A few days after I rejoined the company it found itself in the midst of turmoil consequent upon the hanging of the Nigerian campaigner Ken Saro-Wiwa by the military government. Shell had become the focus of a campaign by environmental NGOs alleging its complicity in the abuses of the dictatorship; its neglect of the environment of the Niger delta, where Shell (as part of a consortium) was the main private oil producer and operator; and, by implication, its responsibility for the death of Mr Saro-Wiwa. For the second time in several years a rather inward-looking company dominated by the concerns of professional engineers and managers suddenly found itself on the receiving end of highly effective and aggressive environmental campaigning. The Brent Spar affair had already left the company looking rather leaden-footed and environmentally insensitive, even though it had scrupulously followed scientific advice and government direction in proposing to dispose of a redundant oil platform at the bottom of the North Sea. Graphic filming of oil flares from Nigeria; emotional appeals from Saro-Wiwa’s family and friends, including Anita Roddick of the Body Shop; allegations of leaking pipelines and neglect of local communities: all this formed a damaging charge sheet which the plonking responses of official Shell spokesmen did little to diminish. Shell undoubtedly suffered considerable reputational damage, and employees who had long boasted to friends and relatives about working for one of the world’s best companies reported that they were being roundly attacked, even by their own children, for their involvement with such a wicked, exploitative operation.
The issue touched the soul of the company. The upstream business in Nigeria was the jewel in the crown of the exploration and production division, the company’s elite corps. Many managing directors, past and present, had served time in the Niger delta; Nigeria accounted for one of Shell’s largest sources of equity oil (oil owned by the company rather than managed on others’ behalf), and a steady, if unspectacular, profit. And it offered enormous potential for expansion, in both gas and oil. While the critics may have exaggerated and distorted the position, there were some valid criticisms. Shell (and the other companies involved) had paid their taxes as required to the central government and had steered clear of Nigerian politics, but the truth was that the communities in the oil-producing delta were neglected and poverty-stricken and saw little or none of the oil money. While the many miles of exposed pipeline were frequently punctured by sabotage, too little had been done to clean up the local environment. And while the flaring of enormous amounts of associated gas was environmentally harmless locally (that is, apart from the carbon dioxide), and its waste owed much to the incompetence of Nigerian state enterprises, Shell had not been very proactive in using the gas.
One option being considered was to disengage from Nigeria. The reputational damage of the current exposure was huge. The Nigerian military government’s stealing of resources had also reached the point where, not content with taking the tax revenue, it was no longer paying bills due to the company. And there was growing concern that corruption in Nigeria was so rampant that it was becoming difficult to insulate the company from it. There was another, opposing, view that Nigeria, despite its difficulties, had enormous long-term potential, much of it offshore and away from the angry communities and complicated delta tribal politics, but also in supplying the country’s domestic market if the economy could be turned around.
Such a range of options lent itself to scenario thinking and I was asked to lead an exercise to help the Shell group and the Nigerian company decide their strategy. The general manager who oversaw the work was one of Shell’s most impressive managers, with deep roots in Nigeria; he saw himself as a ‘white Nigerian’ and had spent his youth in the country, witnessing the massacres preceding the Biafran civil war. His top Nigerian staff were no less impressive: honest professionals with deep roots in the company and their communities – one, an Ibo, had kept an improvised oil refinery going in the bush, supplying the Biafran army with fuel until its final surrender. I came to appreciate, visiting Nigeria and listening to the staff, that Shell had a serious duty of care to these local employees and could not just leave the country in response to a political campaign back at base.
The scenario exercise was, I think, moderately helpful in clarifying the group’s thinking about its future in Nigeria. It proved to be more valuable in another way. The company was looking for a way of communicating to the military top brass, and General Abacha in particular, that the gross corruption and human rights abuses could make it impossible for Shell to continue. But it wanted to do so in a way that did not come across as a threat or ultimatum, or as white men telling black men how to behave. The scenarios, which were essentially stories of the future, could be presented as parables or riddles, conveying a clear message but in a way that was not hectoring or offensive. So it was decided that I should present the scenarios to the president and his colleagues publicly at an ‘economic summit’ in Abuja.
The stakes were quite high. No one could predict how the president would react. He was a man who, reputedly, suffered from mental instability, including a fear of sleep, when he thought himself vulnerable to assassination. In order to prepare the ground, I was taken to meet him on two occasions, both at dead of night. I was prepared to meet an ogre. He was allegedly a man with a lot of blood on his hands, a private bank account of billions, and a public face on official photographs that gave prominence to his tribal facial scars and scornful leer. The reality was quite different. He was a small man, dwarfed in his northern robes, with an infectious belly laugh and a voice that swooped and soared in exaggerated cadences – like, I thought, Archbishop Tutu. After a few exchanges I was escorted away, leaving him to talk business with the general manager. I was then required to give a dry run of my presentation to Chief Shonakan, who had briefly ruled as head of state, and he advised me on the language to use to push back the frontiers of public debate on corruption and human rights abuses without bringing on a fit of presidential temper.
