No Higher Honor: A Memoir of My Years in Washington

by Condoleezza Rice

  I headed the U.S. delegation to the event, enjoying my chance to get to know a distinguished guest accompanying the group, Hines Ward, the Pittsburgh Steelers’ receiver. Hines is half Korean and wore traditional garb, a gesture that was greatly appreciated by our hosts. Sitting on the dais and looking out over the huge crowd, it was easy to forget that South Korea had come to democracy just two decades earlier having been ruled by autocratic leaders such as the staunchly anti-Communist Syngman Rhee since before the Korean War. The conservative businessman turned politician Lee Myung-bak addressed the crowd and then reviewed the troops of the Republic of Korea. It was an incredible sight in a country that had once been a military dictatorship. Then the Seoul Philharmonic Orchestra played Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” a fitting end to a remarkable celebration of freedom.

  I met with the new president later that day. We talked only briefly about North Korea since he was short on time and—not surprisingly—attention on his inaugural day. Yet I was really moved as I listened to his impassioned concern for the people of North Korea. “They are our brothers and sisters,” he said, showing an empathy that was a far cry from the Korean official a few years before who’d despaired at integrating “brain-damaged midgets” should reunification occur. The administration had appointed a special envoy for human rights in North Korea. Jay Lefkowitz, a Washington lawyer with whom I had worked at the White House, had tried to find an entry point with our allies in the region to tackle this difficult problem. Many commentators and some in Congress criticized the State Department as insufficiently active in pursuing the cause of human rights in North Korea. But without a strong partner in the South there was little that we could do. For instance, Seoul under Roh had refused to enhance their abilities to broadcast into North Korea. Now, with a South Korean president with greater interest in the human rights issue across the thirty-eighth parallel, I thought that we might make a new start—even in the waning days of the administration. That night I called the President to talk about my visit to China the next day. “Lee is going to be a great partner for you in the Freedom Agenda in Asia,” I told him. I was just sorry that the two of them wouldn’t have longer to work together.

  It was very clear that the Chinese were sorry they wouldn’t have longer to work with George W. Bush too. Our relationship had come a very long way from the downing of our aircraft on Hainan Island in 2001 and tensions over Taiwan arms sales. We’d navigated a lot of turbulence with Beijing over the eight years. The Chinese didn’t appreciate our consistently raising human rights cases and the Tibetan issue, but they tolerated it. Even when the President met repeatedly with the Dalai Lama in the residence of the White House, the howls from Beijing were somewhat muted. The protests increased when the President participated in the presentation of a Congressional Gold Medal to the Dalai Lama in 2007. But in relatively short order, the fit of pique subsided. In fact, we set the terms of engagement on these difficult issues early: we vowed to be respectful but determined in challenging China on human rights. And we held fast to the belief that time was not on the side of authoritarianism in a country that was rapidly growing more prosperous.

  We repeatedly told the Chinese that we believed that their economic growth was good for the international economy. They listened but probably ignored us when we said that it would be good for there to be a liberalization of Chinese politics too.

  Yet I firmly believe that political change will come to China. Labor unrest, ethnic riots, product safety negligence, censorship on the Internet, and disasters that have repeatedly caused massive loss of life due to shoddy construction pose a serious challenge to China’s development. One has to wonder how China’s hierarchal and rigid political system can effectively respond. The country’s internal dynamism is boiling under Beijing’s tight lid, and I hope, in the coming years, the party leadership will let off some steam. Perhaps this is why Premier Wen has now several times raised—albeit cautiously—the need for political reform. I can’t help but think that some of those Communist officials who are planning the 2012 Party Congress recognize the strain prompted by the most rapid social and economic transformation in human history. Some of them must be asking, “How can we liberalize without becoming Gorbachev?”

