The Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training Foreign Affairs Oral History Project ARNOLD DENYS Interviewed by: Self Copyright 1998 ADST TABLE OF CONTENTS Acknowledgements About the Author Note to the Reader Preface A Crisis in the Life of a Foreign Service Officer My Beginnings US Citizenship Return to Civilian Life Panama Assignment Crisis in Panama London Egypt Athens Mexico Canada Washington, DC Antwerp Washington to Tijuana Tijuana Tijuana to Retirement Conclusion DIARY Son of Flanders The Making of a Consul: Diary of an American Foreign Service Officer In Memory of Emiel Denys (1903-1976) Godelieve Maria Denys (1909-1991) ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 1 I feel deep gratitude to my late parents for their encouragement to write this memoir. The late Mrs. Katherine McCook Knox, an art historian from Washington, DC, was in great part responsible for my efforts in compiling letters and notes on the American Foreign Service. My thanks also go to Rhoda Riddell, Ph.D., a writer and teacher, who transcribed and edited my handwritten account, which was taken from my diary. I also wish to thank Art Drexler, who completed the editing and prepared the book for printing. I wish also to thank the following persons, whom I have known in the long course of my foreign service career, and who have meant so much to me both personally and professionally, and deserve special acknowledgment: Consul General John D. Barfield Vice Consul (Ret.) Frank J. Barrett Miguel Angel Garcia Charles Stuart Kennedy, Director of the Association for Diplomatic Studies, who inspired me with his work on the Foreign Affairs Oral History Program. Appellate Court Judge Jacques Guffens Colonel Willy Van Geet, Antwerp Police Dan W. Henry, Attorney at Law Ambassador Richard K. Fox, Jr. Richard Thompson, Coordinator, Professional Issues, American Foreign Service Association. ABOUT THE AUTHOR I have known Arnold Denys since 1961. We first met at a consular staff social at the Consul’s home in Panama City. I was intrigued by his claim to multiple university degrees, yet he was only a communications supervisor. Arnold was, for his Panama tour, a “bachelor” like me, which freed him for Canal Zone recreation together. As tourist visa officer I called him in to help interview French speaking applicants, usually Haitians. Like so many Americans from those days, I well remember that it was Arnold who came into my office to inform me that President Kennedy had been shot. 2 I recommended him for appointment as consular officer as soon as he fulfilled the requirements as a US citizen. I remember he was in touch with Bishop Wright of Pittsburgh, and he had me accompany him to a reception at the Papal Nuncio’s residence in Panama City. After that I jokingly quipped to our CIA station chief one Sunday lunch: I think Arnold is a spy for the Vatican. I was retired (up or out for FSOs) after the Panama tour but I heard from Arnold during each of his subsequent assignments and visited him and his wife in Halifax, accompanied by my mother and aunt. We were graciously entertained. On his Washington assignments, I met with him three times, once in his State Department office, once at my Philadelphia, Pennsylvania home, and once halfway between. I enjoy his Christmas letters and postcards from his travels and am happy to know him and proud to be his friend. Francis J. Barrett, Esq., FSO (Retired) NOTE TO THE READER Early in my career, when I began this diary of my foreign service memoirs, I had not realized that I would one day want to compile them into a book. At the time, it was simply a way for me to remember details of persons, dates, and events that occurred in my career. Often times, circumstances allowed only brief moments to recollect a day’s events. On occasion, evacuations disrupted our routines for weeks at a time. Consequently, I was not as diligent as I should have been about recording the complete names of some visiting diplomats, dignitaries, and other high ranking persons mentioned in this book. To correct these omissions, I have researched my notes and other sources with moderate success. It is hoped that the reader, and those persons mentioned, will understand the circumstances, and forgive the occasional omissions of first names. This book is intended to serve as a resource for those who wish to have a clearer understanding of the day to day life of a foreign service officer. As a story, it admittedly lacks the drama that a narrative style might have offered, but it does provide a chronology that records events during a most fascinating period of time in US and world history. It is further hoped that students will be encouraged to consider a life in foreign service as one of great interest, challenge, and personal growth. I am deeply grateful for the opportunity to have served the United States as a foreign service officer, and have prepared this book to record my experiences for others who may share this interest in government service. PREFACE I first thought about entering the United States Foreign Service in my sophomore year at Gonzaga University, in Spokane, Washington. A chain of events prepared me for this