I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered by the high-level attention or alarmed by what might happen if I enraged this African dictator. There was a large darkened hall and I could only see in front of me a line of bemedalled generals on a raised dais. My presentation of PowerPoint graphics – then something of a high-tech novelty – started with a fairly comfortable scenario story of the way Nigeria could develop if it followed through some modest reforms (which were nonetheless currently impossible to implement). The second I called the Road to Kinshasa, which was a description of Mobutu’s failing state, with the unstated implication, that this was how Nigeria could become – and was becoming. The allusion to corruption and human rights abuses were, I think, clearly understood. There was polite applause led by the president and all was going well until the finance minister stood up to respond. Anthony Ani was a civilian in a military government and he was compromised by that, as well as by his corruption, in the eyes of most Nigerians. He sought to compensate by belligerent nationalism and saw this occasion as an opportunity to let rip. He launched into a tirade against ‘this arrogant white man from London who has come to lecture us’ and shrieked at the audience: ‘There is no such thing as corruption in Nigeria.’ There was a long pause for effect, but instead of the expected round of applause the president burst into peals of laughter. His colleagues and then the rest of the hall joined in. Crisis over.
I doubt that the presentation changed much, although I was told later that the ‘Road to Kinshasa’ and the ‘Curse of Oil’ had entered the vocabulary of the Nigerian chattering classes. The president did not survive much longer. He died mysteriously one night, his death variously attributed to his dicky heart, assassins or the excitement of a romp in bed with several prostitutes. The most hated ruler in the country’s history, he died unloved and, having given military rule a deservedly bad name, has been succeeded by elected civilians. Shell’s problems in the delta continue, however, with kidnappings and general mayhem depressing production. But no one now seriously argues that Shell should not be there.
The troubles that Shell encountered over Brent Spar and Nigeria were, however, part of a deepening set of problems. The self-confidence that I had first encountered in the van Wachem years was gradually ebbing away. Led by a senior planning colleague, Guy Gillings, there was a growing debate on the financial position, which appeared very comfortable but disguised poor returns on new investments. Shell seemed to be missing out on big acquisitions and big new country entries: Exxon had merged with Mobil; BP had absorbed Arco and, under John Browne, was making bold moves in Russia and the Caucasus. Shell’s upstream division was no longer producing major finds. Brokers’ circulars were no longer so flattering. Big reforms to simplify the management structure were launched, though the promised ‘new Shell’ was taking a long time to emerge from the bureaucratic ‘old Shell’.
There was, however, strong leadership committed to change. Mark Moody Stuart was an impressive chairman who combined steely business discipline with a strong Quaker social conscience. He was succeeded by Phil Watts, who oversaw my work and whom I came to know quite well. Down to earth and direct, I liked him and admired the way he accepted past mistakes (as a former head of the Nigerian company) and tried to take on board elusive and unfamiliar new problems like reputation management. He was nonetheless a few years later at the centre of a major scandal when the company was found to have overstated the true position of its reserves. I know too little to comment on the detail, but I suspect that the company was caught midway in an awkward transition to becoming a ‘normal’, if very big, public company, having stripped away its checks and balances in the interests of efficiency, and having discovered that institutional shareholders now demanded and had real power over managers. Years before, the reserves problem would have been picked up by one of the cross-cutting committees; or, if it hadn’t, the shareholders would have been none the wiser. Whatever the cause, the crisis forced a drastic streamlining of management, the establishment of a powerful chief executive accountable to an external board, and a recognition that the company is essentially Dutch and should be located in Holland. It is now unrecognizable as the company I joined except that, once again, it is looking down on BP.
When I returned to the world of politics I was forced to confront questions posed by so-called progressive politicians: do multinationals have too much power? Can they and should they act in a more socially and environmentally responsible way, even at the expense of their shareholders? Are the massive profits of oil companies ‘excessive’? My answers to these questions no doubt reflect my indoctrination in the company. The power of multinationals, certainly in the oil industry, is now highly circumscribed by competition. Privately owned oil companies like Shell and BP are dwarfed by state-owned companies like Gazprom and Aramco. In the big markets they face fierce competition in retailing, refining, chemicals and upstream oil services. Except in the biggest, most technically sophisticated projects, the oil majors no longer have unique advantages. Also, my experience has been that the external pressures of customers and ethical shareholders, and the internal idealism and professionalism of many managers, make the modern oil company like Shell or BP very sensitive to the social responsibility agenda. And the massive profits have to be seen in relation to the capital employed. At high prices, oil companies can hardly avoid making money, but the expensive investments Shell is undertaking will lose money if prices continue to slump.
Two days after becoming an MP I was invited to join a Newsnight discussion on Shell’s activities and to denounce the company I had worked for. I declined and said I was proud to have worked for Shell, which I think left Jeremy Paxman momentarily lost for words. But I meant it and I still do.
