The Guests
Since war and its consequences present what is certainly one of the greatest threats to public health, I extended my dinner invitation to two people who were instrumental in establishing, in 1862, the International Committee for Relief to the Wounded, which eventually became the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC). The ICRC is perhaps best known for facilitating the Geneva Conventions, which have set international protocols for the care of injured soldiers, the treatment of prisoners of war, neutrality for medical personnel, limitations on the use of torture and biological weapons, and more. The ICRC is also known as the parent organization of the International Red Cross and its many national affiliates. I think these accomplishments are significant contributions to the public health and well-being of humanity, and therefore, I invited Henri Dunant and Gustave Moynier to join me for dinner.
The original ICRC consisted of five men, but I felt these two played particular and distinct roles in establishing the organization, one as the firebrand visionary, the other, as the dedicated bureaucrat. Their differences, however, eventually led them to become arch rivals and lifelong enemies. For that reason, I wasn’t sure they would agree to come together, so I tricked them by letting them each believe they were the sole guest of honor. As a result, my dinner began a little awkwardly, with a whiff of hostility in the air, but I used my hospitable nature and expert culinary abilities to put these two gentlemen at ease. We began a lengthy, multi-course meal with generous aperitifs followed by:
The First Course—Global Village Salad
Henri Dunant and Gustave Moynier were both Swiss Calvinists born in Geneva in the 1820s and raised in the comforts of respectable, well-off homes. Moynier was educated in law, and Dunant, somewhat less successfully, in business. I asked them to talk about the transitions in human life they’d witnessed in the 19th century, and in their enthusiastic responses, they revealed themselves to be men firmly rooted in the optimism of the Enlightenment. There were inventions and scientific discoveries, new forms of transportation and industry, and advancements in communication, information and education. Dunant had had success in banking in Algeria and had started his own enterprise in that French colony. Moynier had embraced the philanthropic tasks of reforming and elevating the poor.
When I asked what impact all this progress had had on international conflicts, they energetically addressed the horrors of modern warfare. In addition to advancements in technology that made killing more efficient, the adoption of conscription in most western nations meant larger armies and more casualties. But the telegraph had made the battlefield and its nightmares less remote, and there were many citizens like themselves who had become involved in efforts to make war more “humane” or abolish it altogether.
At this point, I mentioned the book, Memories of Solferino, and was compelled, by the dissent among my guests that it evoked, to move on to:
The Second Course—Peace and Harmony Soup
Memories of Solferino, which Dunant had written in 1862, had essentially introduced my two guests to each other. Using his own money, Dunant had self-published the book and boldly sent it to many influential Europeans among whom Moynier, as president of the Geneva Society for Public Welfare, was one. Even today, it is a moving and gut-wrenching account of the battle Dunant witnessed in Solferino, Italy in June, 1859 in which French forces and their allies clashed with the Austrian troops of Emperor Francis Joseph. The battle lasted only some fifteen hours, but by the end of it, according to Dunant, roughly 40,000 men were dead. In the hot, summer days and months that followed, another 40,000 soldiers, both Austrian and allied, died of injuries, starvation or thirst in the small, Italian towns and villages surrounding the scene of battle. Dunant describes the “despair unspeakable and misery of every kind” that he saw during the time he spent there. He ends the book with a call for the formation, in peacetime, of societies of non-military volunteers to train and prepare for wartime crises, and for a treaty that would grant these volunteers neutrality on the field of battle.
In spite of my praise for Dunant who had so compassionately and courageously tended to the wounded and dying at Solferino, as well as for the vision of humanitarian action he had articulated, Moynier seemed reluctant to acknowledge the profound impact the book had had on European society, and indirectly, on the world. He complained of people who could envision armies of volunteers but couldn’t manage their own finances. He was referring, of course, to Dunant’s scandalous bankruptcy in 1869 which left him shunned and living a life of obscure poverty for the next 20 years. His reputation was eventually rehabilitated towards the end of the century, and in 1901, he was the co-winner of the first Nobel Peace Prize, but he had paid a high price for the honor.
