My fondest political aphorism asserts that “there are only two ways out of politics: death or failure”. There is something intrinsic, deep down in the psychological make-up of the politician that drives him or her on … and on and on. When Margaret Thatcher used this exact phrase — “I intend to go on and on” — a year before she was unceremoniously turfed out by a typically unsentimental Tory party in Britain, she captured the quintessential blindness of the political animal. However clearly the signs of decay may be etched into their future path, she or he will be unable to see them, still less act upon them.
Of course, for every rule there is an exception. And with this one, the exception is Nelson Mandela. He left of his own free will; an entirely voluntary act. I suspect for the great majority, even within his own party, Mandela could have chosen to go “on and on”, and with few complaints.
I mention all of this in the context of FW de Klerk, who appears to have rapidly descended into his own vortex of visually challenged impairment. Most politicians are tragic figures, in the dramatic, Shakespearean sense and, to sustain the analogy, like King Lear or Hamlet they remain blissfully unaware of their blind spots.
Sometimes this may amount to something truly epic, such as Thatcher’s determination to go on even though she had become an electoral burden and was obviously about to be ditched by her own party, or Thabo Mbeki’s stubborn refusal to change tack on HIV/Aids.
How so the lack of self-awareness? Why, after 13 years of power, did Thatcher not find an elegant way out? A genteel resignation? Because they are not programmed that way; the default position of career politicians is the relentless pursuit of power, not its voluntary accession.
Other times, it may be more mundane — such as in FW’s case — the failure to keep their mouths closed. Looking back through press cuttings, one discovers that he announced his retirement from politics in 1997. Yet, in recent months, he has dipped persistently in and out of the news.
Because of who he is, journalists still regard him as of interest to at least some of their readers so when he says something vaguely pertinent to a contemporary political news story, it will get reported. FW knows this and clearly cannot resist the temptation to offer comment to the media. He really should shut up; he is destroying what little goodwill he enjoyed outside of the Nationalist sector, and is threatening his legacy within it.
I am reliably told that Marthinus van Schalkwyk is increasingly frustrated by FW’s mutterings. To which FW would probably reply that he does not care a toss about the opinion of Van Schalkwyk, the man who he set on his course to the leadership of the National Party. But if he carries on in his current vein, FW will increasingly look like a sad, bitter old man — which may, in fact, be an entirely accurate depiction.
For this reason, it is a pity that he has not been afflicted by another phenomenon that invades the psyche of many former political leaders. I imagine that it has a medical name, but I refer to it as a “Harold Wilson syndrome”. Apparently, the former British prime minister’s memory ceased at the date at which he — voluntarily — resigned in March 1976 and handed over the reigns of power to Jim Callaghan.
In the years that followed, until his death in 1995, he was unable to recall or converse about anything that had happened after 1976. It is as if with the end of political power, all meaningful life drains out of the sad creature. By all accounts, Thatcher is almost as bad, which is why she is so seldom quoted: journalists cannot get her to say a sensible word about contemporary events, and her advisers and friends work hard to protect her reputation by shielding her from the media spotlight.
FW’s friends and advisers would be sensible to take a similar course of action. The problem in FW’s case is his relative youth and health. Sixty-one when he “retired” from politics, it must admittedly be hard to leave the political sphere altogether. Hence the importance of finding useful things for former heads of government to do with their time.
The more balanced and modest ones set up foundations that apply their good reputations and wisdom to the common good (Jimmy Carter, with his Atlanta-based Carter Centre). Some service their avarice and the political ambitions of transnational corporations of dubious propriety (George Bush, the Senior). Still a young man, Bill Clinton (he is not yet 60), is steering towards the Carter option rather than the Bush one now he has paid off his debts. Others simply enjoy the opportunity to watch more cricket (John Major).
Which raises the interesting question: What will Mbeki do? While many commentators focus, unsurprisingly, on the question of The Succession, the question of what Mbeki will do after 2009 is a relevant one — to South African politics and the government, as well as for himself. At that time he will be 67; it is hard to imagine him sliding on the old slippers and putting his feet up.
Will his own tragic blind spot — HIV/Aids — preclude him from a major role in multilateral government; has it tarnished his reputation too much? Perhaps. But politics can be surprisingly forgetting, if not forgiving. I suspect there will be a market for Mbeki’s deep knowledge of international affairs. The Mbeki Centre? I doubt it. United Nations secretary general? Probably not. Head of the African Union, or some such position? Far more likely. A cushy, lucrative position in business? There is scant evidence that Mbeki has any real interest in money, or its making, sufficient to satisfy his curiosity for governance and politics.
As a public intellectual and writer, he would have a huge amount to offer, though it might prove to be invariably and inevitably inconvenient to his successor. Which is why the two issues are linkable. If Mbeki plans such a role, one in which he continues to participate in the political life of the country, then the successor had better be one who can cope with the interventions of a former president — certainly with less of the impatience that Mbeki has understandably shown at times with Mandela.
Because unless Mbeki develops Harold Wilson syndrome, it is more likely the interventions will be both sophisticated and sharply textured, and not as with FW, the ill-considered whingeing of a man apparently set on selling what remains of his reputation for the price of a sound bite.