Chapter 10
The Long March
It was over a quarter of a century from my first contesting a parliamentary election to being elected to Parliament for Twickenham in 1997. I like to think that these years were not wasted. I was able to devote time to being a proper husband and father. I had a chance to learn from various working environments about the way government and business operate. Political failure and frustration also gave me the opportunity to reflect, from outside, on the political world that I wanted to join but could not. I have been constantly reminded that away from the rise and fall of personalities, the daily tittle-tattle of news, and the dramas being played out in the Westminster village, politics operates in long cycles and trends, making and breaking individual fortunes along the way. Along that road I have met a small army of prospective prime ministers and party leaders, many of enormous talent and potential, who have lapsed into obscurity or found their niche as commentators, consultants or academics, in local government or the media or NGOs.
It may seem odd for a liberal to find refuge in Maoist imagery. But the Long March conjures up for me both the trajectory of my own political journey and that of my party: endless skirmishes with small victories and defeats, long exile from the main theatres of political warfare and centres of power, all sustained by a determination to keep going and by hope of eventual victory.
For most of this period, politics occupied for me a status somewhere between a hobby and a part-time profession. It usually came third after family life and work. If I record the political events in more detail it is because of their wider interest. In reality, my life, like that of millions of other middle-class husbands and fathers, revolved around events that are now captured only in fading memories and selected highlights from the family photo albums: shared chores and shopping; children’s tantrums and laughter, homework, exams, concerts, open days, Cub camps and Brownie badges, music and ballet lessons, train sets and Wendy houses; holidays, graduating from tents and caravanettes in Britain to luxury cottages in Italy; the endless dramas of the Rebelo family and the visits to see them in India, Kenya and Zimbabwe, alongside the slow disintegration of the Cables as my parents aged and died; birthdays and anniversaries, always celebrated in some style. We were, I think, more ambitious for one another than most families, perhaps more protective, certainly very secure and permanent. Even after cancer ate at her strength, Olympia was the dominant, regal centre of it, and I was content to be her consort. But from our first meeting in the staff room of the York mental hospital, she had always understood my passion for politics and helped me sustain it through the years in the wilderness.
The family upheaval involved in leaving Glasgow and setting up home in Twickenham mirrored an upheaval taking place inside the Labour Party. It was clear by the mid-1970s that the Labour Party was changing in a fundamental way. The traditional tensions between ‘left’ and ‘right’, ‘socialists’ and ‘social democrats’, were often acrimonious and divisive, but were expressed in a – broadly – common language by people who shared essentially the same values. A change then occurred that can be traced back to a decision of the National Executive in 1973 to drop its ban on ‘proscribed organizations’. Most of us in the political mainstream were only dimly aware of the existence of revolutionary Trotskyite groups like the International Socialists and the International Marxist Group, which changed their names with bewildering frequency and were differentiated from one another by obscure but ferociously contested ideological debates and incomprehensible personal quarrels. In the film The Life of Brian, there is a dispute between the Judaean People’s Front and the People’s Front of Judaea which captures this spirit. We didn’t see these groups as a serious threat. Trots like Paul Foot – who before he joined the International Socialists had been active in my local party in Glasgow shortly before my arrival – and Tariq Ali were attractive and plausible figures who wrote and spoke well and captured the mood of disillusionment on the left after the Wilson government. The affable political activists who sold Militant newspapers to the councillors in Glasgow City Hall seemed harmless enough. So when a move was made to lift the ban, there was little opposition. I recall questioning the proposal in my local branch, but most of the activists didn’t see a problem and welcomed a move to integrate people who might irrigate the shrivelling grass roots
of the party with idealism and energy. The full significance of this disastrous decision became apparent a few years later, when I had moved to London.
When Olympia and I arrived in Twickenham in 1974 we joined the local Labour Party, which was, on the surface, flourishing politically and socially. Although the Conservatives had been running Richmond council and providing the MP forever, the Labour Party had a solid block of councillors from predominantly working-class wards, and in the second 1974 election the Labour candidate, Mavis Cunningham (wife of George), came second, defeated by Toby Jessel by 9507 votes. With a Labour government re-elected, morale was high and the political prospects looked good. The party provided Olympia and me with our first set of London friends, some of whom have remained close to this day. Reciprocal babysitting and fund-raising parties generated a warm comradeship which subsequent political strife never wholly eradicated.
The politics of race was very raw at that time and we threw ourselves into local anti-racism campaigns. The National Front had its headquarters in the constituency, in Teddington, and they were made to feel very unwelcome until they moved out. We were drawn into the anti-apartheid movement, in particular the demonstrations around the South African rugby tour in 1979/80, though these were more muted and the police more prepared than in the 1970 protests. They centred on Twickenham and were led by a young South African, Peter Hain. Some local party purists baulked at a campaign led by someone who had recently headed the Young Liberals. There were also dire warnings from some of the councillors that the Liberals were up to no good and were beginning to pose a threat in the borough. But, given my history, I welcomed the crossover of identities and, indeed, welcomed the Lab–Lib cooperation in government, which I had advocated a decade earlier from a Liberal perspective.
Free Radical Page 19