Читать книгу Exceptional Circumstances - James Bartleman - Страница 7

In January 1966, my last year at the University of Ottawa, I applied to join the Department of External Affairs. To be honest, despite my bravado, I really didn’t think I’d get in. After all, thousands of university candidates, many with advanced degrees in law, economics, and history, applied for the dozen or more openings that came available each year. It was the home department of Lester Pearson, Canada’s only Nobel Peace Prize winner. Dozens of the top bureaucrats in Ottawa had emerged from its ranks. In those days, before its decline set in, it had a reputation for excellence among foreign ministries around the world and at the United Nations.

True, I had done well in my time at university, but the University of Ottawa wasn’t Oxford, Cambridge, Queens, Laval or the University of Toronto — the institutions of higher learning favoured by generations of aspiring Canadian diplomats. I wasn’t a Rhodes Scholar like a disproportionate number of the Department’s members. Moreover, I didn’t fit the mould of the typical Foreign Service officer. Most were the offspring of what was then called the two founding nations: middle-class British settler stock and French Canadians who could afford to give their children classical college educations. Today, people say the Natives are the third founding people, but they’re just trying to be politically correct.

However, I had one secret weapon — my memory. In preparing for the written examinations held in early March, I spent months in the library reading back copies of the Economist, Time Magazine, Le Monde, the New York Times, the Globe and Mail, and Le Devoir. Incredible as it may seem, I remembered almost everything I read. And when they handed out the test papers, I saw that the questions were presented in multiple choice, which made my job easier. I was able to dredge up accurate answers to each and every one of them. The people who marked my paper must have thought I was a genius.

But passing the written exam was only the first step. I next had to face a panel of senior officials, the so-called oral board, who would grill me on all manner of issues and decide whether I should be taken on. Early one Friday morning in late May, I put on the dark blue suit I had bought at a reduced price at Tip Top Tailors, straightened the tie the salesman had thrown in free of charge, and set out through streets lined with budding maple, oak, and black ash trees for the East Block of the Parliament Buildings. As I walked, I wondered what I’d do if I got a job offer. Would I be smart enough to survive among all those super intelligent and sophisticated people? Would I be up to the challenge of living in strange countries with exotic cultures? But would I ever forgive myself if I turned down a job that might lead me to do great things with my life?

Arriving at my destination, I walked up the steps of the imposing stone High Gothic–style building which housed the offices of senators and the minister of External Affairs, and made my way to the conference room where the oral board was conducting its interviews. The chairman, Theodore Longshaft, I knew by reputation. He was the highly respected and feared director general of Security and Intelligence. After a cordial welcome, he pointed me to a seat with his pipe and invited the other five board members to ask questions. There was a shuffling of papers as they searched for my file among the overflowing ashtrays and papers piled in front of them. I heard someone say in an irritated voice, “Let’s get this over with as soon as possible….”

An older, florid-faced, white-haired board member, sweat dripping from his chin, his tie askew, peered at a picture in front of him, looked at me to confirm I was really Luc Cadotte, smiled, and introduced himself.

“My name is Milton Burump, director general of the bureau of United Nations and Global Affairs. Appearances to the contrary, I don’t eat junior Foreign Service officers or individuals hoping to become one.” After waiting for a second to see if his sally would elicit a chuckle — it didn’t — he asked the first question.

“Dear Boy, I hope you don’t mind me calling you ‘Dear Boy.’ I call everyone under the age of forty, Dear Boy. No offense meant. Please relax. Speaking for the others — if the others don’t mind — all our questions are going to be as easy ones. Now I see from your file you have the distinction of being the first candidate for the position of Foreign Service officer since the establishment of the Department to have registered a perfect score on the written examination. Did you cheat? If so, tell us now, Dear Boy, for we don’t want cheats in the Department.”

“No I didn’t cheat,” I said, too surprised to be insulted, and left it at that.

Burump looked at me and shook his head as if he didn’t believe me. He then made a great show of removing his glasses and polishing them with his tie, like an eccentric university professor. “I’m going to give you another chance to answer, Dear Boy. In the Department, we always take the word of a gentleman. Are you a gentleman, Dear Boy?”

I’ve never been afraid to speak my mind and let my irritation show. “Probably not,” I said, “but I have a special memory and can remember most things I read or hear. That accounts for my score.”

“Oh I see. That must mean you’re an idiot savant,” he said, smiling condescendingly, “like the people who perform in circus sideshows. But isn’t using those powers a form of cheating?”

“I’m neither an idiot nor a cheat,” I said, somewhat defensively. “I’m no more intelligent than anyone else but I have an ability to remember things.”

