldn’t abide.

  As the presidential visit drew closer, Clinton let it be known that he would be pleased to have all-party talks underway before he arrived. His team realized that not only was that unlikely, but that events beyond his control could make him and his policy look foolish—not an appealing prospect for a president facing an election in the coming year. But at the same time it was clear to Clinton and his team that the trip would almost certainly have a tremendously positive impact on the ground and would give his policy a huge boost. The positives carried the day: Clinton was going to Northern Ireland, no matter what.

  At 10 P.M. on November 28, 1995, the eve of Bill Clinton’s touchdown in London, Major and Bruton announced their agreement on a twin-track process that they said could lead to all-party talks. On one track would be an international commission headed by George Mitchell to study and provide recommendations on decommissioning, while on the other track political talks would move forward immediately. Both the British government and Sinn Féin had long resisted this approach, despite American support for the idea. During the late-night announcement, Major acknowledged with disarming candor that Clinton’s impending visit had “concentrated the mind” and led to the agreement, but his insistence on preconditions caused his statement to balloon beyond anything that needed saying in that moment. Bruton’s own statement punctured Major’s balloon of words with an injection of reality: “It is the position of my government that a physical gesture decommissioning of arms in advance of talks, while undoubtedly desirable, is not an attainable objective.”

  Last-minute endorsement of the twin-track approach was the limit of Major’s willingness to temper, in anticipation of Clinton’s visit, his insistence on decommissioning. He gave no reason to believe that his stance would shift even if the commission recommended otherwise, and his frequent references to Washington 3 were discouraging. That concern would loom large in coming weeks, but now all eyes turned to Bill Clinton, very soon to arrive in London on the first leg of his Irish Peace Process tour.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bill Clinton Comes to the North

  While the focus of the Irish part of Bill Clinton’s journey—Belfast, Derry, and Dublin—was going to be one of celebration and hope, his business in London was reparative. The great alliance, the special relationship between the US and the UK, had been bruised and battered, both personally and politically, by Clinton’s independent course on Northern Ireland.

  As part of his repair work, Clinton addressed a joint session of both houses of Parliament, praising the great long-standing relationship between the two countries and their alliance in both World Wars. He acknowledged the recent rough patch, invoking the scorch marks still to be found on the White House from its burning by the British in the War of 1812, saying they reminded him of the importance of keeping the peace between their nations. He also announced that a powerful new navy destroyer would be named the Winston Churchill. Major reciprocated with a dinner at 10 Downing Street.

  The next morning Clinton flew to Belfast, becoming the first sitting US president to ever visit Northern Ireland. The security apparatus accompanying him was massive, involving dozens of Secret Service agents and hundreds of police. Snipers manned the roofs, and helicopters patrolled overhead. A suggestion had been made that perhaps a lower-key entry into Belfast in a smaller military plane might make sense, but that had gone nowhere: This was a day for Air Force One. Anne Edwards, Clinton’s director of press advance, whose focus involved making sure images and events—they’re called optics— supported and advanced the policy central to the trip, was already on the ground in Belfast. She recalls the moment the big plane bearing Bill and Hillary Clinton and the presidential party approached:

  We were trying to show them a different future was possible. That’s what it did when that big, beautiful blue and white plane was floating out of the sky onto Belfast. This was a moment for the public to see that they themselves had changed enough that they could welcome Air Force One to their city. This was about them. You could almost feel the city perk up. They were all watching television—every minute of it was live, like space shots used to be in the old days. All of the Northern Irish around me, whatever their job—big shot correspondent or the person who was tidying the hotel—stopped to watch. You could feel the city take a breath when Air Force One was on final.

  Clinton’s first stop was Shankill Road, in the heart of loyalist Belfast. He went into a store next to where Frizzell’s Fish Shop, the site of the horrific 1993 bombing, had stood and bought some fruit and flowers. This was a powerful signal that he cared about both sides in the conflict.

  Next was the factory where the venerable Belfast firm of Mackie International manufactured textile equipment. Its workforce was 70 percent Protestant and 30 percent Catholic, and the factory itself sat right on a peace line between loyalist Shankill Road and republican Falls Road, with separate entrances for the two communities. It was a fitting place for Clinton’s major Belfast speech.

  Clinton’s words at Mackie were his most stirring of the journey, but they weren’t the most moving of the morning. Those came from the two children who introduced him: a ten-year-old Protestant boy named David Sterrett and an eight-year-old Catholic girl n
amed Catherine Hamill. David said, with stark simplicity, that peace “means I can play in the park without worrying about getting shot.” Catherine read from a letter she wrote to welcome the president: “My first daddy died in the Troubles. It was the saddest day of my life. I still think of him. Now it is nice and peaceful. I like having peace and quiet for a change instead of having people shooting and killing. My Christmas wish is that peace and love will last in Ireland forever.”

  In his speech, Clinton, tacitly invoking the IRA slogan “Our day will come,” declared that the people of Northern Ireland “must say to those who still would use violence for political objectives: You are the past, your day is over. Violence has no place at the table of democracy and no role in the future of this land.”

  The awful history of the conflict and the current difficulties plaguing the peace process flared up when Clinton declared, “Those who show the courage to break with the past are entitled to their stake in the future” and a supporter of DUP leader Ian Paisley in the back shouted, “Never!” When Clinton added, “You must also be willing to say to those who renounce violence and who take their own risks for peace that they are entitled to be full participants in the democratic process,” the heckler shouted it again. But on this day the audience was with Clinton, not the DUP man.

  Next Clinton made the short trip to Falls Road, the heart of republican Belfast, and stopped in front of a beloved family-run bakery where the crowd greeted him. Gerry Adams emerged from the bakery, as if by splendid coincidence rather than painstakingly plotted choreography, with the traditional greeting, “Céad míle fáilte.” (In his book My Life, Clinton sticks to the story that the encounter was happenstance, nothing more, with his description of shaking hands with “a quickly growing crowd of citizens. One of them was Gerry Adams.”) As Clinton and Adams shook hands, they chatted briefly; Clinton told the Irishman that he was reading his collection of stories about life on Falls Road. At that moment, Gerry Adams was truly front and center on the world stage.