adventurous and interesting life. My immigration to the United States from Belgium at the beginning of the Cold War between the USSR and the US, and my immersion in the 3 intellectual and spiritual life of American society, paved the way to seek a diplomatic career suitable to my ideological aspirations and needs. I had good Jesuit teachers who became my mentors and gave me the impetus to contribute my talents to American diplomacy at a time when the United States would play a crucial global role in the aftermath of World War II. My years (1953-1956) at Georgetown University School of Foreign Service increased my focus on American ideology and its positive leadership in the free world. After witnessing atrocities and bombing in Flanders between 1939 and 1945, life as an immigrant in the United States in the early 1950s taught me about the duties of American democracy and the sacrifices my adopted land had made to preserve liberty and human rights. I went through an in-depth educational process of Americanization, and my subsequent service as an interpreter in the US Army bolstered my career plans. In the Army I pursued positive contacts with European civilian and military officials and became involved in public relations liaison work, which served me well in later years as a US Consul. In these memoirs I have tried to show how an American Foreign Service employee and consul can contribute, in a small but effective way, to enhancing America’s image abroad. My foreign service career was unique in that it required more zeal and dedication. I was a recent newcomer to this country, entering a field which, in the early 1960s, usually required ten years of American citizenship. In spite of the obstacles I was able to make a relatively successful contribution to the Foreign Service during the post World War II period. Every post had its hardships, career growth and fulfillment. Panama introduced me to the cultural, economic, and social imbalances of Latin America. The break in US- Panamanian relations over an incident in the Canal zone prepared me for a more serious crisis in Egypt, when my family had to be evacuated, our Consulate General in Alexandria was burned down, and my personal safety was endangered. Athens offered a respite, a place to recharge energies following the mass exodus of foreign service personnel from the Near East in 1967. London offered peace and many amenities for a foreign service family. In Hermosillo, Mexico, I learned to become an effective consular officer. But it was during my assignment in Halifax, Canada, that I became attuned to the protocol of the Service as I socially mingled with chiefs of mission, Canadian officials, and other diplomats on a regular basis. My assignment in the State Department, in Washington, DC, exposed me to interaction between the Public Affairs Press Office and the Secretariat, and between the Office of Cultural Affairs and Educational Exchanges (CU/ARA) and its political desk officer counterparts. The job in the Visa office trained me in Congressional interest inquiries. 4 During the period from 1977-1981 I held an important assignment in Belgium. This tense period led up to the end of the Cold War, which President Reagan and Vice President Bush helped bring about by keeping the Pershing missiles on the books for deployment in Western Europe, including Belgium. Political reporting and meeting Flemish political leaders became part of my consular job description. I was called upon to act as Consul General at interim for three months. It was a dynamic era for the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) and the European Union (EU), while Western Europe was on the threshold of opening up to Eastern Europe. As a Consul in Tijuana, I dealt with US-Mexico border problems of great proportions. The number of undocumented aliens from Mexico and Central America was increasing. Tijuana was one of the largest nonimmigrant visa issuance posts in Mexico, and its strategic location near San Diego made it fertile ground for investors in border industries (the maquiladores). It also became a site of heavy drug trafficking. The positive side of being a consular officer in Tijuana was the constant cultural interchanges between the two Californias at a time when Mexico was undergoing rapid political and social changes. Arnold Denys San Diego, California 1997 CHAPTER I A Crisis in the Life of a Foreign Service Officer Midmorning on June 6, 1967, a shouting, angry mob of Egyptian men and boys attacked our Consulate General in Alexandria, Egypt, soon putting it to fire. The British Consul called me in my ground floor office and said their Consulate had been ransacked and we were next. I had Egyptian visitors in my office, parents of an Egyptian-American doctor who had been killed in a car accident in Detroit. They needed a power of attorney to settle their son’s estate. Warned of the imminent break-in I escorted them out of the building. Moments later the hostile attackers pushed through the front gate, overwhelming the security guards posted there. Immediately we were prisoners, along with the Consul General and other staff members who had taken refuge in the vault area upstairs. The