by Tom Fletcher
Steve Jobs transformed much about the world. Before that he changed marketing with his first campaign at Apple. He told his team that they needed to find the essence of who they were as a company – not about selling boxes that help people to work more effectively, but something much bigger. The result was the epic ‘Crazy People’ campaign, with its brilliant conclusion: ‘The people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do.’ Apple placed themselves in a line of pioneers and innovators, rebels and dreamers from Charlie Chaplin to Albert Einstein, Francis Crick and Martin Luther King.
With or without diplomats, those crazy people will continue to change the world. The gadgets and apps that this book has talked about will quickly become as comical as the huge mobile phones heaved around by characters in 1990s sitcoms. It is in our restless nature not to be satisfied with what we create – we go from novelty must-have to car-boot sale (or now eBay) at lightning speed. The ideas, gadgets, changes and predictions that startle us today will not be startling for long.
What we do as humans, and how we do it, is changing at a faster pace than any time in history. I’ve argued that this should be cause for optimism. Yet that optimism requires hard-headed realism.
It must be based on our success in the past to prepare for and manage these apocalyptic moments of change.
It must be based on our ability to master new tools and ways of interaction.
It must be based on a fundamental belief that, like Chaplin, ‘more than machinery we need humanity’.
It requires ceaseless creativity and innovation: the Stone Age didn’t end because we ran out of stones.
It requires the courage to try to bend the arc of history, to write our own epitaphs. But also – in the pursuit of justice and coexistence, or what some of us call diplomacy – to be on the right side of that history. This will test our heads and hearts.
Jacob Bronowski’s work on the nuclear bomb in the 1940s drove him from the most complex corners of the destructive power of mathematics and science towards a profound understanding of this simple but vital challenge. He concludes his television series The Ascent of Man, an extraordinarily powerful account of human development, standing knee-deep in a muddy pond at Auschwitz, with the slime of the Holocaust – in which many of his own family were killed – running through his fingers. He talks about the danger of certainty. We need, he exhorts us in the final shot, ‘to reach out and touch people’.
There is an amazing gadget for citizen diplomacy. It allows us to take in masses of information, process it, engage with people, listen, communicate, connect, influence. It has been honed over centuries, and is constantly improving. It is not the smartphone. It is that instinctive ability to reach out and touch people.
So perhaps the greatest danger is not actually the nuclear bomb, environmental catastrophe, the robot age or the crazed terrorist, frightening as they all are. The greatest danger is in fact the loss of the curiosity to learn from each other, the loss of the desire to live together.
Armed with technology, citizen diplomacy must enhance rather than remove that vital and creative part of our DNA, as important to Ug as competition for survival. Not because of fluffy platitudes about warm relations, but because our ability to find ways to coexist is what makes us survive.
This is going to be an exhilarating century. We had better not screw it up. Let’s not fail for lack of ingenuity, creativity or curiosity. Let’s not fail for lack of courage.
If diplomacy did not exist, we would indeed need to invent it. But it is now much too important to leave to diplomats.
Over to you, Your Excellencies.
* ‘It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.’ (Speech, ‘Citizenship in a Republic’, 23 April 1910.)
EPILOGUE
Valedictory
There used to be a Foreign Office tradition that departing ambassadors would send a ‘valedictory’, in which they described their career highlights, complained about the Foreign Office, hinted that they still had a bigger job in them, and thanked their wives for their patience. The practice was culled in the last decade, because too many of the telegrams leaked – indeed several were probably written solely for that purpose. Several that didn’t leak fell victim to enterprising Freedom of Information requests and so found their way to the public domain anyway.1
I decided that I would mark my departure from Lebanon differently. I wrote a private and classified valedictory for ministers. In it, I suggested that this followed several of the classic traits of the genre: rhetoric, unverifiable boasts, harrumphing, alliteration, rewriting the past, risky predictions, genuine thanks and affection. Despite all that, I had to explain this was of course not a valedictory, since those were banned.
The telegram was not written to be shared publicly. Instead it aimed to speak truth unto power on some of the mistakes we had made in the Middle East. I tried to make the case for some politically difficult decisions, including talking to people with whom we disagreed. I praised the extraordinary, purposeful, courageous public servants I had worked with from across Her Majesty’s Government. ‘They marched towards the sound of gunfire, often literally.’ I tried to set out what we had aimed to achieve, and where we had succeeded and failed. I made the case for more digital work to sceptical colleagues.
It was a love letter to diplomacy – a shorter version of this book. Ironic, since this book was also the reason I had to leave mainstream diplomacy.
In making my Flexit, I hoped that I would be back at some point in that imperfect, purposeful, brave, funny, humble, committed, well-meaning, wonderful business. I hoped to not write another valedictory one day.
But I also wanted to find a more public way to mark the end for what had been for me a huge adventure, to try to connect to the people to whom I wanted to explain what modern diplomacy is, and why it matters. So I released a public valedictory, another open letter to Lebanon. It went viral, and spawned a BBC documentary. Here it is:
So … Yalla, Bye
Dear Lebanon,
Sorry to write again. But I’m leaving your extraordinary country after four years. Unlike your politicians, I can’t extend my own term.
