Where Have All the Leaders Gone?

by Lee Iacocca

  CAN WE TALK?

  Speaking of talking, I wish someone would explain to me why we’re still fighting a cold war with Cuba. JFK broke off relations and established a trade embargo against Cuba in 1961, at a time when Fidel Castro’s collaboration with the Soviet Union presented a real threat to our shores. But does anyone honestly believe that Cuba poses any threat whatsoever in 2007? The Soviet Union doesn’t even exist anymore. And we’re trading with China—and the last time I looked, the Communists were still running that country.

  In the final year of Clinton’s presidency it looked as though we might stop our saber-rattling. Congress passed the Trade Sanctions Reform and Export Enhancement Act in 2000. The bill cracked the door open a bit for limited, one-way trade. Since then Cuba has bought over half a billion dollars’ worth of goods—everything from Vermont cattle to Louisiana rice to Washington State apples. But we’re barred from buying Havana cigars from them, and that really rubs me the wrong way.

  But the Bush administration has tried to turn back the clock. Why? Is it because Castro is an evil Communist? Come on—get real. The reason we haven’t opened the doors to Cuba is because an anti-Castro gang in Miami has held Florida’s electoral votes hostage for over forty years. And they’ve held Florida’s elected officials hostage, too—including the President’s brother Jeb, who owed his two terms as governor to the former Batista party exiles. They live for the day when their wealth and power will be restored in Cuba, and politicians who pander to that dream tend to do very well in Florida.

  The anti-Castro rhetoric sounds more and more ridiculous every year. The right thing to do—the moral thing to do—is to start talking. You’d think we would have learned by now that exclusion from opportunity doesn’t build democracy.

  About thirteen years ago, I was asked to accompany a couple of French businessmen on a trip to Havana. They were good friends of Castro’s because they did a huge chicken export business with Cuba, and still do. (Eat your hearts out, American chicken farmers!) They asked me if I’d like to go along. Castro had said he wanted to meet me.

  “Geez,” I said, “is that legal?” I thought I’d better check, so I called President Clinton’s chief of staff, Mac McClarty. I’d been friendly with Mac for years because his father had been my Ford dealer in Hope, Arkansas.

  “You can go,” Mac told me. “Just don’t spend any money there. It’s against the law.”

  The Frenchmen had their own jet, a Falcon, and one of them was a pilot. When my friends picked me up in California, their plane was loaded with food from Provence—chickens, hams, pastries, bread, cheeses. There was hardly room for my bag, or me.

  I’d been to Havana a few times as a young single man. Went to the Tropicana. Saw Carmen Miranda. Smoked cigars. Raised hell. I had fond memories of my times there. But as we drove through Havana in 1994, the old playground looked a little shabby. There weren’t that many cars on the road, and most of them were clunkers from Russia or old Fords and Chevys that dated back to the pre-Kennedy era. But the Tropicana was still going strong. Havana’s nightlife and gorgeous beaches still attracted tourists from all over the world—except the U.S.

  Castro seemed pleased to have this American car guy visiting, and the whole time I was there he treated me like royalty. He told me he’d read both my books. Frankly, I liked the guy. He was well read and as sharp as a tack. He explained that he’d had lots of time to read in jail.

  Castro asked me, “When were you last here?” I told him in the final year of Batista’s rule.

  He laughed dismissively. “Oh, yes, you mean when Cuba was America’s speakeasy. It was all being run out of Miami, with Meyer Lansky and his gang. Drugs, gambling, prostitution, corruption. That is why we needed a revolution.”

  Castro was a good host, and he arranged a couple of excursions. The most memorable was a pigeon-hunting trip. We were awakened at five A.M. one morning, given camouflage uniforms, and asked to assemble in the dining room for a five-thirty A.M. breakfast. I wondered for a moment, Are we being recruited for Castro’s army?

