Foreign Service professionals work on the front lines of history. If something important happens in a country, the Foreign Service is there, keeping the U.S. government informed, protecting American interests and, where possible, playing a constructive role. Yet because the Foreign Service role in world affairs is often played behind the scenes, few know about the dangers faced and the skills and courage exhibited every day by Foreign Service employees serving overseas.
In the aftermath of the 2004 Asian Tsunami, Consular Officer Mike Chadwick quickly converted his holiday in Thailand to a search endeavor to find and assist Americans amidst the chaos. Following a terrorist attack in Sharm el-Sheik, Egypt, Jacqueline Deley was on the scene to find out if any Americans were harmed. When Kosovo declared independence in February 2008, Public Diplomacy Officer Christopher Midura was there to bear witness to the historic event, while, at the same time, Public Diplomacy Officer Rian Harker Harris managed press relations in Belgrade during violent demonstrations following the declaration of independence.
The work of U.S. diplomacy is done without fanfare. Those who serve do not do it for glory or for publicity. Yet recognition for the courage and the sacrifices made every day by the Foreign Service is warranted, and these stories give a glimpse of the ways that the Foreign Service makes a difference in the world.
MALDIVES, 2006
Anamika Chakravorty
My first Foreign Service posting was as a political officer at Embassy Colombo, covering both Sri Lanka and the Republic of Maldives. It was 2006, and Sri Lanka had seen new outbreaks of open conflict in its three-decade-long civil war, while Maldives was an Islamic country making an arduous transition to democracy. One morning, two senior host-government officials phoned me in rapid succession. Under the circumstances, calls from highly placed individuals were unlikely to bode well.
As it happened, though, it was Maldivian officials phoning to report that a small group of protesters was carrying an American flag in the capital, Malé. “I’m so sorry,” the callers said in strained tones. “But we believe ... well, we think these people might be planning to burn a U.S. flag. We’re terribly embarrassed. I hope you know this isn’t representative of the attitude in Maldives, and this group doesn’t have much support. We just wanted to alert you.”
I was surprised, and also deeply touched. I know there are some governments that would tacitly support their citizens burning an American flag; others would happily supply matches and kerosene! Yet here were two foreign officials calling to assure an American diplomat that such behavior was not the norm for their country.
Knowing that Maldives—a country comprising more than 1,000 coral islands off the coast of Sri Lanka in the Indian Ocean—was struggling with unfamiliar aspects of democracy, such as balancing security concerns against freedoms of assembly and expression, I tried to provide a nuanced response that went something like this: “I appreciate your call, and as an American and as a diplomat, it makes me sad to hear someone might burn our flag. However, our own Supreme Court has ruled that to be an acceptable form of political expression. While I believe it is the resort of inarticulate persons who cannot express their message in a sophisticated way, they should have the opportunity to voice their views as long as they don’t endanger others. I hope your government won’t prohibit freedom of expression even though you disagree with the sentiment in question.”
I hung up, wondering what would become of the protesters. The following day, a journalist contact got in touch and asked if I had heard about the fracas over the U.S. flag in Maldives. I asked what had happened. He explained that the police approached the protesters and asked whether they had an American flag. When they replied in the affirmative, the police asked if they had been planning to burn it. They said no. The group handed over the flag, and was allowed to continue the protest.
For Maldives, this was a step forward. It was not government permission for full freedom of expression, but at least it was a compromise. Protesters were not jailed arbitrarily, nor did they lash out at the police.
In October 2008, Maldives held its first-ever multiparty elections. Tears of joy came to my eyes when I read that they passed peacefully and there would be a smooth transition of power. A man I had visited under house arrest less than 18 months earlier was elected president!
I know that the work the embassy did—advocacy, high-level representation on human rights, sending expert speakers, documenting issues in the annual Human Rights Report, and supporting democratization in myriad ways behind the scenes—contributed to a positive shift for Maldives.
During my tour, I was fortunate enough to work with officials who joined their government for the same reason I had joined mine: to represent the loftiest ideals of fellow citizens and to bring about improvements when possible. I was also lucky enough to work with opposition leaders who risked their freedom and made great personal and professional sacrifices to advocate for their vision of full democracy.
I was honored to nominate one such activist as an International Woman of Courage in 2007, a woman who showed grace and strength in the face of adversity. I knew that Maldives, a country with a population of just 350,000 and no resident U.S. diplomatic mission, might not be on the State Department’s radar. So I was delighted when the activist was selected as one of eight inaugural winners of the prestigious award.
Although I have since left the region for another assignment, I still keep up with news of the Maldives. I fell in love with my first portfolio. I had plunged into my work in Colombo with reckless abandon, putting in hours of personal time and answering calls at all hours of the day and night.
When dealing with contacts, I encountered cynicism, frustration, and infighting, as well as kernels of optimism, deep patriotism, strength, and true courage. Sometimes I, too, fell prey to pessimism or grew irritated at personalities or political developments. I talked about Maldives to anyone who would listen, and even to some who would not! I bored my friends with my zeal, but I also managed to win some converts who focused on Maldives and advocated for democratization.
Ultimately, in a global political climate fraught with violence and fear, Maldivians did not get a storybook ending. They got something even better: a new beginning, won through the hard work, persuasive skills, persistence, and fearlessness of committed citizens.
Anamika Chakravorty served as a political officer in Colombo from 2005 to 2007. Prior to joining the Foreign Service in 2004, she worked as a civic educator for the nonprofit Close Up Foundation. After Colombo, she served in Kingston, Jamaica, then as a watch officer in the State Department’s Operations Center, and most recently, as the deputy political/economic counselor for United Nations affairs at the U.S. Mission to International Organizations in Vienna.
THAILAND, 2004
When my wife and I flew from Singapore to Phuket, Thailand, for a three-day Christmas holiday in 2004, our only real concern was oversleeping and missing our plane home. The weather was perfect and the ocean was postcard blue. But our relaxing holiday ended early—at about 10 a.m. on December 26, 2004— when a massive tsunami broke over the west coast of Thailand, also smashing into Indonesia, Sri Lanka, and other countries bordering the Indian Ocean.
I was on the balcony of our hotel on a hillside overlooking Phuket Beach when the ocean began roaring like a jet engine. My wife joined me in time to see a surge of white water rolling in, seven or eight feet high. It smashed through the restaurant on the beachfront below, picking up everything inside and pulling it back out to sea in a tangle of junk. Our hotel was high enough up that we were safe, for which I will be forever thankful.
The tsunami knocked out power to the hotel and left us in an information blackout. Powerful waves kept rolling in, and the beach below, usually filled with bright umbrellas and food stalls, was strewn with wreckage. When the electricity finally returned, we saw the first news reports with estimates of hundreds, then thousands, of deaths. I called the embassy to say we were okay, and agreed to stay and help out. I didn’t realize that I would be there for almost two weeks.
I started gathering information on American citizens by walking to the nearby hospitals in Patong, checking lists of the dead and injured. Early the next morning, I talked with the American citizen services chief in Bangkok, who had heard about a central site to which victims were being evacuated. My wife went to the airport to fly home to Singapore, and I headed out in search of Americans. A few wildly overpriced taxi rides later, I found myself at Phuket City Hall, where the Thai government had established a refugee assistance area. I grabbed a table in the room designated for foreigners, hung up a handwritten “USA” sign, and started assisting Americans as they arrived.
The room, usually an information center, was only about 30 by 60 feet. Within a day, consular staff from more than 30 countries had set up shop there. Survivors of all nationalities streamed in until there was no room to sit, so even the badly injured had to stand while others shoved past them. It was chaos. It was almost impossible to reach anyone outside Phuket. The cell-phone service companies set a two-minute talk limit as their lines were swamped; when I did get through to the embassy in Bangkok, I had only a few seconds to update them.
Soon more American personnel arrived from Embassy Bangkok. We divided the jobs: searching hospitals and morgues for American victims, assisting Americans who wanted to leave Phuket, sending lists of victims and survivors to Embassy Bangkok, and providing updates from the field so the State Department could make informed decisions about humanitarian aid and support.
Aftershock waves continue to roll in after the tsunami hit Phuket.
Tsunami victims suffering from injuries and shock wandered around City Hall trying to figure out what to do next. The walls around them were covered with photos of the missing—tanned and smiling faces, posted in the hope someone might recognize them. Survivors pored over pictures taken at the makeshift morgues, hoping they would not find their missing friends and loved ones among the rows of distorted faces needing identification.
By the end, the tsunami had claimed well over 200,000 lives worldwide, including an estimated 8,200 killed or missing in Thailand. Many thousands more, both Thai and foreign, were injured, displaced, or left destitute. There were 34 Americans among the bodies recovered, and another 135 were still unaccounted for several months after the wave hit.
The stories told by survivors were heartbreaking: parents searching for lost children, people crying for friends they saw crushed by buildings, newlyweds who had watched their spouses swept out to sea. But there were also a few happy endings. One American told me he spent the first night after the wave sitting on a beach thinking his children had drowned, only to discover when he finally made it to our desk that they were on our list of survivors. They had been evacuated by boat.