  The U.S. can and must continue to advocate for a democratic China. With a country of China’s size and complexity, the U.S. government’s direct tools for influencing internal development are few. They’re essentially limited to leveraging the power of open markets and helping make sure that the Chinese people are exposed to the world through universities and companies. Other more frontal approaches are likely to be resisted and can even backfire.

  THUS, THERE WAS never much of a question as to whether the President would attend the Olympics in Beijing. We all understood that it was China’s coming-out party; any attempt to get something in return would most certainly have been resented and resisted. The President announced early and often that he’d attend the Olympics as a sporting event, taking the issue of quid pro quo off the table. The Chinese came to appreciate the administration’s nuanced policy, knowing that we’d take a stand when we had to—for instance, on the Dalai Lama—but that we’d show respect when we could, as with the Olympics.

  And sometimes our interests came together in unexpected ways. Such was the case with Taiwan. From the time of his election, Taiwan’s president, Chen Shui-bian, had been a thorn in our side, not just Beijing’s. The Taiwan Strait issue, as the relationship between mainland China and Taiwan has come to be known, is one of those international problems that requires delicate balancing. It’s important to prevent open conflict, though the issue defies resolution—at least for the time being. The United States is committed to helping Taiwan defend itself in the event of Chinese provocation or attack. But there is no interest in Washington in helping a Taiwan that provokes China. That was the problem with Chen Shui-bian.

  Taiwan was where the Kuomintang had fled after the 1949 revolution. The island grew economically and eventually became democratic. China has always held that Taiwan must be reintegrated into the mainland, whereas the Taiwanese have claimed that the mainland is theirs. But as the PRC has grown more powerful, Taiwan has shifted to a position of trying to maintain its autonomy. The United States has supported that ambition but not a declaration of formal independence. Chen constantly walked toward the precipice of declaring independence, which was a serious violation of the principle that neither side should try to change the status quo.

  At the end of 2007, Chen announced that he’d hold a national referendum on joining the United Nations in the name of Taiwan. This thinly disguised ploy to get the people of Taiwan to vote for independence sent Beijing into a tizzy. It threatened all kinds of retaliation. We agreed that the referendum was provocative, and I said so publicly.

  The Bush administration had been a good friend to Taiwan, securing Congressional support for an arms-sale package and working tirelessly to convince China to allow Taipei’s participation in world bodies such as the World Health Organization. No one was particularly sympathetic, therefore, to Chen’s entreaties to his few remaining friends in Washington. There were a few phone calls from members of Congress but no real support for Chen’s position.

  When I arrived in Beijing the day after the Korean president’s inauguration, the foreign minister asked if I’d call the referendum a provocation again, this time in front of the Chinese press. I’d expected this request and had talked it over with the President the night before. The Chinese press was primed to ask the question—and to receive the answer. I avoided using the word “provocation” again, but that night my carefully worded rebuke was played over and over on television. It was played in Taiwan too, where the referendum began to lose support almost immediately. Most people understood that Taipei could not be on the wrong side of the United States.

  Thanks to both the Taiwan issue and the President’s decision to attend the Olympics, the Chinese were in a very good mood about U.S.-China relations. They believed too tha
t we were doing all we could to resolve the North Korean issue. “I just hope you can pass on the administration’s policy to the next President,” Foreign Minister Yang Jiechi told me during that visit.

  “Jiechi,” I said, “you have lived in Washington [as political counselor and ambassador], and you know that’s not how it works.”

  “Well,” he said, “we can hope.”

  A few months later, I visited Chengdu, China, the site of a devastating earthquake that spring that had caused seventy thousand deaths. The relocation site was very orderly, and the Chinese citizens seemed grateful for their lodgings, which were likely to be their homes, we were told, for up to three years. A twelve-year-old boy walked up to me and said, “You’re that lady from America.” I answered that I was. He smiled and hugged me. I always loved those moments with kids when you could feel what America means to people of all ages. But I also saw something that made me wonder about China’s remarkable development. We had to pass through a village to get to the relocation camp. It was right out of the nineteenth century—just a few miles from the gleaming, modern metropolis of Chengdu. That’s the problem, I thought. They’ve pulled more than 500 million people out of poverty, but they have so many more to go. And inequality is widening. How does a Marxist government handle that?