On the other hand, I understood Moynier’s bitterness. He had spent the better part of fifty years fulfilling his bureaucratic responsibilities as president of the ICRC, but had never received such recognition. Nevertheless, he’d been less than charitable to Dunant when he’d suffered his misfortunes. As gently as I could, I chided him for that, and then to be fair, I scolded Dunant, too, for always letting his emotions get the better of him. He suggested that was a little like the pot calling the kettle black, and I had to agree.
The Third Course—Friendship Fondue
We all sighed with relief when the next course of Friendship Fondue interrupted our self-reproach and gave us something else to concentrate on. Twirling our skewered crusts in the communal pot of melted cheese required concentration, courtesy and patience. It gave use a chance to ponder the sticky, messiness of life which was the subject we took up next with:
The Fourth Course—Mercy Meat, Shared Potatoes and Mixed Blessing Vegetables
I began by asking Dunant why he had accepted, at the end of Memories of Solferino, “the prospect of future wars, the avoidance of which, sooner or later seems hardly possible.” And from Moynier I wanted to know why, even today, the ICRC does not put all its efforts into universal disarmament. I also reminded them that the Red Cross has, over the years, come under considerable criticism for aiding and abetting war by making it “more humane,” for militarizing humanitarian aid with a patriotic mission and discipline, and for not doing enough to promote peace among nations.
As I presume they always had, my two guests fell immediately into their habitual roles, Moynier as the pragmatic pessimist who argued that humanity must be led to improvement in small, manageable steps, and Dunant as the visionary prophet, agreeing with me and clamoring for instant and universal disarmament.
“All are brothers,” he said to me with tears in his eyes.
“But Henri,” I said to him (because by now we were on our third bottle of wine and were on a first name basis), “Henri, you are the one who described how Colonel de Maleville seized ‘the regiment flag [and] rushed forward in the face of terrific fire from the enemy, shouting: “Every man who loves his flag, follow me!”’ Don’t you see how heroic this description is, how it might inspire young men to war?”
Moynier, hearing my criticism, looked a little too smug and righteous so I said to him, “As for you and your methodical and patronizing patience, I’d like to suggest that humanity’s ‘tiny steps to improvement’ have not kept pace with its enormous strides to destruction! Landmines, gas chambers, heat-seeking missiles! You guys are lucky you died at the beginning of the 20th century! Do you know what Gandhi said when the bombs were dropped on Hiroshima? He said, now we will all learn peace or face certain annihilation!”
The Fifth Course—Compassion Pie Smothered in Love á la Mode
Clearly I was getting emotional and on my high horse, which I tend to do when I drink too much, so my guests, both kind and good men at heart, abandoned their bickering and plied me with Compassion Pie and fair-trade coffee. “Don’t worry,” Moynier said, “Eventually, everybody gets to rest in peace.”
Smothering my pie with Love á la Mode, Dunant quoted Thorton Wilder to me. “Speaking as a dead man,” he said, “’My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it’s on your plate.”
The Hangover
The next morning, while nursing my hangover, I thought about what I’d learned from my interesting dinner guests. From Dunant, I learned that even if compassion and respect is all you have to offer a dying person, that is not nothing. I also learned that while working for humanitarian causes, it’s important to tend to one’s personal and financial survival. Otherwise, one ends up on the street, the object of pity and/or scorn.
From Moynier, I learned the difference between “loving mankind” and “loving thy neighbor.” Sometimes, the latter is the greater challenge. As my brother, the diplomat, has said, “I love humanity; it’s my fellow man I can’t stand.” Maybe if he’d been a little kinder to Dunant, they could have received the Nobel Prize together.
And finally I learned that furthering the cause of humanitarianism in the world requires both visionaries and pragmatic organizers. These two types of people are interdependent. Both are necessary. But in spite of the best intentions, there is always a shadow side. Even the great humanitarian achievements of the ICRC are a mixture of light and dark.
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