When I arrived, my first email said ‘welcome to Lebanon, your files have been corrupted’. It should have continued: never think you understand it, never think you can fix it, never think you can leave unscathed. I dreamt of Beirutopia and #Leb2020, but lived the grim reality of the Syria war.
Bullets and Botox. Dictators and divas. Warlords and wasta. Machiavellis and mafia. Guns, greed and God. Game of Thrones with RPGs. Human rights and hummus rights. Four marathons, 100 blogs, 10,000 tweets, 59 calls on prime ministers, 600+ long dinners, 52 graduation speeches, two #OneLebanon rock concerts, 43 grey hairs, a job swap with a domestic worker, a walk the length of the coast. I got to fly a Red Arrow upside down. I was even offered a free buttock lift – its value exceeded our £140 gift limit, so that daunting task is left undone.
Your politics are also daunting, for ambassadors as well as Lebanese citizens. When we think we’ve hit bottom, we hear a faint knocking sound below. Some oligarchs tell us they agree on change but can’t. They flatter and feed us. They needlessly overcomplicate issues with layers of conspiracy, creative fixes, intrigue. They undermine leaders working in the national interest. Then do nothing, and blame opponents/another sect/Sykes–P
icot/Israel/Iran/Saudi (delete as applicable). They then ask us to move their cousin’s friend in front of people applying for a visa. It is Orwellian, infuriating and destructive of the Lebanese citizens they’re supposed to serve.
But this frustration beats the alternative – given potential for mishap, terror or invasion, there is no substitute for unrelenting, maddening, political process.
Khalil Gibran said ‘you have your Lebanon, I have mine’. When the Middle East was in flames, and its people caught between tyrants and terrorists, the Lebanon I will remember sent its soldiers to protect the borders; confronted daily frustrations to build businesses and to educate its children; and showed extraordinary generosity to outsiders, be they ambassadors or refugees. The Lebanon I will remember is not asking for help, but for oxygen. It is not arguing over the past, but over the future. It is not debating which countries hold it back, but how to move forward. It is not blaming the world, but embracing it.
People will look back at what we have come through and ask how Lebanon survived. But we already know the answer: never underestimate the most resilient people on the planet. A people that has, for millennia, beaten the odds.
I hope you will also look back and say that the Brits helped you to hold your corner. Giving those soldiers the training and equipment to match their courage. Giving those pupils the books to match their aspiration. Giving those businesses the networks to match their ambition. Building international conspiracies for Lebanon, not against it. And above all, believing you would beat the odds. Four years: 100 times the financial support, ten times the military support, double the trade. We even helped Walid Joumblatt join Twitter.
What could the West have done differently? Many of you have a long list. We are at last feeling our way to a serious conversation with Iran, and a credible political process that leaves Syrians with more than the barrel bomber and the box-office brutality of ISIL. I hope President Obama can deliver his aim of a Palestinian state with security and dignity. I hope we can talk to our enemies as well as our friends – aka diplomacy.
I hope we can also rediscover an international system that aspires to protect the most vulnerable: Syria must not be RIP R2P. The driving quest of diplomacy is for imperfect ways to help people not kill each other. Let’s not give up on the idea that the Middle East can find security, justice and opportunity. I hope other countries reflect on what they could do differently too.
They say that Lebanon is a graveyard for idealism. Not mine. It has been a privilege to share this struggle with you. I believe you can defy the history, the geography, even the politics. You can build the country you deserve. Maybe even move from importing problems to exporting solutions. The transition from the civil-war generation lies ahead, and will be tough. You can’t just party and pray over the cracks. But you can make it, if you have an idea of Lebanon to believe in. You need to be stronger than the forces pulling you apart. Fight for the idea of Lebanon, not over it.
And we need you to fight hard. Reading your history in a musty Oxford library over four years ago, I realised that if we cannot win the argument for tolerance and diversity in Lebanon, we will lose it everywhere. That’s why we’ve helped – it is in our national interest too. This is the front line for a much bigger battle. The real dividing line is not between Christianity and Islam, Sunni and Shia, East and West. It is between people who believe in coexistence, and those who don’t.
So if the Internet doesn’t work, build a new Internet. If the power supply doesn’t work, build a new power supply. If the politics don’t work, build a new politics. If the economy is mired in corruption and garbage piles up, build a new economy. If Lebanon doesn’t work, build a new Lebanon. It is time to thrive, not just survive.
I worried I was too young for this job. I discovered I was too old. We experimented on Twitter – first tweetup with a PM, with a diva, first RT of a Western diplomat by the president of Iran, online scraps with terrorists and satirists, #Leb2020 and much more. I hope it amplified our impact in an authentic, engaging and purposeful way. I have banged on about how digital will change diplomacy. Someone should write a book about how it will also change power, and how we can marshal it to confront the threats to our existence. Now there’s an idea.
You gave me Bekaa Valley sunrises and Cedars sunsets. You gave me the adventure of my life, and plenty of reasons to fear for it. You gave me extraordinary friends, and you took some away. I loved your hopeless causes and hopeful hearts, shared your tearful depths and your breathless heights.
