The Downing Street Years (87 page)

Early the following morning I set off for the opening ceremony of the Victoria Dam Power Station, which as I have explained earlier,
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was largely paid for out of British Overseas Aid. Although it was still before 10 o’clock in the morning and we were well up in the hills, the
heat was almost unbearable. First, I visited the power station and dam. Then there was a long march past of children in different costumes; dances were performed; flowers were thrown. The Sri Lankan minister with me made his speech. By now we were under a large awning and it was with relief that I saw that someone had brought him a glass of water. Then it was my turn to speak. But no water. By now the atmosphere was even more stifling. I was glad to get back in the car to be driven on to Kandy. The President came with me. But for some reason I still couldn’t get any water. Nearly five hours after leaving Colombo I reached the government guesthouse and I at last got my glass of water. I gulped it gratefully.

Next day I was due to address the Sri Lankan Parliament. It is easy to imagine my horror when, having been introduced by the Speaker, I looked around and found… no water. The Parliament building is magnificent inside and out: but it is also excessively air-conditioned and the atmosphere is dry as dust. Part of the way through my speech I had such a fit of coughing that I had to stop and wait until a glass of water was found for me. I had learnt my lesson. From now on a crate of fizzy Ashbourne water would accompany me on my travels.

I returned to Britain by way of India where I met Rajiv Gandhi for the first time since he had become Prime Minister after his mother’s assassination. (At this stage I was on good terms with him: it was only later that year at the CHOGM in Nassau that we fell out over South Africa.) My abiding impression was of the tight security which surrounded him and his wife Sonia. They were living in a small, rather cramped house, unwilling or unable to return to the house where Mrs Gandhi had met her death. I laid a wreath at the site of my old friend’s funeral pyre.

I was due to attend the Bicentennial celebration in Australia in the late summer of 1988. I had really rather doubted whether my presence was necessary at all. I had earlier suggested to the Australian Prime Minister, Bob Hawke, that, with the Queen, other members of the Royal Family and numerous foreign dignitaries, perhaps I would be one Englishwoman too many. But he insisted that I should come, and so I did. Although I had some famous rows with Bob Hawke, I found him easy to deal with: like me, he was blunt and direct. But on this occasion, he was to prove consideration itself.

I had decided to combine this Australian visit with another foray into South-East Asia. On this occasion I was able to spend rather longer than previously in Singapore. That little island’s economy continued to astonish. Its GDP was rising at over 9 per cent a year and
its total trade was up over the same period by a third. It was therefore pleasant to receive congratulations from Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew about the state of the British economy, though I said that in my view we were growing somewhat too fast. His only criticism was of me personally — for undertaking a programme of foreign visits which he described as ‘absolute madness’, adding that he did not know anyone else who would even contemplate it. He was full of his usual shrewd observations about world trouble spots like Cambodia, North Korea and the Middle East. I always found him most perceptive about China. He maintained that although entrenched habits in China were deeply authoritarian, communism itself went against the grain of the Chinese character and could not in the very long term succeed. Lee Kuan Yew is of course by origin Chinese himself: I used to tell him that in many ways I wished he had stayed at home — that way China might have found its way to capitalism twenty years earlier.

Then it was on to Australia. I arrived in Perth, went on to Alice Springs, and arrived at Canberra. Here I visited the new Parliament building, erected to celebrate the Bicentennial, and was met by Bob Hawke, who introduced me to his Cabinet, in which Paul Keating was then Finance minister. Whatever differences of outlook we had on other matters, I found Mr Keating refreshingly orthodox on finance — a far cry from the British Labour Party. In my speech at the lunch which followed I stressed the importance of Australia’s role as a regional power. The fact was that the economic growth of many countries in the area was going ahead far faster than political progress. I believed that Australia, as one of the world’s oldest and most developed democracies, could make a vital contribution to regional stability.

