Last January, Richard Holbrooke called my cell phone at midnight,although we were both in DC. He had been Special Envoy for Afghanistanand Pakistan for a week and he wanted to quiz me on Afghanistan. Aftereach reply he paused and then -- just as I suspected he was textingsomeone else -- growled "okay so what do we do?" "How can you provethat?" "What do we do about Pakistan? Iran? Russia? Karzai?" An hourlater, he said "You've lost your argument against the 17,000 troopincrease. But Petraeus is asking for another 40,000 in September andif you think that's wrong you should say so." He encouraged me tomodel myself on a general who had spoken against Vietnam in thePentagon. He concluded, "I am sitting you next to Secretary Clinton atdinner. Say exactly what you think. If you don't, I never -- ever --want to hear you criticize the policy again." And then he hung up, Iguessed to call someone else.
I was left, standing half-to-attention in my boxer shorts at the endof the bed unsure what had just happened but prepared to do almostanything he asked. The energy of this man, thirty years older than me,at one in the morning shook me. But it was not his alertness, nor thecharm of his sustained attention, nor his flattering comparisons,which captivated me. Nor was it even his revelations (I had thoughtthat a decision on 17,000 troops was a month away and had no idea afurther 40,000 was remotely likely). I was suspicious of hisencouragement. But I was conquered by his contradictions. He waslistening intently to someone with whom he disagreed and giving aplatform to someone who argued against his own position. He wanted totransform the Pakistan, the Afghan and the US government -- while Iargued that it was impossible. He felt Afghanistan was vitallyimportant and that we had a moral obligation to continue: I, that wehad no moral obligation to do what we couldn't do. But he poured hisenergy into me and gave me, I felt, a charter to fight against theAfghan policy.
Leaders are often detached from policy. They are hesitant to invest asmuch, emotionally or intellectually, particularly in this costlybewildering war, as it demands. Perhaps because they feel stuck withit, they have little desire to examine its foundations. They preferwriting objectives to rubbing their faces in the intractable stuff ofAfghanistan.
Europeans and Afghans imply it is someone else's responsibility.American politicians can bend to military advice; generals can radiateoptimism and blame politics. But Holbrooke seemed to want to bothexpose the truth and take full responsibility for the policy. Hewasn't interested in tinsel triumphs. He had a real historicalimagination, displayed in his surprisingly modest and scrupulousaccount of his role in the Balkans. I had heard him assess theweaknesses of early twentieth century Arabists with the insight, thefondness and sparks of envy that one might apply to a childhoodfriend. And he was aware of history's questions -- the kind ofquestions he posed of Vietnam -- How important was it really? Did itmake sense? Could it be done? And believing that it did and it could,he wanted to give space to those that disagreed.
I was unsettled by him, as much as charmed. And yet, when I try tounderstand what it might mean for a man to have a "destiny", it'sHolbrooke, I think of: taking responsibility for a position and thetruth of that position. And I think of his final line to a youngforeigner, with whom he disagreed, "Say exactly what you think. If youdon't, I never -- ever -- want to hear you criticize the policy again.