Another American, whose European girlfriend had died in the tsunami, wanted to accompany her body home the following day but had lost his passport. We couldn’t issue him a passport in Phuket, but we convinced the consular officials of her country to let him travel with only a copy of his passport photo page, which his family faxed to us.
The cooperation among the representatives of all countries was inspiring, while the kindness and generosity of our Thai hosts to their foreign guests in the midst of their own sorrow will stay with me forever. Sometimes it takes a tragedy to remind us of our shared humanity.
Mike Chadwick served as a consular officer in Singapore from 2003 to 2005, his first Foreign Service assignment. He joined the Foreign Service in 2003 as a public diplomacy officer. After Singapore, he served in Chisinau, Moldova, followed by a tour at the State Department in Washington, D. C. From there he went on to the consulate in Fukuoka, Japan, as the public affairs officer. He is married with one young son.
LIBERIA, 1996
Monrovia in 1996 was a post with the distinction of having the highest hardship level and danger pay in the Foreign Service. The war-torn society faced obliterated infrastructure and the probability of yet another civil war. Embassy personnel, like all city residents, were under a 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. curfew, not a difficult one to manage because there was simply nowhere safe to go after dusk.
A country established in 1847 under the motto, “The love of liberty brought us here,” Liberia was founded and colonized by freed American slaves and their descendants. The American influence could not be overstated: the national flag, the currency, and even the police uniforms were all modeled after those of the United States. But a palace coup in 1980 ushered in a period of economic and political instability and periodic civil war.
Among the many things that pulled at our heartstrings in Monrovia was the plight of the deaf orphan children. These children—deaf because their mothers had contracted rubella during pregnancy, and discarded by their families because of their disability—became children of the street. They once had a school and orphanage, but it was demolished in the previous civil war. The children were dressed in rags.
When I met them, I was amazed by how friendly they were. Their tragic circumstance bonded them into an unusual extended family where the oldest would help the youngest and teach them ad hoc sign language. One of the local ministers allowed them to sleep at night on the floor of a remote church and the cement slab of an unfinished building (so the girls and boys could sleep separately), provided that they cleaned up in the morning. From there, they fanned out each day to survive by begging and searching for food. In a battered country, they had few choices.
During the second year of my tour, in 1995, I took a trip back to the U.S. for a training program held in a small town in Virginia. My wife came along. One night after dinner we walked along a strip mall typical of small-town America. One of the few stores still open was a thrift shop, so we stopped in to take a look at the books. The shop had an inner section that contained children’s clothing. What drew our attention was a handwritten sign that proclaimed, “Children’s Clothes—10 for a Dollar.” When the proprietor confirmed the offer, I said, “Ten cents each! Lady, close your doors, I’m buying the store.” Not being from a wealthy background, I got a thrill just saying that.
Over the next few hours, the three of us packed up all the clothes into boxes. I made several trips to the hotel room, and then we spent the next several hours labeling the boxes. By morning we were ready to mail them to Monrovia, but first we had to find a private shipping service. There was no room for error or delay, as we were flying back to post the next day. After many trips to the shipping office, the last of the boxes was on its way. The shipping cost us more than the clothes, but it was still a bargain.
We were back in Monrovia for a few months before the boxes began to arrive, the final one six weeks after the first. I put in a request to rent an embassy truck and asked one of the deaf adults who knew the orphans to spread the word that we would be delivering clothes to the church the following Saturday. In a country lacking basic electricity and phone service, this was the surest means of communication.
That Saturday, we loaded the truck and drove an hour on dirt roads to the church. The minister and hundreds of children were waiting outside and greeted us warmly. They helped us unload the truck. As we were bringing the cartons into the church, one fell and broke open, and 50 or so pieces of clothing spilled out— jeans, blouses, and T-shirts. The children stood in astonishment—it was as if they were viewing the crown jewels. And in that moment it hit me with full force— regardless of any particular tribulation, my life is opulent when compared with that of many, if not most, of my fellow inhabitants of the globe.
From that day on, we have never thrown away any clothes that could be donated. One action, one person, can make a difference. The greatest gift is when you are, every once in a while, in a position to be that person.
Michael Bricker served in Monrovia from 1993 to 1996. He joined the Foreign Service as an information management officer in 1990. Aside from Monrovia, he has served in Seoul (twice), Warsaw, London, the U.S. Mission to the United Nations in New York City and, most recently, Vienna.
AFGHANISTAN, 2008
“Who’s Madonna?” asked Wadood, an Afghan journalist friend, as we discussed music. Halfway around the globe from Rochester Hills, Michigan, I contemplated whether, and how, I should introduce one of my favorite hometown artists. Should the performer who had provoked the Catholic Church be introduced to this young Muslim man? Could one fully comprehend the hypersexualized American icon in a society where the sexes are segregated and women are covered? I could count on two hands the number of Afghan adult women I had seen without a burqa covering all but a bit of their eyes.
As the State Department representative on the German-led Provincial Reconstruction Team in Kunduz, I’d been living in a very male world for months. My job was to report on political and economic developments in Northeast Afghanistan, advance reconstruction priorities, and represent American foreign policy as well as culture. I was the only American diplomat in Northeast Afghanistan.
When I landed on the pockmarked airstrip the Soviets had paved before their 1989 departure, I was greeted warmly: “Hi. Abdul Mateen here.” A young, bearded Afghan man in jeans and a button-down shirt shook my hand firmly as I stepped down from the plane. Good-humored and armed with an easy smile, Abdul would prove indispensable as my political assistant, interpreter, driver, and jack-of-all-trades over the next year.
Matthew Asada at the Salang Pass that connects North Afghanistan with Kabul province.
I traveled extensively throughout Northeast Afghanistan with a freedom of movement that few other diplomatic personnel in the country enjoyed at the time. By car, plane, helicopter, horse, and foot, Abdul and I toured the desert plains, lush river valleys, and snow-capped mountains— from the American-built Afghan-Tajik bridge to the Soviet-built Salang Pass, and from the historic Greek ruins in Ay Qanoom to the Sufi poet Rumi’s birthplace in Balkh.
As I constantly urged him to speed up so we wouldn’t be late for an appointment, Abdul would instruct me on the flexible Afghan concept of time. As we passed the remains of destroyed concrete electricity poles and depressions in the newly laid asphalt, he recounted the story of the most recent improvised explosive device attack by the insurgents. During these long journeys I heard about the privileged position of educators under the communist regime, the anarchy and corruption of the civil war, and Abdul’s hopes and dreams for his new wife and child under the Karzai government.
Together, we drank hundreds of cups of tea to get the story. Students shared their anxieties about university admissions. Traders bemoaned the lack of electricity and the shortage of rice in the marketplace. Government officials inquired about possible donor funding schemes for their latest project. Mullahs decried the negative influence of Indian soap operas on Afghan society.
This was the expeditionary diplomacy of which young diplomats dream: outside the embassy, among the people. I donned the local dress—a long pajama shirt with baggy drawstring pants—sported a tightly trimmed beard, and practiced my rudimentary Dari-language skills with everyone I met. I roamed the city bazaars, occasionally stopping for a glass of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice or hand-churned ice cream available only in rose-water flavor.
One evening in Kunduz, while my not-so-pious Afghan hosts shared a forbidden bottle of vodka (alcohol is prohibited in the country and the overwhelming majority of Afghans do observe this), we discussed the Afghan and Tajik governments’ plans to open for traffic the long-awaited $49 million bridge between the two countries—built and funded by the United States. The next morning, Abdul and I raced to the bridge to join in the inauguration of what could become the backbone of a new Central Asian Silk Road. Our Afghan hosts slaughtered two goats and let the blood spill onto the new bridge. The Tajiks joined us on the Afghan side for a magnificent feast of lamb and rice—flavored with raisins, carrots, and pistachios—and ice-cold Pepsi imported from Pakistan.
As the closest U.S. official to the new bridge, I worked with Afghan and Tajik officials to maximize its usefulness—expanding open hours, encouraging pedestrian traffic, and facilitating working-level talks on the border crossing. Before the bridge, 30 trucks a day had been ferried across the river from Afghanistan to Tajikistan. Soon after it opened, more than 200 trucks were crossing each day, and the one-day record stood at 600.
Entrepreneurs responded to the new bridge and built gas stations, restaurants, and hotels at the border and in the provincial capital to accommodate the dramatic increase in trade. Amid the ruins of the dilapidated cotton warehouses and the remnants of Soviet military facilities, Afghans were building a new, commercially viable border crossing point that would be the region’s economic bridge to the future.
The first international agricultural fair in Kunduz in June 2008 was another highlight of the year, both for the region and for me personally. I had suggested the idea to colleagues the previous December on a trip to Kabul. The U.S. Agency for International Development supported the Ministry of Agriculture in organizing the three-day event, which brought together 150 exhibitors—50 of whom had crossed the new bridge from Tajikistan to be there, several for the first time. More than 23,000 people attended the event, which passed without a single security incident. The fair was the talk of the town and the Afghan intelligence service, police, army, and fair security proved themselves up to the job.
The people I met in Northeast Afghanistan expressed appreciation for international assistance, optimism about the future, and curiosity about the United States. I worked to maximize opportunities for boys and girls to participate in high school exchange programs and laid the foundation for a cultural center in the city to encourage this interest in learning more about the United States.