My tour finished up in Brisbane. I visited the British Pavilion at the EXPO ’88 World Trade Fair. I was disappointed by what I saw and said so with some vigour on my return to England. It was not the fault of those directly concerned, but rather of cheese-paring by the British Government, that our pavilion just did not match those of other major countries. As with embassy buildings, I always insisted that cutting back on expenditure on generating the right image of Britain abroad is sheer foolishness. From now on I took a direct interest in the matter: for example, I told David Young, as Trade and Industry Secretary, that we must have the best national exhibition at the Seville EXPO in 1992, and I believe we did.

My day ended in Brisbane with attendance at a splendid production of the ‘Last Night of the Proms’ — which the Australians immediately christened the ‘Last Night of the Poms’. Whatever the
shortcomings of the pavilion, British popular culture was on vigorous form.

From Australia I flew via Malaysia to Thailand. It was my first visit. But I soon found myself in much the same frame of mind as at Brisbane, for it was clear that our large and impressive embassy building in Bangkok was not being properly maintained. Next morning I visited the United Nations Refugee Camp on the Thai border with Cambodia. It was quite a trip to get there — aeroplane, then helicopter, then Land Rover. It was huge, more like a large town than a temporary camp. Prince Sihanouk, his wife and daughter were in charge. I quickly noticed that there were very few men: it turned out that the great majority were away fighting the Vietnamese Army inside Cambodia. I also noticed immediately how the refugees venerated Prince Sihanouk, approaching him, as is the — for a westerner — rather disturbing habit, on their knees. He delivered a rousing and justified philippic against Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge while I was there. Later I detected in conversation with him that wiliness and toughness which accounted, against all odds and predictions, for his political survival in a very dangerous game.

I had worn a simple cotton dress and flat shoes to visit the refugee camp. But I was struck by the fact that many of the women there were wearing attractive new dresses, looking remarkably elegant. My hair had also suffered from the wind, heat and humidity. So when I returned to Bangkok I asked the embassy to find someone who would set it for me and was pleasantly surprised to find myself in the hands of a lady whom I still consider to be one of best hairdressers I have ever had.

It is easy to fall in love with Thailand, in spite of its seamy side which was kept well hidden from me. As a staunch monarchist myself, I was particularly moved by my discussions with the King and Queen of Thailand. Perhaps every national monarchy has to find its own particular style. Certainly, King Bhumibol Adulyadej had done so. Hearing him speak with equal passion about problems of peasant agriculture and matters of high politics I could well understand the unique regard in which the Thai monarchy was held and how, though generals and civilian governments might come and go, the monarchy itself had remained the enduring source of legitimacy.

I returned to Britain by way of Dubai and took the opportunity of visiting HMS
Manchester
, acting as part of the Armilla Patrol protecting shipping in the Gulf. I do not really enjoy the heat: but at least I thought I would never experience anything worse than the temperature overlooking Sri Lanka’s Victoria Dam Power Project three years
earlier. I was wrong. It was over 120 degrees as Denis and I stood waiting on the tarmac for the helicopter to take us from Dubai Airport aboard HMS
Manchester.
I was fascinated to explore the ship, climbing up and down ladders and along the narrow gangways from the galley to the Sea Dart missile loading bay. I stayed longest in the Operations Room. It did not take much imagination to envisage how easily mistakes can be made, in spite of all the checks and double checks, under great tension, in that darkened enclosed space. Below decks it was slightly cooler, though not much. The Chief Cook who was baking an apple and blackcurrant pie told me that the temperature in the galley was 105 degrees. I decided that it was time for this particular politician to ‘get out of the kitchen’ and left. I had enjoyed myself. But that iced whisky and soda back aboard the VC10 never tasted better.