  From that perspective, the rise of China looked a little different—less certain and potentially more chaotic. We’d come to office knowing that managing the U.S.-China relationship would be one of our most important tasks. The international system has not always been good at accommodating rising powers. One of the reasons that we were confident we could was the strong web of alliances that we enjoyed. The United States was an established Pacific power, both militarily and economically. South Korea, Japan, and Australia were strong democratic friends, more than capable of holding their own in the changing region.

  But Japan was emerging as a weakening link in that chain. I’ve mentioned Prime Minister Koizumi’s determination to undertake long-delayed, much-needed bureaucratic and economic reforms. When he left office, Japan fell back into consensus politics again, with essentially interchangeable prime ministers who never seemed to move the country forward. It was increasingly depressing to go to Japan, which seemed not only stagnant and aging but hamstrung by old animosities with its neighbors. And I was concerned too about my personal chemistry with the Japanese, who believed I was too interested in resolving the North Korean nuclear issue and unwilling to hold the line on the abductions. It began to feel as if the Japanese wanted the Six-Party Talks to fail lest they lose their leverage with us to help them with the admittedly tragic abduction issue.

  For the remainder of the term, I’d fight to avoid linkage between the two issues. We could only say that we’d press the North Koreans to resolve the questions about the kidnapped Japanese citizens but if we could constrain—even end—Pyongyang’s nuclear program, we needed to do that. Maintaining that position was very difficult. Tom Schieffer, the President’s good friend and former co-owner of the Texas Rangers, was ambassador to Japan (having already served as ambassador to Australia). Tom was a great guy but sometimes a little too insistent in making Tokyo’s case. After one incident in which Tom called the President—not me—about Japan’s complaints, we had a discussion about the appropriate chain of command. He hadn’t meant to cross the line, and we never had difficulties again. But I know it was hard on Tom because the Japanese were hypersensitive and insecure. Therein lay the problem: we needed a confident Japan as a partner in a changing Asia, and with the end of Junichiro Koizumi’s term in office in 2006, those days had seemed to disappear.

  50

  OLMERT MAKES AN OFFER

  I RETURNED FROM ASIA and headed almost immediately to the Middle East. The prospects for a framework agreement between the Palestinians and the Israelis were brightening as the spring approached. During the President’s trip in January, we’d both been impressed by Olmert’s desire to get a deal. After the Annapolis Conference, he’d placed Tzipi Livni in charge of the Israeli side of the negotiations, and President Abbas had tapped Abu Alaa. There was something of an asymmetry since the Palestinian team was experienced, having negotiated the issues for more than fifteen years. Like the back of their hands, the team members knew the ins and outs of the maps, the nuances of the phrases, and the history of the conflict. Tzipi admitted that she didn’t know the issues as well but she came up to speed very quickly. I traveled to the region even more frequently, holding meetings with each side separately and several times jointly. The progress was slow but steady. At one point, to better understand the Palestinian concerns about the Israeli settlement of Ariel, Tzipi even suggested a joint field trip to see it. I was convinced that the parties were trying very hard.

  In March I made two trips to the region, and I made another in April. With those trips, I had fallen into a pattern, meeting with the Arabs through the GCC and covering everything from Iraq to Afghanistan to Annapolis. I’d then go on to meet with the Palestinians and the Israelis, starting in Jerusalem with dinner at Olmert’s house. At first, I’d take Elliott Abrams, who traveled with me from the White House, David Welch, and the ambassador. Shalom Turgeman and Yoram Turbowitz, Olmert’s close advisors, usually accompanied the prime minister. After dinner, Olmert and I would go into his study. He’d smoke a cigar, I’d drink tea, and we would go deeper into the issues that had come up at dinner.