I found many friends in Kunduz and throughout the region. Before my departure, Wadood gave me two CDs. “Here, these are for you. I thought we could trade—my favorite Afghan music for your favorite American music.”
For a moment, I considered giving him my copy of Madonna’s “Immaculate Collection.” But while music is universal, and Northeast Afghanistan had made a lot of progress during the past year, I thought better of it. The Material Girl would have to wait for her unveiling.
Matthew Asada served as the State Department representative on the German-led Kunduz Provincial Reconstruction Team from 2007 to 2008. He joined the Foreign Service as a political officer in 2003. His first assignment was to Lahore, Pakistan, as a management officer. He then went on to Munich, Germany; Kunduz, Afghanistan; and then Kolkata, India. His most recent assignment was as a special assistant to the special representative for Afghanistan and Pakistan in Washington, D.C.
YEMEN, 2008
It was September 17, 2008. I was only three weeks into my first Foreign Service tour, as a vice consul at Embassy Sana’a, and my stress level was high. Our consular caseload is complex, and I was still struggling to get my feet on the ground. However, it was the end of the week and I was in the best mood I had been in since arriving in Yemen. Today, I thought, would be different.
Years of false alarms had numbed me to fire drills. So when the high-low alarm went off in the embassy, I kept working. When it didn’t stop, I turned to a colleague to ask what the noise was. Probably a drill. I looked around the room. Where was everyone? Then I heard the explosion.
The whole room shook and dust started to fall from the ceiling. My colleagues were all already under their desks. “Get down!” someone yelled. I scrambled to the floor, trying to get a grip on the situation. Before I could figure out how to fit myself into the small box of space between a file cabinet and my computer, the second explosion hit. “This is not a drill,” wailed the overhead. No kidding! “Duck and cover. There have been explosions outside the embassy.” I began to wonder if the half-inch of wood above my head would give me any protection. The metal file cabinets next to me were more comforting.
We were under our desks for more than an hour. We counted six explosions. Apparently there was gunfire, too, but we couldn’t hear it through the bulletproof visa windows. Aside from a firefight raging outside, it was uncomfortably quiet. Where were the sirens? Why couldn’t we hear anyone mobilizing? What was happening? Everyone stayed calm. We cracked jokes to ease the silence. Humor means you’re still alive. Welcome to Yemen.
In the intervals between explosions, I tried to find the most comfortable duck-and-cover position and prayed. Then I checked in on some colleagues who were out of the office, sent a couple texts home to my loved ones just in case I didn’t make it, and waited. Dying under a desk was not high on my list of ways to go. I put on the sneakers I had packed for the gym. If ever there was a time I might need that extra half step, it was now.
Around 11 a.m. we were ushered into a “safe room” by security personnel. For those who had been at the embassy for the March attack six months earlier, the entire procedure appeared routine. But this time it was worse: whatever was happening was bigger than mortars. I was in shock. I knew enough to get some water, but just sat dazed in the corner for about 20 minutes, not knowing what to do. When one of the nurses came over and started making small talk, I began to snap out of it.
Eventually all the people in the consular waiting room were brought to the interior holding area. No windows separated us now. The men and women headed to opposite sides of the room and waited patiently with the rest of us. Along with their babies. So many babies. Our local staff did a phenomenal job attending to the crowd. Everyone was remarkably calm. The children seemed blissfully ignorant. I watched a five-year-old take care of his little brother: they ate crackers, made a mess with M&Ms, and played. Periodically, the ambassador came in to update us; and as we watched through the doorway, a slew of military personnel mobilized with a surprising amount of battle gear.
In the meantime, I got hold of myself and realized I could be more useful standing up. I escorted people to the bathrooms and played secretary for our press spokesman, who was answering nonstop calls from the international media. I was impressed watching the section heads mobilize to manage the situation and get messages out. Equally impressive were the embassy medical staff, looking after our wounded guards (one of whom died before he could receive full medical attention). These were experienced diplomats in action.
Later in the day, we were evacuated from the embassy with a full military escort. The trip was harrowing, and I decided not to go home alone. A few of us went to a friend’s house, recounted stories, and recovered. There, we sat in disbelief watching the same news stories over and over. Six men dressed as police officers had tried to blast into the embassy compound with two vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices and suicide vests. When they failed to breach the perimeter, they began firing their assault rifles and eventually detonated the explosives originally intended for all of us inside. As we watched these reports, my colleague’s visiting mother whipped up an iftar meal for us (the meal to break the fast each day of Ramadan)—my first.
For a second, under the desk, I had thought, Why should I issue one more visa? But then I remembered all the people in the waiting room, huddled under cover too. I thought about our local staff, who had been working hard through Ramadan without a bite to eat or drink. I thought about the local guards out front, who check for bombs every day and rely on the protection of soldiers. I thought about the soldiers. I couldn’t blame Yemen, and I couldn’t hate these people. This attack was bad for all of us, Americans and Yemenis. The only difference was that now, because of this attack, I would have a choice—to stay or go home as part of the evacuation that would be sure to follow.
I awoke the next day, back in my bed. I read the news of the attack, claimed by al-Qaida in the Arabian Peninsula, for the umpteenth time. And it was clear— for better or worse, I wasn’t going anywhere. This was the job I had fought for, and these are the places we need diplomats. No one ever said it was going to be easy.
David Turnbull served as a consular officer in Sana’a from 2008 to 2010. He joined the Foreign Service as a political officer in 2008 following a yearlong internship with the State Department. Sana’a was his first posting, and from there he went on to a position as the staff assistant to the U.S. Permanent Representative to NATO in Brussels, Belgium.
MACEDONIA, 1999
One summer midnight in the Balkans, an American ambassador walked into a refugee camp to try to quell a riot and save the lives of Roma (gypsy) refugees under attack. He succeeded, and went home to bed. It wasn’t diplomacy around big tables in grand rooms. The U.S. embassy had no responsibility to intervene, and few who were not there ever heard about it. But the actions of Ambassador Christopher Hill highlight the power of the individual Foreign Service officer’s moral and physical courage.
At about 11 p.m. on June 5, 1999, my cell phone rang at home. It was Ed Joseph, an American working for Catholic Relief Services as a refugee camp manager at Stenkovac Camp, a few miles north of Skopje, the capital of the small, ethnically tense Balkan nation of Macedonia. Stenkovac housed tens of thousands of refugees from Kosovo, mostly ethnic Albanians. There was a riot going on, Ed told me, and it looked like people were going to get killed. A rumor had run through the camp that some Roma residents were Serb collaborators who had participated in a massacre of ethnic Albanians in Kosovo weeks earlier. A mob had formed in the camp to go after the two accused Roma families. The camp managers had just enough time to get to the scene, pull the Roma away, and get them inside the small building they used as an office. Two of the men had been very badly beaten and were only semi-conscious.
The building was surrounded by masses of angry people, pounding on the doors and barred windows trying to get at the Roma. If the mob got in, it was unlikely any of the Roma, including the children, would stand a chance. Ed was on the edge of the crowd by the front gate with other camp administrators, but their efforts to break up the crowd were not working. He did not know how long it would be before the mob would be able to smash its way into the building.
Ed knew that sending Macedonian police into the camp would only inflame the situation. We quickly ran through some ideas—NATO troops, Western European police officers from a training mission, a couple of others—but none had any prospect of working in time, if ever. The one trump card we could think of was the immense respect of the Kosovar Albanians for the United States, and for our ambassador in Skopje, Chris Hill, admired for his efforts to prevent the Kosovo conflict. Maybe he could calm the mob. It was a long shot, and we could not rule out the grim possibility that in the confusion Hill himself could be attacked or trampled. We could think of no other options, so I called Ambassador Hill.
Hill listened to my explanation of what was going on and our vague idea for his intervention, then simply said, “Yes, I want to get out there right away.” Minutes later, Deputy Chief of Mission Paul Jones, Refugee Coordinator Ted Morse, Ambassador Hill, and I were standing at the gate to the camp, looking at the milling mass of people surrounding the building that held the Roma. We were met by Ed, an interpreter, and a gaggle of worried but seemingly powerless camp elders. As I listened to the din of noise from the unseen center of the crowd, the plan we’d concocted on the drive out began to seem a bit light.
We had decided to start with the interpreter using a bullhorn to announce that Ambassador Hill was coming into the camp to address the residents. The people closest to us would be able to hear it, and we’d wait for their reaction. Hill would then enter the camp flanked by Ted and Paul, holding lights. I would troop along with both arms overhead, displaying a towel-sized American flag I’d grabbed on the way out of my house. Relying on the flag and Hill’s face, we hoped to pass far enough into the crowd for him to be able to make a speech at a spot where he could be seen and heard by as many people as possible. If he was able to calm things down, I’d try to get vehicles up to the building and we’d load the families and get out as fast as we could. There was no Plan B. Ambassador Hill looked around, said he was as ready as he was going to get, and headed for the gate.