Consul General had instructed me to stay in my downstairs office in case any American citizens needed assistance. I was on the front line and the only foreign service officer on the ground floor when the mob entered, except for Dr. Hixon, an aid officer also in his office. The rowdy crowd threw molotov cocktails in the lobby and adjacent offices. In seconds they invaded my office, grabbed me by the neck, shouting anti-American obscenities. My 5 heart raced in fear but fortunately, Mohammed, a foreign service national employee who had hidden, rushed to my rescue and pulled the aggressors away from me. He begged them for mercy, pleading, “He is the father of a small child!” It took long minutes before Mohammed persuaded them not to harm me and masterminded our escape through an office window. He helped me and Dr. Hixon jump into the rear garden. There another mob had set fire to our Consulate and personal vehicles. I owed Mohammed my life. We soon learned that the crowd who destroyed our Consulate went on to raze the United States Information Service (USIS) Jefferson Library, one of our prize properties in Egypt where Egyptian students took English classes and where I taught English part time. This destruction was a job of professional rioters. About two hours later Egyptian security forces offered some help. As we wondered what had happened to those in the vault the Consul General and American staff arrived in the garden. It was a relief when Egyptian security forces finally took us all in a van to police headquarters. The Consul General told us to return to our homes and prepare for an immediate evacuation from the city. He said, “I’ve communicated with our Embassy in Cairo. We are to plan for evacuation to Athens in a few days. You have two hours to pack bare essentials.” At my apartment I was so traumatized by the mob attack that I did not know what to pack first. I made sure I had my passport and some clothing. Fearful of more violence I rushed to the main lobby of the apartment building and waited for a car to pick me up. The Consul General had called us into his ransacked office, looking shaken as did we all, but he spoke firmly, reassuring us that everything was being done to get us out of the city when it was dark. “I’ve made a firm protest to the Egyptian authorities,” he said, “at the cruel treatment of our foreign service personnel at the hands of the mob and the destruction of US government property.” Around 6:30 p.m. we, the American staff, were inconspicuously taken from our homes to the Palestine Hotel outside of Alexandria where we would be safer. We were confined to one large room of the hotel in order to avoid contact with other hotel guests. We continued to hear the sounds of the nightly air raid. We were also bombarded by loud radio news broadcasts and anti-American statements by President Nasser in his effort to influence the Arab public against the United States. It had an inflammatory effect on the burning of many foreign service posts in the Middle East. June 9, the Egyptian police escorted us by bus to the Port of Alexandria where we boarded the Greek ship, Carina, and joined 600 other American evacuees from the area. A three-day grueling experience followed, crossing to Athens. Overcrowded cabins had little ventilation and we set foot on Greek soil with relief. The first rumors informed us we would be returned to our posts once the dust had settled. This was never to be. 6 I felt sad that I was unable to say goodbye to my local Egyptian staff, friends and students in Alexandria. Later, while I was working at the Athens Embassy, I received a letter from one of my students, Ibrahim, who hoped I would someday return to Alexandria. CHAPTER II My Beginnings When I first visited the US Consulate General in Antwerp, in October 1950, to get my immigrant visa for the United States, I never realized that one day I would return there as a US Consul and Acting Consul General. My life story begins in Flanders and shows the challenges of becoming a United States citizen following World War II. My immigrant experience and efforts in the US Foreign Service reflect an immigrant’s struggle and difficulties to join the foreign service. My story, I believe, is unique, and may inspire others to reach for satisfying careers. In 1950, it was not easy for a European immigrant to reach such goals, but in America much is attainable -- if not without personal sacrifice. I was born in Varsenare, a small farming town eight miles from the medieval city of Bruges, West Flanders, on March 6, 1931. At that time it was inhabited by farmers and landlords belonging to the Flemish aristocracy. The farmers of Varsenare would go with their horse and buggy to the Bruges central market to sell their products each Saturday. Economic conditions in Belgium in the 1930’s were fairly normal considering that the country was still recuperating from World War I -- partly fought on Belgian territory. My father, Emiel, was born in Ressegem, on April 30, 1903. He worked in his father’s grain business in Varsenare. My paternal grandparents, Charles Denys and Judith De Fleur, grew up in East Flanders but moved to Varsenare to make a