  But when I arrived in Jerusalem in May, I got word that Olmert wanted me to come to dinner alone. I was a little surprised, but we’d met one-on-one at least once before. When I got to the residence of the prime minister, he didn’t waste much time on pleasantries.

  “Tzipi is a hard worker, and she has my complete confidence,” he began. Why is he telling me that? I wondered. Then he made himself clear. “The problem is that the process with Abu Alaa isn’t going to get it done in time. Israel needs to get an agreement with the Palestinians before you leave office,” he said. He continued without waiting for me to respond. “I want to do it directly with Abu Mazen,” he said, referring to Mahmoud Abbas by his nom de guerre. “You are going to see him tomorrow. Tell him that I want to appoint one person. I have someone in mind. He is a retired judge that I trust. I want Abu Mazen to appoint a trusted agent too. We can write down the agreement in a few pages and then give it to the negotiators to finalize,” he said. I started to ask about the relationship between what he was proposing and what Tzipi was doing. I felt kind of awkward because it was pretty clear he hadn’t told her what he was telling me. But as I opened my mouth, Olmert started talking again.

  “I know what he needs. He needs something on refugees and on Jerusalem. I’ll give him enough land, maybe something like 94 percent with swaps. I have an idea about Jerusalem. There will be two capitals, one for us in West Jerusalem and one for the Palestinians in East Jerusalem. The mayor of the joint city council will be selected by population percentage. That means an Israeli mayor, so the deputy should be a Palestinian. We will continue to provide security for the Holy sites because we can assure access to them.” That’s probably a nonstarter, I thought. But concentrate, concentrate. This is unbelievable. He continued, “I’ll accept some Palestinians into Israel, maybe five thousand. I don’t want it to be called family reunification because they have too many cousins; we won’t be able to control it. I’ve been thinking about how to administer the Old City. There should be a committee of people—not officials but wise people—from Jordan, Saudi Arabia, the Palestinians, the United States, and Israel. They will oversee the city but not in a political role.” Am I really hearing this? I wondered. Is the Israeli prime minister saying that he’ll divide Jerusalem and put an international body in charge of the Holy sites? Concentrate. Write this down. No, don’t write it down. What if it leaks? It can’t leak; it’s just the two of us.

  Olmert was on a roll. “I will need your help on security. The IDF has a list of demands—some of them probably are okay, but the Palestinians won’t accept all of them. I need the Uni
ted States to work this out to the satisfaction of the military. Barak will work with you. I can sell this deal, but not if the IDF says it will undermine Israel’s security. That’s the one thing no prime minister can survive. And one other thing, I need to know that you won’t surprise me by offering other ideas before we’ve had a chance to talk about them. I’m taking an enormous risk here, and I can’t be blindsided by the United States.” Olmert had been leaning forward; neither of us had touched our dinner, and when the server had come in, he’d shooed her away. Now he sat back in his chair, exhausted by the recitation of the extraordinary details of the deal as he saw it.

  “Prime Minister, this is remarkable, and I will try to help. I will talk to Abu Mazen tomorrow,” I promised. “Be careful where you speak to him because people may be listening,” he said.

  After dinner, I hurried back to the hotel and related the details to David and Elliott only—minus the proposal on an international committee to oversee the Holy sites. I trusted my advisors, but a slip of the tongue on that one would have been devastating to Olmert. “You must not tell anyone,” I said sternly, knowing that they wouldn’t. Then I called Steve Hadley and told him that I had some extraordinary news but didn’t feel comfortable—even on a secure phone—repeating what I’d heard from Olmert. After all, I was in an Israeli hotel; one never knew who might be listening. “Tell the President he was right about Olmert. He wants a deal. And frankly, he might die trying to get one,” I said, recalling that Yitzhak Rabin had been killed for offering far less. I hung up the phone and looked out my window at the Holy City. Maybe, just maybe, we could get this done.