Initially, our biggest problem was visibility, but the people on the edge of the crowd quickly turned to face us, recognized Ambassador Hill, and let us pass. With each step farther into the crowd, though, it got hotter, denser, and darker. Paul Jones grabbed a plastic crate for a podium as we pushed on. Around us the crowd swirled but people’s attention increasingly turned to us. When we were about midway to the building, Hill stood on the crate while the interpreter continued announcing, “Ambassador Hill is here!” People yelled at each other in Albanian, “The Americans! Ambassador Hill!” Hill raised his arms for quiet and people began to shout, “Quiet! Everyone sit down!” Astoundingly, hundreds of men all around us began to sit on the ground so everyone could see and hear the ambassador.
Hill started to speak, and bit by bit, word by word, proceeded to transform the mob into an audience. He announced that NATO had just presented Milosevic with its non-negotiable plan to enter Kosovo. He told them how close Milosevic was to giving in, how close they were to being able to go back home. He said he knew they had suffered grievously and knew they thought the people in the building were guilty of atrocities, but they would bring no honor to themselves by taking matters into their own hands. “You know me,” he said. “Give me the chance to take custody of these people and determine their guilt or innocence. I will do right by you. We have been through too much together to shame ourselves by making a horrible mistake.” People listened, whispering among themselves. The whole crowd was now quiet, a mass of half-seen faces disappearing off into the darkness all around us.
As Hill spoke, I moved back toward the gate, using my awkward Albanian to ask people to clear a way for “the cars Ambassador Hill wants.” This did not result in anyone actually moving—I was no Hill!—but at least they knew that vehicles were going to head that way. Two vans were waiting, and we inched them through the crowd and up to the building. The staff inside quickly loaded the battered Roma into the vans as hundreds of still surly but now quiet men stood packed against the building, glaring. We drove out fast. I jumped out at the gate and the vans tore off for a hospital. Ambassador Hill was thanking the crowd and urging everyone to return to their tents. He was given a loud ovation and, amazingly, people started to drift off into the darkness. It was over.
Within a few days we confirmed from records that these particular Roma had all been in Macedonia during the time they were accused of having committed war crimes in Kosovo. Tension, rumor, and mass hysteria had created the mob that had come so close to killing them. Within weeks, Stenkovac Camp was virtually empty, its former residents back in Kosovo trying to pick up the pieces of their lives. The beaten men recovered, and those families, too, went their own ways.
We never talked much about that night again—each day at Embassy Skopje brought too many new problems and issues connected with the Kosovo crisis. But I’ve come to realize that night was characteristic of much of our work in the Foreign Service: We confront so many unknowns, we have so little time, and— on scales large and small—the consequences of our actions and inactions can be so extraordinarily profound.
Charles A. Stonecipher was the political officer in Skopje from 1998 to 2001. He joined the Foreign Service in 1989. Other postings have included Bissau, Guinea-Bissau; Calgary, Canada; Washington, D.C.; Tirana, Albania; Geneva, Switzerland; and Gaborone, Botswana. His most recent assignment was to the State Department’s Bureau of Political-Military Affairs in Washington, D.C.
GUINEA, 2007
For our first Foreign Service assignment, my husband and I were posted to Conakry, Guinea—one of the most corrupt, poverty-stricken, and poorly governed countries in the world. I was an office management specialist in the front office (where the ambassador and deputy chief of mission work), and my husband was an information management specialist. Within months of our arrival, civil disturbances erupted. The labor unions had called for a general strike over a series of demands, including new ministers for the government, and the country’s civilian population was largely hunkered down, hoping for a peaceful resolution but preparing for the worst. The military dictator/president, Lasana Conte, had been in power since 1984.
Earlier strikes had elicited lukewarm concessions from the government, easily forgotten once the strikes ended. This time around, the organizers were hoping for a more permanent resolution, and the people of the country were desperate for any improvement. The idea was to shut the city down. Makeshift barricades materialized in the streets to halt traffic— piles of rocks, oil barrels with fires in them, whatever scraps were available. Occasionally, locals heading to work were attacked with rocks or sticks by strikers. For their own protection, most of our locally hired staff members were told to stay home.
Gas lines in Conakry during the strikes.
As the strike lingered on, random violence began occurring, and we grew more worried. Some American citizens working for nongovernmental organizations searched for ways to leave the country safely. One friend’s vehicle was attacked and the windshield broken by a big rock while en route to the airport. One of our officers received frantic calls from civil society leaders whose offices were being trashed by members of the army. And I was fielding calls from American missionaries who feared for their safety—sometimes I could hear gunshots in the background.
When the airport was officially shut down, it caused a panic in the expatriate and elite communities. We were taking calls from other embassies asking whether the United States was planning an evacuation. Americans were not being targeted, but you could easily find yourself in harm’s way in a country on the verge of implosion.
Evacuations are delicate matters, however. Host country officials may take offense that their country is deemed unsafe, and other embassies may follow with their own evacuations. Also, evacuations are exceedingly expensive. Despite the complications, our embassy began quietly planning for a possible evacuation of family members and other American citizens. This involved much discussion among all sections of the embassy, calls to the State Department, talks with the Defense Department, and myriad other considerations.
The crisis peaked when a mass rally of Guineans headed to the downtown area to protest the high price of rice, horrible living standard, and the current regime. In response, in an effort to disperse the crowds, the military shot and killed many of the protesters, and the city was filled with fear. Rumors of more arrests and murders, conspiracies with neighboring countries, tribal alliances, and fighting ran rampant. It was terrifying.
The next day, the RSO arranged for all of us to be picked up by embassy vehicles and travel together to and from work. Making our way to the office that first morning after the rioting was an eerie experience. The streets were littered with rocks and small burning fires, but utterly deserted. The roving bands of street dogs were the only signs of life. At the embassy, we received word that the evacuation would take place the following day, triggering a flurry of activity to notify family members and the rest of the American community and organize safe passage to the airport.
Rosemary Motisi and her husband, Dan Malone, with a vegetable seller at a Conakry street market.
We spent that night in the embassy—my husband and I in the health unit, and everyone else scattered throughout the various offices—on mattresses that were on hand just in case this sort of event occurred. I was the officer on duty, so the Marine passed me a late-night call from a U.S. representative’s office. He was calling about a constituent in Conakry who was refusing to be evacuated unless his co-worker (not an American citizen) was also evacuated. The congressional staffer needed to make sure the constituent got out safely and was calling to bring pressure to bear on the matter. I knocked on the door of the front office where my boss, the deputy chief of mission, was still awake, and transferred the call to him.
The next day, American family members, nongovernmental organization staff, and missionaries—as well as that constituent of concern and his colleague—flew out on a military plane. My husband and I were both designated “essential personnel,” so we did not get on the plane. Those of us who remained behind held our breath for several days. Finally, with international pressure mounting and reports of the killing of unarmed civilians being broadcast worldwide, the government blinked and agreed to many of the demands. Unfortunately, the president succeeded in minimizing the influence of the new government, and the people of Guinea saw no significant improvements.
I have often thought since then that “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” From 2007 through 2010, Guinea saw the death of one dictator, a nearly-successful assassination attempt on the next one, and a surge in ethnic-based violence. But then, in late 2010, the first democratic presidential election since independence was held, and reports were cautiously optimistic. All of us who have lived there and found so much to love in Guinea—especially in her people—are hoping for the best!
Rosemary Motisi joined the Foreign Service in 2005 as an office management specialist. Her first posting was to Embassy Conakry from 2005 to 2007; then Oslo, Norway; and Geneva, Switzerland. Her earlier career included eight years as the judicial assistant to a Colorado State Supreme Court justice and more than a decade in the private sector. Rosemary is married to Dan Malone, an information management specialist. They have two young-adult children living in their hometown of Wheat Ridge, Colorado.
BANGLADESH, 2007
On November 15, 2007, Cyclone Sidr slammed into southwestern Bangladesh, killing thousands and leaving millions homeless. Bangladesh is an impoverished Muslim-majority nation that borders India. The fragile interim government in Dhaka had limited capacity to deliver water, food, and shelter to people devastated by the natural disaster, so the U.S. government stepped in to help.
The United States staged aerial relief efforts from an airfield in Barisal, a small city in southern Bangladesh, to deliver food and other supplies to remote villages further south. The local military and U.S. Marines jointly set up an operations center to stage the drop-off and pick-up of relief supplies. Colleagues from USAID Bangladesh and I, representing the embassy’s political/economic section, established a liaison office at this forward operating base to coordinate military and civilian relief activities.
Thanks to combined U.S.-Bangladeshi efforts, we delivered literally tons of relief materials to the cyclone victims. As relief supplies from around the world poured into Dhaka, C-130 cargo planes from the U.S. Marine Corps, the U.S. Air Force, and the Bangladesh Air Force ferried the supplies down to Barisal. The USS Kearsarge and the USS Tarawa, anchored off the coast in the Bay of Bengal, sent U.S. Navy and Marine helicopters to pick up the food, blankets, and household items dropped off by the C-130s and deliver them to remote areas that could not be reached by road.
Meanwhile, my USAID colleagues fanned out from Barisal to assess the damage. Food, health, and shelter specialists visited villages and outlying areas to evaluate what people needed immediately and in the long run. I met with government officials to brief them on our work, helped obtain supplies for the operations center, coordinated communications with the command center in Dhaka, and escorted visitors and media, highlighting U.S.-Bangladesh cooperation during the crisis.
