Water and Poison

I wanted to tell you about that encounter with Karim, my university classmate, in a restaurant in old Algiers. Between half-finished plates and dwindling bottles of Hamoud Boualem , he described his life as a diplomat with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. " Here I am ," he said, toying with his glass, "practicing the art of calculated courtesy." His gestures, now so measured, so different from that student who used to shout slogans in the faculty corridors, spoke volumes more than his words. In his eyes, I saw the price of neutrality, the vibrant colors of our former convictions diluted in diplomatic shadows.

“ You had and still have potential ,” he told me with that condescending air that a suit and tie bestow. “ You just needed to be more… flexible .” Flexible. The word hung between us like the smoke from the cigar he was holding. As if bending one’s moral spine were a skill to be admired. He told me about his veteran colleagues, masters of the art of strategic ambiguity, who navigated the corridors of power with the grace of seasoned dancers. There was admiration in his voice, but in his eyes… I wondered if he ever felt the weight of unspoken words, of truths silenced in the name of protocol.

The envelope with the letterhead of the Institute of Diplomacy and International Relations still rests in my files, yellowed with time. My uncle, a high-ranking official, with the conviction of someone who has paved the way for another, gave it to me when I graduated with a degree in Political Science. Sometimes I look at it and remember that moment, his eyes shining with expectation, already imagining me in the corridors of diplomatic power. But it was then that I decided I didn't want to spend my life walking the tightrope of protocol neutrality.

My International Relations professor in the imposing ITFC amphitheater in Algiers, where the echo of his voice reverberated between walls that had witnessed decades of political theories, used to say that a good diplomat is like water, adapting to any container without losing its essence. " Diplomacy is the art of saying 'good dog' until you find a stone ," he would quote with that satisfied smile so typical of someone who has navigated the seas of power. From my seat on those worn wooden bleachers, I silently wondered what happened if you never wanted to throw the stone, if you were content to be the echo of more powerful voices, like the very echo those venerable walls were now returning.

I remember the first time I felt the weight of forced neutrality. It was a meeting about oil spots in an office on Calle de Velázquez, right in the heart of Madrid. I was just a young man, newly arrived in Spain, speaking the language well, enamored with Castilian and its centuries-old history. My Algerian friend had asked me to accompany him as a translator. Around that mahogany table, amidst dark suits and leather briefcases, I found myself translating figures that danced among millions. Each number represented decisions that would affect lives we would never know, destinies sealed in a room with air conditioning that was far too cold. " Just translate, I'll explain later ," my friend whispered when he noticed my confused expression in the face of so much concentrated power. " We're just intermediaries, nothing more ."

That spring of 2010, the so-called "Arab Spring." While young people in the streets of Tunisia fought for their freedom, carefully neutral statements were drafted in offices, each word calibrated to avoid offending either side. The people cried out for change while diplomacy moved to the rhythm of a sleepy waltz, more concerned with maintaining the balance of power than with the lives being transformed in real time.

A few months later I called my uncle. It wasn't a dramatic conversation, but a quiet, shared realization. " I can't be the water that fits any vessel ," I told him. " Some vessels are poisoned, Uncle, and fitting them means becoming part of the poison ." There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and then, surprisingly, a soft laugh. " It's okay!