I wasn’t sure if he was some sort of malicious jokester who liked to humiliate people he had just met, or whether he had put his questions in good faith. Whatever it was, I didn’t like it. To make it worse, the others had laughed when he asked me if I was an idiot savant. I felt they were all putting me down. They probably knew I was a Métis — my name would have given me away —and wanted to have some fun at my expense before dismissing me out of hand. I’ve always had a problem with my temper and I now wanted to tell Burump to go to hell, to tell him to “Dear Boy” somebody else, to tell him he was a snob with his talk of what constituted gentlemanly behavior. I wanted to get to my feet and tell everyone in the room that they could take their job and stuff it, and then stalk to the door, shove it open with one great push, step out, and slam it as hard as I could behind me.

But something told me that was exactly what Burump and the others wanted me to do, to provoke me into abandoning my attempt to join the Department. So I forced myself to smile and made a superhuman effort to laugh and pretend Burump had just been joking. And when I came out with my feeble little laugh, more a humourless chuckle, everyone in the room burst out with great guffawing and hooting. It had just been a harmless joke after all — I had almost let my temper disqualify me.

One after the other, the now-friendly board members threw questions at me, asking me to comment on issues as diverse as growing tensions between Israel and its neighbours, the Unilateral Declaration of Independence of the white regime in Rhodesia, border clashes between Indian and Pakistani troops, race relations in the United States after the Harlem and Watts riots, and the changing face of the United Nations in a decolonizing world. I did my best to provide good answers but couldn’t help noticing that nobody other than Longshaft appeared to be paying attention. Two of the members were reading newspapers, someone was scribbling notes on what looked like a draft memorandum, and others were staring out the window. Burump was the greatest offender, smiling with great animation and encouragement most of the time but falling asleep periodically, letting his head drop on to his chest, and snoring noisily for a moment before waking up with a snort and turning his attention back to me.

The first time that happened, I stopped speaking and looked to Longshaft for direction.

“He has a sleep disorder that makes him drop off like that. He means no disrespect.”

It was then the turn of a board member in his mid-fifties named Jonathan Hunter, a senior officer sitting beside me, who I later learned was on sick leave, to pose his questions. Long and gaunt with thinning brown hair, he turned his weary blue eyes toward me, fixed his gaze at a point just over my head, and asked me for my views on the American involvement in Vietnam. “The tragic war in that country keeps me awake at night,” he explained in a low gentle voice. “I was one of the longest serving members of the International Control Commission in Hanoi in the 1950s and still have friends there. I can’t imagine what it must be like to live under the constant American bombardment.”

The stench of Hunter’s breath, more sewer than medicinal, reached me at the same time as his words and almost made me gag. I suddenly felt ill at ease and on high alert. I knew very well that almost nobody in Canada supported the American position on the war. Demonstrations were taking place every day outside the American embassy in downtown Ottawa, not two hundred yards from where we were meeting, and in front of American consulates across the country. The Canadian public was enthusiastically welcoming thousands of American draft dodgers and deserters pouring over the border each year. The Canadian prime minister had just delivered a speech in Philadelphia in which he urged the United States to withdraw its troops from Vietnam — to applause in Canada but provoking the outrage of the American president.

I assumed the board members would share those views and question my judgement if I went against the consensus. However, in those days I accepted the domino theory, the argument that a communist victory in Vietnam would lead to a communist takeover of Southeast Asia, and then to gains elsewhere in Asia. I couldn’t and wouldn’t say something I didn’t believe even if it ruined my chances of joining the Department, and so I said, “I watch the news on television like everyone else and am well aware that thousands of American soldiers and tens of thousands of Vietnamese civilians have been killed in the war to date and that many more will die before victory is won. But that’s the cost of freedom.” And to make it worse, in words that embarrass me today for their ignorance, I said the Americans should continue the war to defend the security of the free world against communist aggression.

Hunter reacted by gasping and clutching at his heart. I thought he was playing a prank on me as had Burump, and smiled at him in appreciation. But it was not a joke. Someone got up and offered him a glass of water, but he waved it away saying he was fine. I waited for the others to challenge my position, but other than looking deeply concerned, nobody said anything, or even glanced my way for that matter. It was as if they had just discovered I was so hopelessly pro-American and reactionary, there was no point in spending more time with me.

Longshaft, who had not participated in the discussion to that point, addressed his colleagues, “Everyone who appears before this board is entitled to his opinion, and it’s refreshing to hear someone speak so candidly on such a controversial a topic.” Turning to me, he asked if I knew the writings of Albert Camus, the great French humanist winner of the Nobel Prize for literature.