  Surprise! At breakfast we were informed that we were going on a pigeon shoot. Our destination was a sparsely inhabited island, well known for its huge influx of pigeons. Castro apologized that he couldn’t accompany us, but he sent his younger brother Raúl (now the acting President of Cuba) to see us off, and his top general accompanied us. At six A.M., we boarded a massive Russian helicopter, which bore the Cuban flag. The helicopter had a crew of six, which included two stewards, two pilots, and two copilots. It was the biggest helicopter I’d ever seen. It was more like a troop carrier!

  When I expressed my amazement, Raúl smiled and said, “This is a great helicopter, but we have a very difficult time getting spare parts from Russia anymore.”

  That made me a little nervous. During the flight, my mind was on prayers, not pigeons.

  Castro also threw a dinner in my honor, and I was surprised to see that our own food was served to us at the dinner. The basic French staples, such as caviar, foie gras, and champagne are hard to come by in Cuba. I sat across from Castro, and he regaled us with stories. We had an interpreter, but he understood a lot of English. I’d never thought of Castro as being a lighthearted guy, but I remember laughing a lot.

  As the dinner was ending around eleven P.M., Castro motioned to me and said that he wanted to talk to me alone. I followed him out to a big Mercedes with a driver and we got into the backseat. We took off into the night, and I was thinking, Holy shit, I’m in a car with Fidel Castro, driving through the dark countryside at breakneck speed. For all I knew they were kidnapping me. We finally reached his place in the country, and sat down outside on the patio for a talk. We were joined by an extremely beautiful young woman who was our interpreter. A young man stood to the side. I wasn’t sure if he was a guard, an aide, or the cigar valet. Every time my cigar went out, he’d rush forward and give me a fresh one. Castro explained that you never relight a cigar. When it goes out, you throw it away. I told him, “Easy for you to say. You own the factory.”

  Castro no longer smoked cigars. He told me that after the UN gave him an award for saying that tobacco wasn’t healthy he’d felt he had to quit to set a good personal example. “Don’t you ever cheat?” I asked, a little amazed. He assured me he did not cheat.

  The Cohibas I was smoking were his personal brand. They were short and thick Robustos. “You Americans like long, Panatella-type cigars,” Castro said. “Don’t you know that sucking in all that air through a super-long cigar is bad for your health?”

  What did Castro want to talk about? Politics and business. What else? The guy was hungry for intelligent conversation about the state of the world.

  It was obvious he was pissed off at the Soviets. They’d screwed him. They’d left him to twist in the wind. It was lonely being one of the only Communist countries left in the world. But Castro had some very interesting observations about the transition from Communism to the free market. In his opinion, the Soviet Union went about the process backward, but China was getting it right.

  “Gorbachev did it wrong,” he told me. “The Soviets should have done the economics first and then thrown out the commissars. Now Russia has nothing but corruption and chaos. In China the Communists still have a strong hold. They are maintaining power while they gradually transition to open markets.”

  “You’re talking like a bloody capitalist, Fidel,” I said. “You’re saying, fix the economy first, and the social order will follow.”

  Castro was a very provocative guy. “Do you want to bring democracy here, or do you want to bring some of your prosperity?” he asked. “Tell me how to do the last one. I don’t want to hear about the first one.”

  What could I say? Yeah, but you’re a dictator? If people get in your way you can knock them off? I kept that thought to myself, but I didn’t believe a prosperous, free market could coexist with a dictatorship.

  “Didn’t you pick the wrong side?” I asked.

  He said maybe, but the
revolution kind of got out of hand.

  “Well, what did you expect from the revolution?”

  “I didn’t expect it to be so easy,” he said.

  I didn’t want to overstep my bounds, but I was curious. “Fidel, I’ve been here a couple of days now, and I visited the sights. I see your picture in all the offices and on all the buildings. But it always looks to me like Che Guevara’s picture is above yours—and it’s bigger than yours.”

  Castro shrugged. “To the young people, he is like a cult hero. A born revolutionary.”

  “You knew Che well,” I said. “You were close to him. Can I ask you a question?”

  He nodded.

  “Why did Che go to Bolivia? To export revolution, right?”

  Another nod.