Despite the tragedy, it was inspiring to see U.S. diplomacy, development, and defense (the “three Ds”) coming together to help a country in need. One afternoon stands out in my mind. We had four U.S. CH-46 helicopters on the apron of the airfield. Privates from the Bangladesh Army, as well as U.S. Marines, were running with bags of clothing and boxes of wheat, rice, and sugar, loading the supplies into the helicopters. At the same time, a U.S. C-130 was on the runway, and our U.S. ground crew was offloading more boxes of food with a forklift. And I was arranging the delivery of a water purification unit donated by USAID to a nongovernmental organization working in the region. It was windy, noisy, chaotic—and exhilarating.
U.S. and Bangladeshi servicemen load relief supplies onto a U.S. Marine helicopter.
A little more than a year later, in January 2008, the “three Ds” came back
to Barisal, this time to spread good news rather than respond to bad. Led by our ambassador, we hosted “America Week in Barisal,” highlighting all the ways the U.S. government works to help Bangladesh. USAID’s NGO partners showed off their projects in the region—everything from solar energy and tuberculosis prevention to fish cultivation and literacy programs. U.S. military representatives organized a cricket tournament, involving local school children and police, to help build police-community relations.
My colleagues and I met with local officials and business representatives to learn about the political and economic challenges facing one of the poorest regions of Bangladesh. We promoted U.S. business by introducing American products to the local market, and we sponsored concerts of American jazz and a biographic film about President Barack Obama. Most rewarding of all, however, was seeing the Barisal region largely recovered from the cyclone and able to welcome us back.
Heather Roach Variava was deputy chief of the political/economic section of Embassy Dhaka, Bangladesh from 2007 to 2011. She joined the Foreign Service in 1996and has also served in India, Mauritius, Vietnam, and Washington, D.C. She and her husband have two sons.
IRAQ, 2008
The sun’s yellow-white heat burns, roasts, and blisters relentlessly all organisms that struggle under its blasting inferno. Out in the sand-swept plains surrounding the compound where I live, the gas flares in the desert oilfields erupt like a Vesuvius tantrum on the sun-baked, lonesome terrain. In temperatures that soar over 120 degrees, I feel my lungs screaming for relief as I inhale particles of dust, sand, and residue emanating from the sprawling oil fields of this ravaged, war-torn land. My clothes are worn-out and my skin is rubbed raw with grit and dirt. Hell hath no fury like an August day in Kirkuk.
A Foreign Service officer with the U.S. Agency for International Development for 14 years, I am serving as the USAID representative on the Kirkuk Provincial Reconstruction Team. The PRT sits in a compound located on a large U.S. military base with thousands of troops from various Army units and fancy, high-tech military machinery. We are surrounded by a jungle of imposing concrete T-walls (blast walls), sandbags, and bunkers.
I am sun- , heat-, and wind-burned, and I am exhausted. But, ironically, I have never felt more personally and professionally exhilarated than I do here, serving on a PRT in a theater of war. USAID/Iraq implements humanitarian and development assistance programs throughout war-ravaged areas of the country. In Kirkuk, USAID has implemented hundreds of projects assisting hundreds of thousands of people. My job is to ensure that the programs and projects are managed and implemented efficiently and that the Iraqi people gain access to these programs and services as quickly as possible.
When I visit projects in our area of operations, I don 40 pounds of protective body armor and a Kevlar helmet, and travel in heavy armored military vehicles, called MRAPs because they are “Mine Resistant Ambush Protected.” Accompanied by a contingent of courageous U.S. soldiers for protection, I meet with local Iraqis to discuss the progress of various projects that address water and hygiene issues, education, health, microfinance, agribusiness, economic development, youth, conflict mitigation, and training and capacity-building for local district and subdistrict government councils, as well as nongovernmental and civil society sectors. In partnership with expatriate and local Iraqi professionals, these programs help restore essential services and employ thousands of people.
On any given day, I sit in a poorly furnished and sparsely decorated room of a heavily fortified government building in downtown Kirkuk, with security surrounding all corridors and entrances inside the building. PRT, Iraqi, and U.S. military colleagues and I talk over steaming, sugary tea. We discuss how best to implement our programs: a rapid-response project to create a shelter for battered women; a new well for a community; a law library for young lawyers starting out in their practices. We spend hours discussing how best to equip a burn unit in a hospital or a mobile trauma team to assist patients and victims of war-related casualties. During these meetings, we laugh, we sometimes tear up, and we recognize the strengths and hopes we all bring to the table in our shared aim to help the Iraqi people who are often the innocent victims of this tragic war.
On my way to one local council meeting in a high-risk security area of the province, I was whisked by foot through “Sniper Alley.” Zigzagging quickly through the alley under the protection of Army infantry soldiers was a rather surreal G.I.-Joe experience. But the dangers are real and the soldiers’ protection allows me to do my job as safely as possible every time I go “outside the wire.”
Although the repercussions of war will be felt for many years to come, I wholeheartedly believe that our collective work, commitment, and passion for excellence in Iraq will establish the foundations for a strong democracy and a capable sovereign state.
Jeffrey Ashley served as the USAID representative in Kirkuk from 2008 to 2009. From there, he went on to an assignment as USAID mission director in Sana’a, Yemen. He joined USAID as a Foreign Service officer in 1995 and has also served in Indonesia, Angola, Cambodia, and Tanzania, as well as Washington, D.C.
EGYPT, 2005
On July 23, 2005, I was a first-tour officer about halfway through my two-year consular assignment at Embassy Cairo. In the wee hours of the night I received a phone call from the consul general summoning me to the embassy. There I learned that three coordinated terrorist bombings had occurred in a resort town in the Sinai between 1:15 and 1:20 a.m. that morning. After attending an emergency meeting with the ambassador and other section heads, the consul general asked me to go to the scene to determine if any of the casualties were American citizens and, if so, to render all necessary consular assistance. I rushed home, packed a small bag, and well before dawn was travelling across the Sinai in a motor pool vehicle heading for Sharm el-Sheikh.
When I arrived six hours later, I connected with colleagues from the regional security office and the legal attache’s office who had also been sent to investigate the bombings and liaise with Egyptian officials. There were no initial reports of American casualties, although the son of one of our Egyptian colleagues, a boy named Ahmed*, was reported missing. That first day, we visited the bomb sites, hospitals, and morgue looking for him.
I had never before been in a morgue. Thanks to the other, more experienced officers, we came prepared with masks, gloves, and moist towelettes—items that turned out to be absolutely necessary. I entered with trepidation, and while it was an extremely unpleasant experience, I found I was able to remain calm and focused as I looked at the bodies of the victims and noted their physical characteristics and clothing—in case any Americans were reported missing after the fact.
After working through the day without a break, my embassy colleagues and I gathered for dinner that evening, exhausted. There had been no sign of Ahmed among the casualties. Halfway through dinner, my cell phone rang. It was the consul general, telling me a hotel manager had called to report that two guests, an American girl and her British boyfriend, were missing. We went to the hotel immediately to talk to the manager and inspect their room.
The couple had left the hotel a few hours before the attacks and hadn’t been seen since. Based on the items in their room—passports, money, and other valuables—they had intended to return. They had left behind their digital camera, and by reviewing their photos on the memory card, we were able to learn a great deal more about their physical characteristics than we could have from their passport photos alone. For example, Sarah*, the American, had several distinctive tattoos on her arms and back.
The other officers returned to Cairo the next day, leaving me with an embassy local employee security investigator and driver. I spent that day visiting hospitals and police stations, looking for Sarah and Ahmed. During these rounds, I heard that some remains had been taken to the morgue in El Tur, a small town about an hour away. I went there that afternoon and spoke to the director. We began looking through the freezer units.
One of them contained the remains of a man in his twenties—I recognized him immediately as the American woman’s British boyfriend. The unit next to his held a woman, still beautiful in death, and I knew straight away who it was. From her face and her tattoos, I was sure I had found Sarah. I called the consul general to let him know, so her parents could be notified. I also called the British consular official onsite in Sharm el-Sheikh, saying I believed at least one British citizen was in the El Tur morgue.
The following day, I made a formal identification of the American woman’s body and coordinated with my colleagues in Cairo to arrange for her remains to be transported there and then repatriated to the U.S., according to her parents’ wishes. I also went back to her hotel room to pack up her belongings, which I brought with me when I returned to Cairo on July 26 and then forwarded to her parents. Ahmed’s body was never found—it is assumed that he perished in the attacks, but was among the victims who were unidentifiable.
During those extraordinary four days, I came to understand the immense responsibility placed on consular officers in times of crisis. As emotionally wrenching as it was, I found the work incredibly meaningful. I am a career public diplomacy officer, but my experience in Egypt led me to seriously consider changing to the consular track. I deeply respect the vital work performed by consular officers every day of the week throughout the world.
*The names have been changed out of respect for privacy.
