The Flag That Never Was

In diplomacy, there are moments when one must resist the temptation to laugh — not because the situation is unfunny, but because the stakes are high and the audience, sometimes, is Japanese.

It began with a meeting arranged between an inexperienced minister, her entourage, and a visiting Japanese cabinet member. The minister’s team, brimming with enthusiasm but light on protocol, had devised a number of… let us say… unconventional ideas. We in the international department listened politely, making small adjustments as we went along — guiding them gently, like one steers a distracted toddler away from an open fountain.

Then came the question. One particularly severe aide, with a tone that could have cut marble, demanded to know whether we had the flag of MATOPIBA. Now, MATOPIBA is not a sovereign state, nor even a province. It is an agricultural region invented by her ministry for branding purposes — a cartographic figment. She intended to place its “flag” alongside the Japanese one on the conference table. We nodded gravely, as if she had just invoked the flag of Atlantis.

Later, there was the matter of signing ceremonies. The minister wished the Japanese dignitary to sign various documents with mayors and local councillors — a mismatch in rank that, in diplomatic protocol, is the equivalent of pairing a tea ceremony with instant noodles. We improvised: a ceremonial letter was drafted for her and the dignitary, while the mayors were given blank sheets to sign — the photos, after all, were what mattered. To the Japanese, we explained it was an internal arrangement. Everyone smiled.

The day’s pièce de résistance came at dinner. The minister promised a surprise for the Japanese minister. Hours later, she descended the staircase of the private club dressed as a geisha, flanked by two aides in similar costume. The Japanese delegation — masters of etiquette, allergic to spontaneity — maintained their composure. Whether they were impressed, baffled, or quietly traumatised remains unclear to this day.

In the months that followed, cooperation between the two ministries quietly dissolved. The MATOPIBA flag was never seen again. It is perhaps still fluttering in some imaginary breeze, in a republic that exists only in the minutes of that meeting.

The Diplomacy of Truth: A Tale of Chanceries and Stomped Feet

 I was sitting behind the dark wooden desk at the Ministry, in the room that always had the distinct scent of stacked papers and cold coffee. It was just any other morning, one of those days where routine stretches out like a faraway horizon, with no surprises in sight. But, of course, there's always something that changes it – and that day, the change came in the form of a chancery officer.

She entered with a posture that could have belonged in any spy movie, all formal, her blazer perfectly aligned, and an expression that seemed to suggest she was there to resolve problems involving entire countries. But the reason for her visit wasn’t exactly what I expected. I thought we’d be discussing deep diplomatic issues, maybe a treaty or some billion-dollar agreement. None of that.

She, with a slightly tense smile, asked right off the bat: "How did our attache manage to bring his wife with him to his post abroad?" I stared at her for a moment, trying to keep my composure, but the answer was already slipping out of my mouth before I could process it.

"Well, he basically did what everyone does in this situation: sought out some good patronage, because let’s be honest, this is illegal," I said, with the kind of bluntness that comes from being tired of formalities and bureaucracy. She looked at me, probably expecting some kind of evasive answer, but the truth was my only ally at that point.

That’s when my department head, who was sitting nearby and just happened to be friends with the attache, decided to make a quiet, strategic move. She gave me a very subtle, under-the-table nudge. "Don’t say that!" her heel seemed to whisper. Now, I’m not the type to stay quiet when a foot is pressed against mine – especially when I know it’s to cover up something that should be more transparent.

"Why did you step on my foot?" I asked, aloud, with no filter whatsoever. The room went completely still, as if even the air had paused to listen to what just happened.

The department head, with an expression of someone who no longer knew where to look, blushed deeply. She knew I wouldn’t have said that if it hadn’t been for her subtle "shush". She tried to justify it, nervously whispering that what I’d said wasn’t "correct". I, with the patience of someone who had grown tired of the Ministry’s tricks, responded without hesitation, "Correct? Well, if it were correct, you wouldn’t be trying to hide it from everyone, would you?"

And that's when she was left completely speechless. The chancery officer, who had up until then seemed mainly concerned with how her friend’s husband managed to bring his wife along, was now absolutely horrified by the situation. After all, who would expect such a simple process of transferring a spouse to be wrapped up in so much confusion? She looked at me with wide eyes, probably trying to figure out what was going on or perhaps wondering if it had been a mistake to bring up such a thorny topic.

In the end, all that lingered in the air was the smell of forgotten coffee and the feeling that diplomacy, in fact, had been right there before us, not in the hands of great ambassadors, but in the feet of those who, secretly, were trying to silence the truth.

It was a small moment of pure bureaucratic comedy. And, as much as the power games and maneuvers in public service were always more interesting than any spy film, I still couldn’t help but smile. After all, that morning, diplomacy took on a new meaning: the art of, when possible, stepping on the lie with a bit of good humor.

Carmen and the Soviet Union

I once had a secretary named Carmen — one of the sweetest, most patient, most helpful people you could ever meet. Always smiling, always willing to help. But she had a… let’s say… very unique relationship with facts.

One day, I called her during my lunch break.
“Carmen, is the meeting room booked for this afternoon?”
She put me on hold, shuffled through some papers, and came back proudly.
“Yes, Doctor, it’s reserved for exactly the time you want.”

“Great,” I said. “And what meeting is scheduled then?”
“Oh, it’s a meeting with the Soviet Union.”

I almost dropped my fork. “The Soviet Union? Carmen, you do know that… well… it doesn’t exist anymore, right?”
There was silence. Then she said, confidently, “No, no, it’s written right here.”

A few seconds later she burst out laughing.
“Oh wait! I read it wrong. It’s the European Union. My mistake.”

Weeks later, I asked her to call the Brazilian Foreign Ministry, specifically a division called DIBAS — Brazil-India-South Africa Dialogue.
Time passed. Then she called me back, sounding a bit wounded.
“Doctor, they say there’s no such division… and honestly, they weren’t very nice to me.”

That’s when I discovered she’d asked for the “Division of BIBAS.”
For the uninitiated, “bibas” is… well… Brazilian slang for gay men.
I can only imagine the conversation on the other end of the line.

And then there was the time she insisted that, decades ago, the Ministry of Agriculture had been called the Ministry of Hunting and Fishing. I tried to explain it was just the name of an old social club, but she wasn’t having it.

Her dream was always to work at the Presidency. And she actually made it!
Curiously, a few months after she got there, the President faced impeachment.

Now, I’m not saying the two events were related… but let’s just say that, in diplomacy, I’ve learned never to completely rule out a coincidence.