  “And as soon as he got there he was assassinated. Did you have anything to do with that?”

  I suppose Castro was surprised at my boldness. Hell, I was surprised at my boldness. “Lee,” he said, “we’ve been talking openly, but if you’re interested in that kind of thing, why don’t you check with your own CIA?”

  We talked until two-thirty in the morning, and I enjoyed it. I thought we’d made a real connection.

  As we left Cuba, with a supply of Cohiba cigars (a gift) packed in my bag, I hoped it wouldn’t be my last visit. When I got back to the United States, I called McClarty. “Mac,” I said, “Castro is ready to talk.”

  “Maybe he brainwashed you,” Mac said.

  “No,” I said, “he leveled with me. Look, our policy is hurting young kids and old people. It’s doing a lot of damage—over what? Ideology?”

  I was so frustrated that for a while after my visit I thought I might volunteer for the job of unofficial diplomat to Cuba. But no one was interested. And thirteen years after my visit, we’re still not talking. What a missed opportunity! What is it going to take to convince our leaders that the road forward starts with a conversation?

  A TIP FROM DALE CARNEGIE

  Ever since I took the Dale Carnegie course when I was twenty-five, I’ve kept his book How to Win Friends and Influence People on the shelf. I still have my original copy, and it’s pretty tattered. I must have referred to it hundreds of times in my life. Do you know what Dale Carnegie’s first rule was? “If you want to gather honey, don’t kick over the beehive.” That’s pure common sense—something we are often lacking these days.

  Dale Carnegie also had some good advice about being a leader, and he made a point of saying that it applied to presidents and kings as well as to ordinary businesspeople. Although he wrote How to Win Friends and Influence People seventy years ago, Carnegie’s principles are just as relevant today.

  Sometimes we forget that government officials and heads of nations are human beings. The greatest impediment to getting along is having preconceived notions that someone is all-holy, all-evil, or made of stone or steel. In my life I’ve been amazed by how often my negative ideas about people are proven wrong when I actually meet them. For instance, in 2005, when I was invited to a dinner party hosted by Prince Charles and his bride-to-be Camilla at Highgrove, the prince’s personal residence, I was sure I knew what they’d be like—very stiff and proper. I got ready for a dull evening of protocol and pomp. Was I ever wrong! Camilla greeted us at the door with a warm smile, and insisted, “Please call me Camilla.” Charles was relaxed and talkative. They both had great senses of humor. It was one of the most enjoyable evenings I’d had in a long time.

  The point is, people are people. Even the mighty have feelings and pride. Just like everyone else, they appreciate a pat on the back or a way to save face when they’ve dug a hole for themselves. When it comes right down to it, being a leader in the world is just a matter of winning friends and influencing people with a spirit of hope.

  VII

  Meet the coalition of the UNwilling

  I may be getting old, but there’s nothing wrong with my memory or my attention span—at least not yet. The folks from the Bush administration would like us to forget that we went to war in Iraq because they falsely claimed Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction. They’d like us to forget their phony campaign to connect Saddam Hussein to 9/11, so they could do what they’d wanted to do all along. If I live to be a hundred (which I hope to do), I’ll never understand how we got so duped.

  We went to war on a lie. Congress didn’t debate it. The press didn’t challenge it. It got trumped up in secret meetings. The generals weren’t allowed in the room. Secretary of State Colin Powell even got fooled. And now that we’ve made a mess of things, the only way out is to start telling the truth.

  The generals finally came forward to do just that, although it took them three years. If anyone doubts how much trouble we’re in, just listen to the generals. They say that the rhetoric of the White House hasn’t been matched by either resources or resolve. The drumbeats have drowned out common sense. They say we are bankrupt in leadership.

  Iraq is a war nobody wanted—unless you count Iran, who has watched us accomplish what their eight-year war with Iraq could not. Unless you count the Taliban in Afghanistan, whose narcotics trade is thriving. George Bush says our enemies “hate us for our freedom.” They really hate us for our arrogance. But they love it when we get stupid. And, folks, we’ve been stupid. Big time.