Jacqueline Deley served as a consular officer at Embassy Cairo from 2004 to 2006. She joined the Foreign Service in 2004as a public diplomacy officer. In addition to Cairo, she has served in Jerusalem, Baghdad, and most recently, as deputy public affairs officer at Embassy Brussels. Before joining the Foreign Service, Jacqueline served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Morocco (where she met her husband, fellow Volunteer Jeffrey Hobbs), and also taught English in both Hong Kong and Paris.
AUSTRIA, 2005
Matt Boland gives a speech on Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty.
In July 2005, shortly after the election of hardline Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, I arrived at the U.S. Mission to International Organizations in Vienna (UNVIE) as a brand-new Foreign Service officer and was promptly confronted with one of the greatest foreign policy challenges facing the United States: Iran’s nuclear ambitions. The International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) is one of the most important organizations in UNVIE’s portfolio, and strengthening international efforts to prevent the spread of nuclear weapons is a priority.
Just two weeks after U.S. Ambassador Gregory Schulte arrived in Vienna as head of UNVIE, Iran unexpectedly rejected a European proposal to resolve the nuclear issue. Tehran then cut the IAEA seals at its nuclear facility and began feeding 37 tons of yellowcake uranium into the process line of the Isfahan Uranium Conversion Facility. By breaking the seals, Tehran also broke the Paris Agreement, a pact with Europe committing Iran to suspend its nuclear activities while negotiations were ongoing. Countries around the world were shocked. Tensions skyrocketed within the IAEA. Global media focused on this saga, and it was now my job—as the new press spokesman and public affairs officer for UNVIE—to manage public diplomacy for the mission.
UNVIE offices are on the top floor of a skyscraper overlooking Vienna, one of Europe’s most beautiful cities, nestled between the Danube River and the majestic green Alps. “Are you the new public affairs officer?” Ambassador Schulte asked when we ran into each other in the lobby on my first day on the job.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Well,” he said with a smile as he got into the elevator, “I’m Ambassador Schulte, and I’m going to make you the busiest person in the mission!”
This energetic ambassador was intent on engaging in intense public diplomacy, and I was about to be charged with quickly launching a global campaign to help counter the threat posed by Iran’s nuclear program.
Iran had signed the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty in 1968, promising to put any nuclear program under IAEA safeguards—safeguards to assure the world that no nuclear material is being diverted for weapons. By 2005, IAEA reports indicated that Tehran had a hidden nuclear program and was refusing to cooperate with IAEA inspectors. The White House launched a major push to isolate Iran diplomatically and apply U.N. sanctions if Tehran refused to give up its efforts to develop its own nuclear technology. In June the United States had pressed its case on the fringes of the United Nations’ General Assembly in New York, where 150 world leaders gathered to mark the 60th anniversary of the U.N.
Ambassador Schulte organized a flurry of meetings with groups of ambassadors who represent their countries on the IAEA Board of Governors. There he outlined U.S. views on the threat posed by Iran and asked each ambassador to support reporting Iran to the Security Council. I was thrilled to be invited to these meetings, which felt historic.
From the outset, however, we faced a huge challenge: U.S. credibility had been shattered when no weapons of mass destruction were found in Iraq. International public opinion was divided. “The potential for diplomatic solutions to all these questions is far from exhausted,” Russia’s ambassador said. India’s ambassador made the same point. While the United States and some European countries believed Tehran was intent on developing nuclear weapons, many other countries remained sympathetic to its claim that it was merely trying to pursue a peaceful nuclear energy program.
But with Iran proceeding with enrichment—a critical step toward developing nuclear weapons—we faced a ticking clock. An emergency IAEA Board meeting was called, and Ambassador Schulte asked me to launch an active and global public diplomacy campaign focused on uniting the international community around reporting Iran to the Security Council. He expected several events each week aimed at Europe and pivotal countries on the IAEA Board: Russia, China, India, South Africa, Brazil, Colombia, Japan, and Egypt. With no prior experience, no staff and no time to waste, I felt like I was building an airplane while it was taking off.
I teamed up with Foreign Service officers in 16 other countries to launch a blizzard of events, including speeches by Ambassador Schulte, digital video conferences, press events, speaker programs, and travel by the ambassador to critical countries on the IAEA Board. Our message was clear: “Nuclear proliferation is a threat to all countries, and global threats require a global response. Iran must suspend its nuclear activities and return to the negotiating table or get reported to the Security Council.”
In what one newspaper called satellite diplomacy, we set up digital video conferences between Ambassador Schulte and opinion leaders in 12 key countries. We collaborated with U.S. embassies to organize visits by the ambassador to Egypt, South Africa, Italy, the United Kingdom, Belgium, and Germany. Each visit included a dinner with a select group of nuclear experts, diplomats, and members of parliament; an on-the-record lecture at a prestigious venue; roundtable discussions with think-tanks; and interviews with major media outlets.
Thanks to the intensive diplomatic push from the White House and the State Department in Washington, combined with outstanding support from our embassies around the world, this public diplomacy campaign achieved several significant results.
On February 4, 2006, a majority of the IAEA Board, including the critical swing-vote countries (China, Russia, India, Brazil, and Egypt), voted to report Iran to the U.N. Security Council. The campaign generated thousands of news stories conveying why the United States and many in the international community believe that Iran’s nuclear program poses a grave threat to international peace and security. And the campaign allowed us to personally engage, inform, and influence hundreds of diplomats, opinion leaders, and foreign citizens who attended our events. Finally, it enabled us to move beyond monologues and foster dialogues with people around the world to instill a sense of common interests, common values, and a shared commitment to solving global challenges.
Matt Boland served as a public affairs officer in Vienna from 2005 to 2007, his first Foreign Service assignment. He joined the Foreign Service in 2005 after 10 years in marketing. Following his Vienna tour, he was assigned to the State Department in Washington, D. C., as a public diplomacy desk officer for Western Europe. He and his wife, Emily, have three children.
KOSOVO, 2008
It was a chilly Sunday morning, and all was quiet as usual on Dragodan Hill, our residential perch above Pristina. But this Sunday—February 17, 2008—had a different feel: Pristina was about to become the world’s newest capital city.
I did a quick morning workout at the compound of the “U.S. Office,” soon to be upgraded to an embassy. I showered, pulled on some winter togs, and prepared to head downtown. Although the regional security officer had encouraged official Americans to steer clear of the street festivities, I wasn’t going to miss them for anything. How many times in a career do you get the opportunity to witness the birth of a new nation?
International critics of Kosovo’s secession from Serbia complained that independence was “rushed.” But the speed of events is relative to where you are sitting as they proceed. For the Kosovars (ethnic Albanians who make up about 90 percent of Kosovo’s population), nine years of U.N. administration could not end soon enough. For me, arriving as negotiations in the Security Council over the future of Kosovo were coming apart, the first few months of my tour were similarly marked by uncertainty and frustration.
I had been seconded from the State Department to the International Civilian Office Preparation Team (ICO-PT) to head its community affairs unit (European Union parlance for “minority rights”). The ICO-PT was established by the E.U. and other concerned nations to monitor implementation of a comprehensive proposal for the future of Kosovo drafted by U.N. Special Envoy and former Finnish President Marti Ahtisaari.
Christopher Midura in Kosovo.
Much of the “Ahtisaari Plan” was focused on protection of the rights of minority communities in an independent Kosovo. But Kosovo Serbs, seeing themselves as part of the majority within Serbia proper, wanted no part of it. Admonished by the Serbian government to avoid any action that might make Kosovo independence more likely, few Kosovo Serbs would speak with us. Those who did anticipated violence and an exodus of Serbs once the Albanians took power. The one bright spot in this bleak scenario: while Serbian contacts were predicting that other Serbs would leave an independent Kosovo, few flatly stated they themselves would leave (and as it turned out, few did).
Cooped up in hot, dusty converted apartments in a shabby corner of Pristina, my ICO-PT colleagues and I spent most of the summer of 2007 drafting detailed plans for the day—the arrival of which was by no means assured—that the Ahtisaari Plan would form the constitutional basis for an independent Kosovo. We could then move to our shining new headquarters on Dragodan Hill and finally drop “Preparation Team” from our official name.
And so, on February 17, I took my usual route to central Pristina, down 200 stairs from Dragodan, and along the thoroughfare alternately known as “Beach Street” for its many outdoor cafés and bars, or “Bird (Crap) Street” for the thousands of crows that pack its curbside trees. It was lined with honking cars, most decorated with Albanian and American flags, some with photos of U.S. Presidents Bill Clinton and George W. Bush, or Gen. Wesley Clark, who led the NATO bombing campaign that chased Serbian forces from Kosovo in 1999.
I joined the crowd gathered outside the parliament for the formal announcement of independence, and then walked over to Mother Teresa Street, which was packed with revelers. There I found musicians in traditional Albanian dress, college students cheering, young boys flinging firecrackers in all directions, a giant cake shaped like a map of Kosovo, and flags fluttering everywhere. The two-headed Albanian eagle and our stars and stripes were ubiquitous; but also waving above the crowd were flags of the E.U., U.K., Germany, France, and Italy. I was also surprised to see T-shirts and printed copies of the new Kosovo national flag, the design of which had been announced only a few days earlier.