Little progress was made during my time as Prime Minister in solving the Arab-Israeli dispute. It is important, though, to be clear about what such a ‘solution’ can and cannot be. The likelihood of a total change of heart among those concerned is minimal. Nor will outside influences ever be entirely removed from the region. Certainly, the end of Soviet communist manipulation of disputed issues makes it potentially easier to reach agreement with moderate Arabs and allows the United States to place clearer limits on its support for particular Israeli policies. But ultimately the United States, which was the power most responsible for the establishment of the state of Israel, will and must always stand behind Israel’s security. It is equally, though, right that the Palestinians should be restored in their land and dignity: and, as often happens in my experience, what is morally right eventually turns out to be politically expedient. Removing, even in limited measure, the Palestinian grievance is a necessary if not sufficient condition for cutting the cancer of Middle East terrorism out by the roots. The only way this can happen, as has long been clear, is for Israel to exchange ‘land for peace’, returning occupied territories to the Palestinians in exchange for credible undertakings to respect Israel’s security. It may be that the (thankfully ineffective) scud missile attacks of the Gulf War, demonstrating that Israel cannot preserve her security just by enlarging her borders, will eventually pave the way for such a
compromise. That is to anticipate: for during my time as Prime Minister all initiatives eventually foundered on the fact that the two sides ultimately saw no need to adjust their stance. But that did not mean that we could simply sit back and let events take their course. Initiatives at least offered hope: stagnation in the Middle East peace process only ever promised disaster.

In September 1985 I visited the two key moderate Arab states, Egypt and Jordan. President Mubarak of Egypt had continued to pursue, though with greater circumspection, the policies of his assassinated predecessor, Anwar Sadat. King Hussein of Jordan had put forward a proposal for an international peace conference, as a prelude to which US Ambassador Murphy was to meet a joint Jordanian-Palestinian delegation. The Egyptians were keen to see the Jordanian initiative succeed. But the sticking point was which Palestinian representatives would be acceptable to the Americans, who would have nothing directly to do with the PLO. President Mubarak felt that the Americans were not being sufficiently positive. I had some sympathy for this point of view, though I restated what I said was a cardinal principle for the US, as for Britain, that we would not agree to talks with those who practised terrorism. I felt that President Mubarak and I understood one another. He was a large personality, persuasive and direct — the sort of man who could be one of the key players in a settlement.

My main public gesture in Egypt on behalf of British business was the unromantic one of opening the British-built Cairo Waste Water Project, in effect the city’s sewer. But before leaving Egypt I made the statutory — though no less fascinating — tour of Karnak and Luxor. It was very hot. By this time I had learned my lesson: I had my own bottled mineral water with me in the car. But a minor disaster ensued when my staff, credulously believing that a bottle labelled mineral water at the museum actually contained such a thing, promptly all went down with severe stomach upsets. I suspect that they were even more pleased than I was when we arrived that evening (Wednesday 18 September) at Amman.

I already knew King Hussein well and liked him. He had come to see me in Downing Street on a number of occasions. Like President Mubarak, but more so, King Hussein was vexed with the Americans, believing that, having encouraged him to take a peace initiative, they were now drawing back under domestic Jewish pressure. I understood what he felt. He had been taking a real risk in trying to promote his initiative and I thought he deserved more support. I wanted to do what I could to help. So when the King told me that two leading
PLO supporters would be prepared publicly to renounce terrorism and accept UNSCR 242 I said that if they would do this, I would meet them in London. I announced this at my press conference. It would have been the first meeting between a British minister and representatives of the PLO. Later, when they arrived in London, I checked to see if they were still prepared to adhere to these conditions. One did. But the other could not: he was afraid for his life. So I could not see them. I am glad to say that King Hussein supported me in that decision. But it demonstrated — if that was necessary — how treacherous these waters were.

Before leaving Jordan I was taken out to see a Palestinian refugee camp. Denis used to say to me that these camps always tore his heart out. This was no exception. It was clean, well organized, orderly — and utterly hopeless. It was in effect run by the PLO who had, of course, a vested interest in making such camps a permanent recruiting ground for their revolutionary struggle. The most talented and educated Palestinians would not remain long there, preferring to join the Palestinian diaspora all over the Arab world. I talked to one old lady, half blind, lying in the shade of a tree outside her family’s hut. She was said to be about 100. But she had one thing above all on her mind, and spoke about it: the restoration of the Palestinians’ rights.