  THE LESSONS OF HISTORY

  One of the qualities that made Winston Churchill a great leader was his historical imagination. “The longer you look back,” he wrote, “the farther you can look forward.” He once complained to a friend, “We live in the most thoughtless of ages. Every day headlines and short views. I have tried to drag history up a little nearer to our own times in case it should be a guide in present difficulties.” Good idea!

  The war in Iraq is a failure of historical imagination. Didn’t we learn any lessons from Vietnam? Vietnam was also a failure of historical imagination, which showed that we learned nothing from Korea.

  Many years ago, Joseph Califano, who was a member of Lyndon Johnson’s and later Jimmy Carter’s administration, told me this story. It was right after Johnson had been elected in 1964, and Johnson and Califano went to visit General Douglas MacArthur, who was retired and living in the Waldorf Towers in New York City. MacArthur said to Johnson, “Sonny, never get involved in a land war in Asia.” When they left his apartment, Johnson was furious. “Did you hear that?” he asked Califano. “The son of a bitch called me Sonny. I’m the President of the United States, and he called me Sonny!” He couldn’t get over it. Unfortunately, Johnson missed the real message—the one about the ground war in Asia. Kennedy missed it, too, because I understand that MacArthur told him the same thing. I wonder if he called JFK Sonny.

  When the Bush administration said we would be greeted as liberators, I knew right away we were in trouble. The lessons of history would have told a different story, but history was never consulted.

  TRAGIC CONSEQUENCES

  When I talk to John Murtha, he says he feels personally betrayed. In his heart Murtha is still a marine. You never stop being a marine. He feels responsible for the guys we’ve placed in peril without a plan for winning. Murtha spends his weekends visiting the wounded at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C. He describes their injuries as horrible. Those who survive roadside bombings—the most common injury—usually have massive head injuries and loss of limbs. Their families are crying, begging Murtha to do something. They believe their kids have become nothing more than targets, driving around in poorly armored Humvees and getting blown up. For what?

  Have you noticed that we never hear much about the wounded? The media keeps a running count of the dead, but why not the wounded? Where do you even find out how many have been wounded? Let me tell you something. It’s not easy. The Pentagon doesn’t publish that information unless it is specifically requested by the media. Why do you think that is? Could it be because the number is so big? I challenge the media to do just that. Put the number in bold print, right next to the number for those killed. (For
your information, the official number of Americans wounded in action in Iraq is currently around 24,000, but that doesn’t account for thousands of non-combat injuries.)

  And where is Bush, the Commander in Chief? For a guy who loves photo ops so much, there’s one photo op you never see: the President in Dover, Delaware, standing next to a flag-draped coffin. He doesn’t want to be identified with coffins. For the first time in memory, cameras have been banned from Dover. The coffins arrive in the deep of night, when nobody can see them. Hell, they don’t even call them coffins. They call them “transfer tubes.”

  IS IT REALLY WORTH IT?

  The cost of human life is the greatest tragedy of Iraq, but don’t forget the other costs. Let’s look at it from the perspective of a CEO. When you decide to launch a project—whether you’re building a car or starting a war—one of the first things you do is look at the cost/benefit picture. That is, what are we getting for the money?

  As of this writing, the cost of the war is estimated at about half a trillion dollars. But according to some experts, the true cost could be as high as $2 trillion, when you factor in lifetime disability and health care for the wounded, the interest on our debt, and the rising oil prices.

  On the ground, it’s been kind of hard to keep track of how much we’re spending, because the accounting is extremely loose in the new Iraq. It’s like the Wild West over there. At one point, $1.5 billion was floating around in cash, to be used to hire workers and pay off mullahs, and God knows what else. Paul Bremer, who was in charge of the rebuilding effort for a while, kept $600 million in cash on hand. I guess he put it in his sock drawer.

  Don’t forget. That’s your money they’re spending. Do you want to throw it into an Iraqi sinkhole, or do you want to provide health care? Do you want to hand it over to Halliburton, or do you want to make sure American kids go to college?