better living for my father, his brother, Gaston, and sister, Adrienne. My mother, Godelieve Dobbelaere, born March 6, 1909, was the second of five daughters of Alois Dobbelaere and Irma De Ruwe. My maternal grandparents had a farm in Varsenare. Three of their daughters, Martha, Clara, and Maria, entered the Convent of the Sisters of Heule, West Flanders, and my mother and her sister, Anna, married at an early age to enter business. As a result, my grandparents retired early from the farm, having no sons to continue the heritage. Following my early childhood in Varsenare, my parents moved to St. Andries (St. Andrew), a town near Bruges, to start their own grain business. They bought a nice home, which was called Sparrebosch (Forest of Pines). I went to kindergarten and primary school with the Sisters in St. Andrew. My parents later enrolled me at St. Francis Xavier Catholic High School, in Bruges. At this school discipline was the order of the day. I believe those years served to discipline me for later intellectual pursuits. 7 In 1940, German armies invaded Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg without warning. My father served in the Belgian Army, but the campaign against the Germans in Belgium did not last long. In May, the Belgian Army was not prepared to hold on against the Nazi might. On May 26, Belgian armies disorganized and, a shortage of supplies forced King Leopold III to surrender. The German invasion of Belgium and the occupation put us in constant fear for our personal safety. I was brought up in Flemish, the language spoken in northern Belgium. Belgium has two national languages: Flemish and French. Flemish is like Dutch, the official language of the Netherlands, which occupied Belgium until 1830, the date of Belgian independence. The history of the two languages in Belgium has many political overtones. The Flemish people used to be the “underdog,” while the French speaking Walloons of Brussels and southern Belgium controlled the important jobs in government, diplomacy, and business. Hence the creation of the Flemish movement following World War I, in which many Flemish soldiers died. Subsequent political battles by Flemish leaders gained linguistic and political equality. When my parents attended secondary schools in Belgium the primary language was French. That changed, however, when the University of Ghent was founded as a Flemish University. I was taught in Flemish and we studied French as a second language. Although the Flemish population constitutes 60 percent of the Belgian population (10 million inhabitants in Belgium), French continues to dominate areas of power in government. Thus my father sent me to Revigny sur Meuse, France, for two summers to live with friends, the Henri Payard family, where I learned French fluently. Although the Flemings have gained political power, it is not unusual that some are not fluent in French. Some in Wallonia are reluctant to master the Flemish language. French was always the language at the royal court in Brussels. Now the King addresses the nation in the two national languages. Today the two languages are indispensable to achieving success. Belgium has been affected by political disturbances and is now becoming a miniature of great political and cultural diversity, positioned at the center of Europe and the European Union. I was fortunate to be brought up speaking both Flemish and French in that my curiosity for other languages and cultures was enriched. The more languages one knows the greater one’s ability to mix in cultural and political circles. When my father returned home he continued his grain business but refused to work for the occupying Germans, even though he could have made big profits. Some Flemish businessmen accepted the opportunity to put their business under German supervision. My parents were very anti-Nazi and sympathetic to the Allied cause. When US and Canadian forces liberated Belgium in August, 1944, many reprisals took place against persons who had collaborated with the Germans and benefited from the German Occupation. 8 I remember sitting in the living room at night listening for news of liberation on the BBC radio station. From time to time German soldiers would make rounds in the neighborhood. We could hear their heavy boots. They would listen at the windows and sometimes they would ring the doorbell and come in to see if anything suspicious was going on. Many times neighbors were taken away for questioning at the local Gestapo station. Since my father had a small grain business we always had enough bread and other necessities. Luxuries such as coffee were rationed. My father’s grain business had its ups and downs. We survived the bombings around Bruges. The city was spared destruction, it was said, because of the Allies’ appreciation for the city’s art. They never bombed the inner city, but we had air raids almost continuously. As the sirens stopped and started, we were constantly opening and closing the windows. Some chateaux, which the Germans had occupied in the suburbs of Bruges, were bombed by Allied planes. We often found shrapnel in our garden. One day a large, heavy piece hit the hothouse where my grandfather