“I do.” I said. “I’ve read most of his books.”

“And so you’re familiar with what he said about the struggle of the Algerian people for their independence from France — the struggle in which France used torture as an instrument to fight the National Liberation Front?”

“He was torn between his support for the Arabs and Berbers who were native to the region and his own people — the Pieds-Noirs — the European settlers who had lived in Algeria for generations.”

“Camus once told a journalist that if he had to make a decision between Justice and his mother, he would choose his mother. What did he mean?”

“Camus was saying that whatever the merits of the Arab and Berber cause, he would support his mother’s people — the Pieds-Noirs — in the conflict. Blood and family came before Justice.”

“Do you agree with Camus?”

“I do. When two values conflict you should support your family.”

“You would have opposed the struggle for the independence of Algeria?”

“If I had been Camus I would have. If I had been an Arab or Berber I would have supported the fight to end French rule.”

“Your file says you’re a Métis. If you had lived a hundred years ago, would you have supported Louis Riel in his fight against Canada?”

“Yes, of course … unreservedly and blindly if need be. He was family.”

“Oh my God! Stop playing with the mind of the candidate!” Burump said. “Let him think for himself!”

“I’m just exploring his views on some fundamental issues,” Longshaft said to Burump. Turning to me, he said, “I’d now like to discuss the foreign policy priorities of the Canadian government. As any properly prepared candidate knows, national security, national unity, and human rights are key components along with others such as economic well-being and environmental protection. For the sake of our discussion today, however, I want to focus only on the first three. Do you think that any one of them should take precedence over the others?” He leaned back in his chair, stared at me impassively, and puffed on his pipe, waiting to hear what I would say.

I looked back at him wondering why he had asked that particular question so soon after questioning me on the wars in Vietnam and Algeria. Was there some sort of link between the three priorities he selected? Was he trying to help me or to trip me up?

“Please answer the question. We don’t have time to waste.”

“National security trumps human rights.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because the first priority of any government is to safeguard the national territory of the state against foreign aggression and to defend its citizens against terrorism. Without national security, there couldn’t be human rights — or anything else for that matter.”

“Is that why you say the United States is right to intervene militarily in Vietnam, to safeguard its national security and those of its allies in the free world?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Even if the United States violates the human rights of the Vietnamese people?”

“Yes, that follows logically. I suppose so.”

“You didn’t deal with national unity. Where would it fit in your order of foreign policy priorities? Ahead? Behind? In-between national security and human rights?”

“When you say national unity I assume you mean the need to keep Quebec from declaring independence from Canada?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Then I’d put national security ahead of national unity.”

“Does that mean you would favour using force to keep Quebec a part of Canada?”

“No I wouldn’t. If the people of Quebec want to create their own country, they should be allowed to do so as long as it was done in a democratic and peaceful way.”

“Then what do you mean when say you would put national security ahead of national unity?”

“I mean that national security as defined as the defence of Canada against external threats and domestic terrorism should trump national unity. And that’s because the Quebec issue is an internal and not an external problem. Quebec’s place in Confederation is something Canadians and Quebeckers have to sort out peacefully among themselves.”

“Would you put human rights ahead of national unity?”

“No I wouldn’t because the suspension of human rights might be needed someday to safeguard national unity. National security, national unity, and human rights should constitute the proper order of priority.”

“Now let’s take another tack. Assume the Department accepted you as one of its Foreign Service officers, and posted you abroad to a country overseas. Let’s call it country X. Let’s say country X is in the Third World, maybe in one of those former colonies which are just now joining the United Nations as independent countries. What if you received instructions from the Department to do something your conscience told you was wrong? What would you do?”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Ah the specifics. The devil is always in the details. Now let’s say you were instructed to accept information from a security institution in country X that a security institution of the Canadian government needed. For the sake of argument, let’s say it was the RCMP but you knew the information had been obtained through torture. They do a lot of torturing in those countries, Mr. Cadotte. It’s hard to do business with certain countries without getting your hands dirty, Mr. Cadotte.”

“No I wouldn’t accept it. That would be contrary to everything I was brought up to believe.”

“You mean you would refuse to carry out instructions that would violate your moral compass? Even if all that was involved was going down to headquarters of a foreign security institution to pick up a sealed package of information and making sure it was delivered to the Canadian agency that wanted it? Even if was to help the RCMP whose mandate includes protecting Canada and Canadians against terrorism, espionage, and issues of a similar nature?”

“I wouldn’t do it if I had reasonable grounds to believe the information had been extracted through mistreatment or torture. The RCMP can do its own dirty work.”

“It’s not that easy. The RCMP doesn’t have liaison officers in every country of the world. It relies on members of the Department to do a lot of its messenger work.”