That evening, we watched fireworks from the apartment of the deputy head of the ICO, a fellow officer on detail from State. His apartment was one of the highest points in Dragodan, and its balcony offered a panoramic view. After the show, I dashed off a quick e-mail to my wife back in Washington: “Fireworks were spectacular, but lines of tracer bullets in the sky were definitely unsettling.”
Kosovo flags fly on independence day, 2008.
After independence, with the appointment of the International Civilian Representative, the pace of our work in the community affairs unit increased markedly. Attempted outreach to Serb communities continued to meet with resistance, slowing implementation of decentralization measures intended to give more local autonomy to minorities. But the participation of a Serb coalition in the Kosovo government provided us with a group of official interlocutors and grounds for hope.
Working with the newly renamed U.S. embassy in Pristina, we helped ensure that Kosovo’s new constitution met Ahtisaari Plan requirements for protecting minority rights. We worked with government ministries and representatives of minority groups and international organizations to draft basic laws on local administration, education, and health.
As I prepared to depart in May 2008, my friends held a farewell dinner for me at a Serbian family-run restaurant we frequented on the outskirts of Pristina. We noted that the lone waitress, who had left Kosovo immediately following independence, had returned to work. We took this as a hopeful sign for Kosovo’s future.
Christopher Midura served in Kosovo from 2007 to 2008. He joined the Foreign Service in 1988 as a public diplomacy officer. He has served in Bolivia, Guatemala, Zambia, El Salvador, the Czech Republic, and Kosovo. He and his wife, Kelly Bembry Midura, have two children.
SERBIA, 2008
Kosovo, once a province in the southern part of Serbia, declared itself an independent state on February 17, 2008. Though the historical tides of the Balkans had long been leading to this moment, the citizens of Serbia reacted with shock, anger, and genuine sadness.
Over President’s Day weekend, on a snowboarding trip to Austria, I watched on CNN as rioters—fueled by nationalist rhetoric that blamed the United States for Kosovo’s unwillingness to submit to Serbian rule—tried to attack Embassy Belgrade. I say “tried” because on that day the local police performed admirably, standing in an arc behind their plastic shields in front of the main door as rioters threw whatever they could find at them. When I started to get calls on my cell phone from local media in Serbia, asking for a reaction to what was happening, it was with emotion that I told them, “We genuinely appreciate the courage and professionalism of the Serbian police.” The images were ugly, but the damage was minimal. Nothing could have prepared us for what was still to come.
Washington informedthe embassy that U.S. recognition of the state of Kosovo would take place on February 18. My husband and I cut short our trip and sped down the Balkan highway as the appointed hour approached, hoping not to be told by an angry border guard that we were no longer welcome in Serbia.
During the next two days, the press section was eerily quiet. We spent our time circulating statements by Serbian government officials that said official relations with the United States were being broken, that the Serbian ambassador to the U.S. was being recalled, and that Serbia would fight Kosovo’s independence to the end. I arranged for the ambassador to give an interview to a news agency to explain to the Serbian people why Washington had made the decision to recognize Kosovo, but few media outlets picked it up.
On February 21, the prime minister called for a national rally “to show the world that ‘Kosovo is Serbia.’” The embassy closed at noon to allow staff to get home before the rally began. By the time I reached my apartment downtown, the buses had already started to arrive. The Serbian government had opened its coffers to bring in nationalist supporters from all over the country. As the bus doors opened, thousands of people, mostly young men, were disgorged, waving nationalist flags and toting half-empty two-liter bottles of beer. I took that as a sign to get off the street.
It is estimated that up to two million people attended the protest and listened to fiery speeches given from a stage set up in front of Parliament. The protesters then marched to the National Cathedral for a service to pray for the return of Kosovo. When the service broke up, the trouble started. Groups of young men began attacking diplomatic installations and looting both local and international businesses. The largest group headed toward the U.S. embassy.
As they approached, someone in the Serbian government gave the order for the police—who up to that point had stood decked out in full riot gear in a human wall around our building—to withdraw. Windows, doors, and security equipment were smashed. One of the protesters threw a Molotov cocktail into a second-story opening, where it burst into flames. Demonstrators used the flagpole to climb inside the upper floor of the chancery.
As soon as television crews began feeding images over the wires of an unprotected U.S. embassy being set afire by hooligans, the press phone began to ring. I took more than 75 calls that night, not just from Serb media, but from the United States, all over Europe, and even China. Miraculously, the cell-phone network in Belgrade did not collapse, and I was able to gather information from my col-leagu es and pass on accurate information to the press.
One of the rioters who had made it into an embassy building was overcome by smoke inhalation from the fire, lost consciousness and, tragically, died. With little solid information to go on, the local media reported a rumor that one of the U.S. Marine guards had shot the protester. Never had rumor control been as important to my job as it was that evening. I worked late into the night to set the story straight, and fortunately, that false representation of events dropped from the press reports, replaced by the sad truth.
The next morning, several officers gathered at the ambassador’s residence to talk through our next steps and plan the evacuation of non-essential staff. Surfing the news sites at the dining room table, I found a series of photos taken by Reuters showing someone rehanging the American flag on the front of the building. The management counselor said it was a local staff member in the maintenance section, acting of his own volition.
Tear gas, dispersed by the special police unit that finally showed up to remove the rioters, had permeated everything, and it was difficult to go anywhere near the chancery without your chest burning and nose running. When we were able to return to the building, which our local staff had heroically cleaned and repaired, it was with a heavy heart. Steel plates were now being mounted on all the exterior windows of the building, blocking out the light and stifling the air flow to our offices. Several of our colleagues and all of our family members had been forced to leave on an ordered departure.
Many of us, however, were most upset by the realization that the images of the U.S. embassy being set on fire, now seen around the world, would hurt Serbia far more than the protestors had hurt the United States. Those of us, Serb and American, committed to rebuilding a partnership with Serbia—a partnership that had been broken after years of war and political upheaval—knew that this image of a pariah state once again thumbing its nose at the West did not truly represent the Serbian people, for whom the path to stability and prosperity seemed to have just become longer and more arduous.
Rian Harker Harris served as press officer in Belgrade from 2007 to 2009. She joined the Foreign Service in 2000 and has also served in Guatemala, Russia, Armenia, and Afghanistan. From Serbia, she went on to complete a master’s degree in public policy at Princeton University’s Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs and then to the State Department as special assistant to the assistant secretary for European and Eurasian affairs. Her husband, Christopher Harris, is also a Foreign Service officer.
CHINA, 2008
An estimated one billion people watched the 2008 Beijing Olympic Summer Games. China put on a spellbinding show: against a backdrop of ancient and modern architectural wonders, a cast of thousands celebrated Chinese culture and played host to 10,500 international athletes in 37 venues spread over seven cities, from Shenyang to Hong Kong (almost equal to the distance from Boston to Miami).
My two-year-long, behind-the-scenes experience as the United States Olympic security coordinator in Beijing felt almost as complicated and daunting as hosting the games themselves. Given China’s historic mistrust of foreign powers, foreign officials were regularly reminded that we were simply “guests.” We possessed no authority in what was in any case a non-permissive environment.
As a diplomatic security agent thrust into this world of high-level international diplomacy, my watchwords were: be patient, show up every day to meet your counterparts, and respectfully stay on message. And do all that without, regrettably, speaking a lick of Mandarin or Cantonese.
Our job was, first, to convince our Chinese hosts that cooperating with us was in the interest of both countries. We gained access to the venues in all seven cities, ensuring that our security agents could fulfill their missions there. We also obtained unclassified communication access in China. We drafted operations plans and contingency plans, all within the framework of operating guidelines from the Chinese government.
It was a proud “coming of age” moment for China, opening the country up to the world while also playing to its historic moniker as the “Middle Kingdom,” center of the universe. To host close to 200 countries sending thousands of athletes, along with 22,000 media representatives, Beijing was obliged to become less opaque. With a standing army of about three million, China would have no problem securing any major athletic event. But the country had to meet requirements established by the International Olympic Committee (IOC) for infrastructure, transportation (airports, highways, trains, and buses), security (police, military, and border control), hotel accommodations, athlete food quality, air quality, and more—all in an open and transparent fashion for the IOC to assess.
Three months prior to the games, 70,000 Chinese citizens lost their lives in the devastating Sichuan earthquake. That tragedy, combined with the televised protests over China’s Tibet policy that accompanied many of the Olympic Torch Runs held around the world, put Beijing on the defensive. It was our good fortune that the San Francisco Police Department, along with the Diplomatic Security Service and Federal Bureau of Investigation’s field offices, did a superb job during the San Francisco Torch Run. They were able to balance freedom of speech for protesters with unimpeded passage of the torch through the city. This had a positive impact on our daily negotiations in Beijing.
The United States can at times be the proverbial 800-pound gorilla, creating a huge “footprint” with every step, and Olympic participation is no exception. The unprecedented visit of a U.S. president, George W. Bush, along with his father— himself a past president and former U.S. ambassador to China—required a substantial Secret Service presence. But any overseas Olympics creates its own sizable security footprint with the need to protect, in this case, a 1,250-member U.S. Olympic team, visiting Cabinet-level officials, 20,000 U.S. corporate sponsors and tens of thousands of U.S. citizen spectators. The Olympic coordination office and Embassy Beijing had to accommodate hundreds of temporary staff involved in the Olympic visit.