There are eight stages of life as an ambassador here. Seduction. Frustration. Exhilaration. Exhaustion. Disaffection. Infatuation. Addiction. Resignation. I knew them all, often simultaneously. I wouldn’t have swapped it for anywhere in the world. I and the brilliant embassy team are still buying shares in Lebanon 2020. I’m finishing my time as an ambassador to Lebanon, but with your permission I’ll always be an ambassador for Lebanon.
Many of you ask me why I remain positive about this country. All I ever tried to do was hold a mirror up and show you how beautiful you really are. Shine on, you crazy diamond.
Please stay in touch.
Yalla, bye
Tom
Acknowledgements
I first realised I wanted to write a book when I found – deep below Rhodes House in Oxford – my grandfather’s handwritten letters to my grandmother, written daily over fifty years. He described them as their ‘indestructible links’. His son, my uncle Anthony, was the source of the ‘Only Connect’ theme, from the title of his memoirs. My parents did the rest, and no acknowledgement can do them justice.
Several people tried to teach me to write, including Marj Francis, Joy Arathoon, David Dickinson, Pat Argar, Nigel Thomas, Martin Hydes and Edward Clay. Professor Christopher Tyerman at Hertford College, Oxford gave me a break, and then pressed me to have the curiosity of a fellow rebel. The late Patrick Seale gave me advice on writing ‘with mischief’. The late Sir Martin Gilbert infected me with his ceaseless enthusiasm for discovery.
Three prime ministers gave me the immense privilege of serving in 10 Downing Street. As they dislike me saying, they have much more in common than they realise, not least a deep and profound drive to make Britain better. Politics is not a popular profession, but I wish that people could see more of the vital work that goes on behind the scenes. Being at No. 10 also allowed me to work with some of the most extraordinary public servants around, starting with the duty clerks, ‘garden girls’, security officers and switchboard operators who see us all in and out of the black door. As Bonnie Tyler puts it, we were living in a powder keg and giving off sparks.
I’m also grateful to many diplomatic pioneers, online and offline. Former UK Foreign Secretaries David Miliband and William Hague were sounding boards, as were many HMG colleagues, including particularly John Casson, Christian Turner, Hugh Elliott, Jane Marriott, Menna Rawlings, Peter Hill, Simon McDonald, Hugh Powell, Mark Lowcock and Mark Sedwill. Alec Ross and Jared Cohen are the Lennon and McCartney of twenty-first-century statecraft. Ambassadors like Mike McFall blazed a trail long before most of us had logged on. Sarah Brown was my Twitter fairy godmother, and had made the connection between social media and humanitarian campaigns before most of us even had a handle. UK diplomats like Jon Benjamin, Frances Guy and Leigh Turner made the first steps into this new terrain, taking risks on behalf of all of us. Angela Solomon was a great communications partner in crime in Beirut, and helped shape much of this book.
Many others took time to amend, cajole, challenge and correct these ideas, or just to argue with me about the world. They included Jules Chappell, Khaled Mouzanar, Nadine Labaki, John Kampfner (on a kayak on the Wye), Lara Setrekian, Valerie Amos, Anthony Seldon, Tomos Grace, Katrin Bennhold, Sam Coates, Kirsty McNeil, Jonathan Luff, Ben Brogan, Arminka Helic, Doug McAndrew, Andy Ross, Jeremy Bowen, Bernadino Leon, Guy Winter, Mishaal Gargawi, Jeremy Chivers, Chloe Dalton, Lord Stewart Wood, Alex Asseily, Sir Graeme Lamb, Jonathan McClory, Kirsty McNeil, Nick Jefferson,
Uli Willhelm, Nicolas Galey, Manuel Lafont-Rapnouil, Najib Salha, David Cvach, Renaud Salins, Walid Joumblatt, Ziyad Barroud, Ewan Foster, Amel Karboul, my feisty class at New York University, Alastair Campbell, Andy Coulson and Justin Forsyth.
And last but not least, the core team. I was blessed with two brilliant editors, Martin Redfern and Arabella Pike; two unflagging agents in Charlie Campbell and Charlie Brotherstone; the expertise and patience of copy-editor David Milner and project editor Stephen Guise; and Rebecca Cox, who kept the whole show on the road. All that under the wise, invigorating and reinforcing guidance of the inestimable Don Corleone of the literary world, Ed Victor.
I am grateful to so many people on and beyond this list for the inspiration, ideas and idealism that underpin what I have tried to write. The errors, self-indulgence and naivety are all mine.
Further Reading
For more on the business of diplomacy:
G. R. Berridge, Maurice Keens-Soper and T. G. Otte, Diplomatic Theory from Machiavelli to Kissinger (2001)
John Colville, The Fringes of Power: Downing Street Diaries 1939–1955 (1985)
Daryl Copeland, Guerrilla Diplomacy (2009)
François de Callières, On the Manner of Negotiating with Princes (1963)
James der Derian, On Diplomacy, a Genealogy of Western Estrangement (1987)
R. G. Feltham, Diplomatic Handbook (1970)