“I still wouldn’t do it.”

“But what if the Department, in its wisdom, told you that the information you were to pick up was from a foreign security agency that routinely tortured its prisoners. And what if the information was needed to protect Canadian property and lives? Would you do it?”

“With respect sir, there’s no morally acceptable answer to your question.”

“But we live in the real world, Mr. Cadotte. Anyone wanting to work in the Department sooner or later will be faced with issues like the one I raised. Please answer my question.”

From the tone of Longshaft’s voice, I was sure I would fail the oral exam if I didn’t at least make an effort to answer and tried to temporize. “Not just to protect Canadian property and lives,” I said. “The bar wouldn’t be high enough.”

“But what if you were told it was to safeguard Canada’s national security, which you have just argued trumped national unity and human rights as foreign policy priorities?”

“In exceptional circumstances like those, maybe I would,” I said, aware that I was now wading into deep dirty waters. “But I would need to know more.”

“What if I told you the information could stop terrorists from exploding a miniature nuclear bomb in downtown Toronto and killing tens of thousands of people?”

“That’s a far-fetched example but I’d definitely be on side. Everybody would be on side.”

“But what if it wasn’t to prevent a disaster like that, but to save one Canadian life?”

“I wouldn’t do it. The moral cost of torturing someone to save one life, even if Canadians weren’t he ones doing the torturing, would be too high.”

“Ah! Now we are getting into moral costs. What do you understand by that term?”

“I mean the corruption of character.”

“Personal or national?”

“Both.”

“Now, what if the information could save ten Canadian lives?”

“Still too high.”

“How many lives would you need to save to accept the information?”

“The circumstances would have to be exceptional.”

“There you go again, Mr. Cadotte, invoking exceptional circumstances. According to your file, you are Roman Catholic and were once an altar boy. Now despite your Christian upbringing, you claim everything depends on the circumstances. Are you a relativist? Don’t you believe in absolute values? Your church expects its members to accept absolute moral values. I think you are stalling, Mr. Cadotte. How many lives saved would make the use of torture exceptional, Mr. Cadotte?”

“Maybe one hundred lives?”

“Why not fifty?”

“My moral compass would allow me to accept one hundred lives saved but not fifty.”

“But the moral compass of someone else, another Canadian Foreign Service officer for example, might allow him to accept fifty?”

“Maybe.”

“Ten?”

“Maybe ten for some people. Maybe a thousand for someone else. It would depend on their definition of exceptional circumstances and the moral compass of the person concerned.”

“What if the Department expected you to do things not involving torture that were in Canada’s national interest but were of doubtful morality?”

I had no idea where Longshaft was going with this line of questioning and looked around the room at the other board members to gauge their reactions. Hunter was slouched forward in his chair, a faint smile on his lips, concentrating his gaze on his clasped hands stretched out on the table in front of him. The others had been watching me intently ever since Longshaft had started asking me questions, like so many hungry cats observing a mouse caught in a trap.

“Could you be more specific?”

“We live in the real world, Mr. Cadotte. Have you heard the old expression? I imagine you have, ‘A diplomat is an honest man sent to lie abroad for his country.’ That’s an exaggeration of course. After all, diplomacy relies on honest dealing to accomplish its ends, but not always. Sometimes we are expected to lie a little or a lot to advance and protect Canada’s national interests. We live in an imperfect world, Mr. Cadotte. Are you aware, that in many countries of the Third World, Canadian diplomats help Canadian companies bribe local officials to award them contracts even though the costs of the bribes are passed on to the people of those countries? And that in many of those countries the mass of the people live in grinding poverty and can ill afford to pay the added costs? The diplomats do it because the contracts make money for the Canadian companies and provide jobs to Canadian workers. And when they make Canadian businessmen happy in this way, the businessmen tell the Department that their representative in country X is doing superb work and the officer concerned is rewarded by being promoted. Would your moral compass allow you to help a Canadian company obtain a contract through bribery?”

“I would never do such a thing.”

“Even if Canadian jobs were at stake?”

“No, I still wouldn’t.”

“Are you aware that the Canadian government, at this moment, is helping Canadian asbestos companies market their product overseas when they and the companies know asbestos causes hundreds of thousands of lung cancer deaths each year? What would you do if you received instructions to promote asbestos in the country of your accreditation?”

“I wouldn’t do it.”

“What if you were told you would be fired for insubordination if you didn’t do as you were told?”

“I still wouldn’t do it.”

“Are you saying the exceptional circumstance argument doesn’t apply to asbestos sales but does when it comes to accepting information derived from torture?”