The Diplomatic Security Bureau, working with the FBI and Secret Service, under the leadership of Embassy Beijing’s senior management, achieved an unprecedented level of cooperation with our Chinese hosts. We created a 24-hour joint operations center in the embassy comprised of representatives from a dozen federal agencies—including the National Geospatial Agency, the Department of Defense, and the Federal Aviation Administration, among others—and various embassy offices, including public affairs, the American citizen services unit of the consular section, medical, and translation—all to act in concert to protect Americans.
In short, two years of give-and-take negotiations yielded the cooperation necessary for U.S. participation in a successful Olympic Games. Only government service overseas could provide such a unique experience, and the teamwork of outstanding public servants from various federal agencies made it a success.
Sean O’Brien served as United States Olympic security coordinator in Beijing from 2006 to 2008. He has served for 23 years as a diplomatic security special agent, with tours of duty in Latin America, the Middle East, Asia, and the United States.
SAUDI ARABIA, 2004
Crouching beneath my desk as gunfire flew past my office window at U.S. Consulate General Jeddah was, without a doubt, the most terrifying moment of my life. The al-Qaida attack on our consulate on December 6, 2004, will remain forever imprinted on my mind as a day when five brave souls from the countries of Yemen, Sudan, India, Sri Lanka, and the Philippines lost their lives as they stood steadfast in the face of terrorism. During the attack, 10 staff members were injured so gravely that years later, many continue to suffer daily as a result of the bullet wounds. The U.S. Marine Corps house was burnt to ashes, car windows were shattered, and most debilitating of all, the consulate spirit took a serious blow.
That day began like every other in Jeddah: at six o’clock sharp, the muezzin’s voice echoed throughout the city, calling Saudis to the dawn prayer. By eight, the streets were packed with honking cars and buses heading to work; and by nine, we were settling into our work day at the consulate. Then, at 11:15 a.m., the high-pitched duck-and-cover alarm rang out across the chancery building, jarring my ears and shaking me out of my chair. At first I thought it was a drill and, taking my time, locked up my office. Moments later, the whistle of bullets just outside my window told me this was no drill. A security officer ran in and escorted me quickly down the hallway where I joined my colleagues in a safe room, tiny and windowless. There we waited tensely for the next few hours, as a fight ensued outside the walls of the building.
Much of that day is still a blur for me, but on piecing the events together, a frightening story emerges. Mid-morning, a local al-Qaida cell from the Hejaz region attacked the consulate with the goal of killing American diplomats. The incident started when five men in a sedan tailed a diplomatic vehicle into the compound. Although the terrorists’ car was stopped by a gate at the entrance, the men climbed out and fired on Saudi soldiers and local guards who stood along the wall’s perimeter. The attackers penetrated the compound and, for the next two hours, took control of the grounds.
Although they did not breach the chancery building, the five men wandered the consulate grounds, firing at parked cars, and blowing up the Marine Corps house with a pipe bomb. They tore down the American flag that stood tall on the front lawn. And, most horrifying of all, they killed five local employees and wounded 10 local staff members, including consulate drivers, gardeners, and technicians.
During those seemingly interminable hours inside the chancery, consulate staff banded together to help one another, regardless of job title or nationality. The Marine security guard on duty at the front door bravely guarded the building as the attackers tried to destroy the main entrance with explosives. Other guards escorted more employees to the safe room. The consul general worked the phones to ensure that, even in the middle of the night, Washington knew what was happening. We made calls from our cell phones to reassure those stranded outside the chancery.
In the hot, cramped room, we tried to make sense of what was going on outside. Rumors flew as staff called petrified family members at home who were watching the events unfold on television. Eighteen terrorists gained entry to the compound. They are on the roof now. Now they are inside the building. Trying to ease our fears, we talked in small groups, shared water, said prayers, and comforted each other. A remarkably strong sense of community and solidarity developed in those few hours.
By mid-afternoon, Saudi forces had gained control of the compound. Four terrorists had been killed and one was taken into Saudi custody. As we stumbled out of the safe room, I walked gingerly down the hallway. My office was untouched, but my neighbor’s office was riddled with bullet holes—the windows, couch, and even the television had been shot up. Gunshots had made spider-web cracks in the glass of the lobby door.
Despite our shock, we knew there was work to be done. The security officer teamed up with Saudi police to sweep the compound grounds for explosives. The nurse and general services officer delivered the heartbreaking news to families who had lost loved ones. I accompanied the ambassador to the hospital to visit a local guard who was shot in the shoulder and another employee who suffered nerve damage.
Returning home late that night, I turned on the television and found the CNN headline news: “Militants attack U.S. consulate in Jeddah, killing five employees. Group called al-Qaida in Arabian Peninsula claims responsibility.” It was a stark reminder of the perils that Foreign Service members and local staff face around the world.
Despite our grief, every American and local employee returned to work following the attack. Together, we picked up the pieces and moved forward, step by step, determined to carry with us the bravery demonstrated by all on that day. I still hear from colleagues on the December 6 anniversary. Today we are serving in different parts of the world, but we are bound together by those terrible hours, the pain of losing friends and colleagues, and our strengthened commitment to the Foreign Service.
Heather Kalmbach served as a political officer in Saudi Arabia from 2004 to 2005. She joined the Foreign Service in 2004 and has also served in Jerusalem and Washington, D.C.
BURMA, 1998
Down Rangoon’s Merchant Street, past trees that offered scant protection to democracy activists shot by soldiers in 1988, I walk to the Supreme Court on a spring day 10 long years after those killings. Easy to find, the halls of justice are surrounded by troops and barbed wire. Burma’s junta sealed off the court’s front entrance, so now one enters via the back door—a fitting metaphor for a once-proud judicial system reduced to a mere adjunct of the military dictatorship.
A hundred National League for Democracy (NLD) supporters have gathered to support Nobel Laureate Aung San Suu Kyi’s attempt to end the illegal detention of about 50 parliamentarians. Elected in the NLD’s 1990 landslide victory, but not permitted to take office, the political leaders have been harassed for most of the past decade. The regime has detained them for a year now without charge in the latest effort to break their spirit.
Women and children from the Pa-o ethnic minority in Burma.
These years have been rough on NLD supporters. Jailed in record numbers, they have lost jobs and family members, and seen a decade pass without freedom. Aung San Suu Kyi arrives to cheers of “Long Live the NLD!” She and the elderly party leaders (the younger leaders are in prison) know the outcome of the case in advance—just as I do. Aung San Suu Kyi persists in a nonviolent struggle that inspires people to action, armed only with the conviction that they are right and protected only by party uniforms of homespun cloth.
Today’s court date is a cynical ploy to suggest that the rule of law prevails. But no witnesses are allowed into the court. In fact, I’m the only diplomat who even tries to enter. Did the others give up? Or worse, have they begun to believe the lies put out by the regime. A Burmese bureaucrat backed by gun-toting soldiers tells me I must leave. My refusal is tolerated. In an attempt to reason with the junta, I explain on camera to the regime’s videographer that this charade of judicial freedom is both obvious and pointless. Their attempt to force me to leave only ensures that I will stay. I wait and observe.
Later, I must return to the embassy, after surreptitiously indicating to NLD supporters that the United States is watching, that they are not alone in their struggle for freedom. Within 15 minutes, riot police clear the street using truncheons. Such is the duality of a diplomat’s power and impotence. I can prevent violence against democracy activists only as long as I can witness regime actions.
Weeks earlier, a parliamentarian visited me. I suggested he not tarry, as covert operatives certainly saw him enter the embassy. He chastised me, saying, “I have a right to be here. A right to talk to anyone. I know what will happen to me. But before it does, I want to earn the trust of the people who elected me. I want to do something.” Six months later, he was sentenced to 21 years in prison. He did nothing more than talk. But talk is dangerous in Burma. A monk once invited me into a monastery, through a locked door and down into a cave cut 35 feet into a granite hillside. At last he said, “Now, we can talk.” How courageous the Burmese are, even when informants seem everywhere.
I’ve met the bravest people in my life here. The Burmese struggle on for democracy despite the repression, despite setbacks. Here the State Department wages a righteous fight for justice. Some day, the Burmese people will win their freedom. I pray that change comes soon, comes peacefully, and comes before more lives are destroyed.
Postscript: Over the past decade, democracy activists in Burma suffered continued oppression. Many lives were frozen in time, exiles unable to return to their homeland. On November 13, 2010, Aung San Suu Kyi was released from house arrest, once again able to share her message of nonviolence in the struggle to bring democracy and prosperity to Burma. The military regime in Burma is unpredictable, but perhaps with the right amount of determination and support, Burma will one day join the community of democratic nations. Until then, U.S. diplomats will do their best to bring attention to the struggle of the Burmese people.
Andrew R. Young was political officer in Rangoon from 1997 to 2000. He has also served in Hong Kong, China; Washington, D.C.; Mumbai, India; Auckland, New Zealand; Paris, France; and Seoul, Korea.