was working, nearly killing him. My adolescent life was very much affected by the German occupation. I often had to stay at home. We had to dim our lights early, a standard procedure during the war. I often liked to ride my bicycle. When an air raid occurred I had to jump, with my bike, into the nearest ditch. Sometimes planes flew directly overhead as they searched the main roads. Some of the Underground people were killed by the Germans near Bruges. Our only hope in Flanders was that the Allied troops would someday liberate us. Our link with the outside world was Radio Free London, from which we had messages of hope and eventual liberation. Bruges, one of the oldest medieval cities in Europe, is the capital of the province of West Flanders, often referred to as “the Venice of the North,” because of its canals and moats. It is still one of Europe’s favorite tourist sites. Henry Adams, in his book Chartres and St. Michel, wrote, “Bruges is indeed a monument of Christian past and an inspiration for generations of tomorrow, of unity, faith, Catholic fervor, its chivalry and dynamicity of purpose. Bruges is a city of various dimensions filled with mystical beauty of historic times, which are devoted to art, paintings, shrines to Our Lady, and solace for its people.” In retrospect, I see Bruges as an anchor in my busy life. I always refer to it as the cultural background of my childhood. In later years I would always return to Bruges to visit family and friends, and to reacquaint myself with its primitive paintings -- those of Memlinck and the Van Eyck brothers. It was this early influence, I believe, that developed my love of art, and my life in the Foreign Service offered countless opportunities to pursue that passion. The war years brought confusion and uncertainty for my future. After the war, an unexpected visit to relatives in Belgium by my maternal great-uncle, Remie De Ruwe, of 9 Walla Walla, Washington, opened new horizons for me. During his visit to Flanders he inquired about my future and offered me an opportunity to study in the United States At that time it was unusual for a young student to travel alone to the United States. My uncle had warned me with his nostalgia for the homeland and his struggles as an immigrant. His visit to his homeland changed my destiny. I was determined to follow my uncle’s advice: to learn English well, to get a job, and to discover the New World. My parents reluctantly supported me in these plans. I was their only child and it was not easy for them to let go. My Uncle Remie sponsored me and I was thus able to receive an immigrant visa at the Consulate General in Antwerp. On October 13, 1950, I sailed on the SS Washington from Le Havre, France, for my first transatlantic voyage. Although my parents accompanied me to the French port, it was a sad departure and not without difficulties. Special immigration inspectors were on board ship and they questioned every immigrant prior to departure on his or her political views. This was the beginning of the McCarthy era in the US (named after Senator Joseph McCarthy, of Wisconsin), when many foreigners and intellectuals were suspected of having communist sympathies. My crossing of the North Atlantic lasted about ten days. Rough seas, little English, and feelings of insecurity made it a difficult journey. I was happy to arrive in New York and, with other immigrants, went on deck to look for the Statue of Liberty, which means so much to any newcomer to America. It was a deeply spiritual experience. I also had a view of the massive skyscrapers of New York. It was an overwhelming sight of power and grandeur. My father had given me $150 for the train trip from New York to Spokane, Washington. That part of the journey was exciting. The overwhelming cities of New York and Chicago, the skyscrapers and the wide open spaces made me homesick for my native Flanders and my emotionally secure, sheltered life. My uncle had been right to warn me of culture shock and personal sacrifices I would endure. The four day trip by train (without sleeper) caused me to contract a boil which went untreated until I arrived in Spokane with Great-Uncle Felix and Aunt Anna. Everything was different in America. I understood only a few words of English. I noticed that people seemed to act more efficiently, but they were also kinder than people back home. The first days and months in the Northwest were the most difficult one of my immigrant experience. I tried hard to mix socially with my family and friends. I felt torn away from my own family roots in Flanders, and that what I had left behind would never be able to be filled with experiences of my new American life. Although people in America showed me hospitality and optimism, I longed for the familiar family roots of my native Belgium. But as I made progress in English my cultural assimilation improved. The contrast between my relatively protected adolescent years in Flanders and my new existence in the Far West was dramatic. It took about two years before I began to appreciate my new life in the United States, as I tried to make the crossover from the European ways of living to the American ways of doing things. 10