“That’s right, torture is acceptable in exceptional circumstances but selling asbestos is an absolute abomination, and always inexcusable; lung cancer is a horrible disease.”

“I think we’ve gone as far as we can in dealing with these issues,” Longshaft said. “Unless there’s a member of the board who has something else to ask Mr. Cadotte on this topic.”

Without looking up from the table, Hunter mumbled something nobody understood. “Please speak up, Jonathan,” Longshaft said. “We would all benefit from your views.”

“With the indulgence of the board, I’d like to repeat a little joke attributed to Winston Churchill, which has some relevance to this discussion. Churchill said to a socialite: ‘Madame, would you sleep with me for five million pounds?’ To which the socialite responded, ‘My goodness, Mr. Churchill … Well, I suppose … we would have to discuss terms of course….’ Churchill asked, ‘Would you sleep with me for five pounds?’ and the socialite responded, ‘Mr. Churchill, what sort of woman do you think I am?’ To which Churchill said, ‘Madam, we’ve already established that. Now we are haggling about the price.’ ”

Nobody laughed, and I could tell from the angry looks the others directed at Longshaft that he had violated some sort of understanding. Maybe they didn’t think the topic was fit to be discussed with someone who wasn’t yet a member of the Department? Maybe they didn’t want to be reminded about the disagreeable things Foreign Service officers were sometimes required to do?

Whatever it was, Burump, his jowls quivering, reacted badly, telling Longshaft, “I don’t have anything else to raise with the candidate, but there is something I must say to you, Theodore. In more than three decades of service at Ottawa and abroad, I never once came across a case where a Foreign Service officer was asked to pass to headquarters information derived from torture by an institution of a foreign government. I have never heard of a case where one of our officers helped a Canadian company bribe a local official to obtain a contract. I admit that we are all instructed to promote the sales of products like asbestos and tobacco, which are not good for anyone’s health, and we sell automatic weapons and light armoured vehicles to governments that will use them against their own peoples, against oppressed minorities, or in wars against neighbouring states. We obey because we realize we live in an imperfect world and if we didn’t win those contracts, then someone else would. But the Department I know and love is staffed by decent, law-abiding and loyal officers, not by a gang of goons.”

“Maybe if you had to deal with the sorts of things that come across my desk every day, you wouldn’t feel that way.” Longshaft responded. “I deal with the underside of life and you work on the sunny side. Now back to business. Mr. Cadotte, as my last question, please discuss the issue most likely to trouble domestic peace in Canada in the years ahead — take all the time you want. Then you’ll be free to go and we’ll break for the day.”

I knew the board expected me to talk about the Quiet Revolution in Quebec — the struggle of Quebeckers to carve out a new place for themselves in Canada after centuries of corrupt priest-ridden governments and two hundred years of domination by English-speaking business elites. It had been the issue that occupied the headlines, the editorial pages, and the debates in Parliament for years. Royal commissions had been struck, and a new national flag thought to be more in tune with the times adopted. English-speaking Quebeckers, unwilling to make an effort to learn French, and afraid they would have no place in the political order, were abandoning their Montreal enclaves of privilege to make new lives for themselves in Toronto. At the same time, a terrorist group, the Front de libération du Québec, the FLQ, emerged from the shadows to try to turn the quiet revolution into a violent one. They were bombing the symbols of the old order such as armouries and post offices, and robbing banks and liquor stores to finance their operations. Nobody, however, took them seriously. After all, Canada, Quebec included, was a liberal parliamentary democracy. The FLQ was an anomaly which would eventually just fade away.

I was confident I knew the issues thoroughly and would have had no problem laying them out to the board and fielding any questions they might have. But I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to talk about the condition of Aboriginal people in Canada, especially the Métis, but I didn’t think the board would be interested. I was also still under the shock of Longshaft’s relentless Jesuitical examination of my moral compass. He had opened up my soul in the company of strangers and found it wanting. With his little joke, Hunter had insinuated that I was no better than an intellectual whore, ready to trade lives if the price was right. I didn’t know why I had allowed myself to be drawn into a repulsive debate on the costs and benefits of torture in the first place.

Glancing around, I saw the board members looking at me as if I was some country hick, too naïve to understand the complex nature of the world and the moral compromises officers of the Department had to make to save Canadian lives and sell Canadian goods. Suddenly, I felt out of place in this room of sophisticated, cynical senior officers and didn’t want to subject myself to another cross examination on an issue closer to my heart than to theirs. Perhaps I would go to teacher’s college after all and go home to Penetang to teach at my old high school.

“I think I’ll withdraw my application to join the Department,” I said, and got up and left the room.