(Un)diplomatic Memories. A Review.

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When I received Kishore Mahbubani’s latest book, “Living the Asian Century: An Undiplomatic Memoir” as a gift, I didn’t expect it to be such a captivating journey through the history and development of Southeast Asia.

Though deeply personal, the book offers a profound look at Singapore’s transformation and that of the broader region. This isn’t a typical biography. Mahbubani recounts his life’s journey, which intertwines with Singapore’s remarkable rise from a poor nation to one of the world’s most advanced. Both his personal experiences and Singapore’s story demonstrate that great things can emerge from humble beginnings.

It’s a book that decision-makers in any country—particularly those in small and medium-sized countries—should read carefully, as there’s much to learn from it.

Mahbubani writes about his first diplomatic mission and the geopolitical lesson he drew from it:

“Small states can suffer greatly if they fail to understand the rivalries of great powers unfolding in their neighborhood.”

He invokes a story familiar to many interested in international relations or history, recorded by the Greek historian Thucydides: the island of Melos, caught between the proverbial hammer and anvil—Athens and Sparta—heard from Athenian envoys, “The strong do what they can, and the weak suffer what they must.”

How does this relate to Singapore? It’s one of the lessons that guided the city-state’s founding fathers—Lee Kuan Yew, Goh Keng Swee, and S. Rajaratnam. Mahbubani puts it this way:

“They had no illusions about the nature of power. In their dealings with small states, great powers will always prioritize their interests over principles.”

What can we learn from Kishore’s book to broaden our own nation’s horizons?

I was particularly struck by his analyses and insights into Singapore’s place on the global stage, such as this passage:

“From them, I learned that geopolitics is an art, not a science. Yet they were also guided by key principles. Their primary goal for Singapore, as a small state, was always to create greater geopolitical space between it and its two large neighbors, Malaysia and Indonesia. To achieve this, we had to ensure exceptionally good governance at home—which we did. We also had to build close ties with the great powers that mattered in our region. In the 1980s, American power was the clearly dominant force in our neighborhood. So, despite ups and downs in our relations with the United States, we always stayed closer to them than to any of our neighbors.”

Kishore also writes compellingly, based on his experiences, about the United Nations, challenging the oft-repeated media claim of its weakness.

According to Mahbubani:

“Interestingly, the United States has always complained about the ‘weakness’ of the UN. Yet one key reason the UN is ‘weak’ is the deliberate U.S. policy of keeping it that way. It’s shocking how few Americans know this crucial fact about the UN.”

But he’s fair in his critique, noting that the issue isn’t exclusive to the U.S. but extends to all five permanent members (P5):

“The five permanent members (P5) wielded far more power than the ten elected members (E10). In theory, all fifteen are ‘equal’; in practice, the council has five ‘members’ and ten ‘guests.”

Smaller countries, then, have far less—dare I say marginal—influence in these ongoing power plays, constantly under immense pressure from the biggest players, primarily the U.S., China, and Russia:

“The United States wasn’t the only P5 member threatening vetoes or leveraging procedural influence. Russia and China did it too.”

For Kishore, clarity came when—during Singapore’s presidency—he tried to propose reforms that his delegation believed would improve the institution’s effectiveness. The proposals met with resistance, and only later did they learn informally from the French that, as ‘tourists,’ they shouldn’t try to rearrange the furniture. Kishore sums it up:

“The term ‘tourists’ was probably apt. It captured how the P5 viewed the elected council members.”

Is the fate of the world forged in this battered, sometimes dismissed United Nations? Kishore doesn’t say outright, but he points to a stark truth about the institution, specifically the UN Security Council:

“I harbored many illusions about our world. The Security Council firmly disabused me of them. Before joining the Council, I believed that in the contest between ethical principles and raw power, principles would have some sway. After twenty-six months on the Council, I was convinced that power always trumps principles.”

These words may shock many, but they only confirm that in international politics, hard interests reign supreme. For us, it’s all just theater—everyone talks about values, but behind closed doors, those values mean little to the biggest players.

This is also a life-affirming book, especially for the young, reminding them of universal truths that hold true across all latitudes. How else to interpret this passage where Kishore reflects on his exit from the MFA (Ministry of Foreign Affairs):

“Unwittingly, I stepped on the toes of some important people. Those episodes are too sensitive to recount here. As a result, the government decided my tenure as permanent secretary should end. (…) Then the usual happened: I discovered I had fewer friends than I’d thought. I also learned who my true friends were.”

There’s nothing groundbreaking here—especially for those with life experience—but perhaps the young need to hear that a career brings both successes and setbacks. Especially setbacks. The ‘strawberry’ or ‘snowflake’ generations are yet to learn this life lesson.

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The Strawberry Generation (a term used mainly in Asia, especially Taiwan) describes young people seen as fragile, quick to give up, and stress-averse—like strawberries that bruise easily.

The Snowflake Generation (a Western term) refers to youth perceived as overly sensitive, easily offended, and convinced of their uniqueness—like snowflakes, distinct yet delicate.

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How did Kishore handle these setbacks? His mother’s words proved invaluable. She faced her own hardships (fleeing Hyderabad—now in Pakistan—in 1947 and rebuilding in a foreign land) and advised her children to always, no matter the circumstances—even when hungry—‘put butter on their lips and smile.’ Those challenges she endured gave Kishore strength and a constant point of reference, as he writes:

“For much of my life, I faced uncertainty, smiling with metaphorical ‘butter on my lips,’ trying to seem like everything was fine.”

Kishore clung to this advice throughout his life, and perhaps many who knew him are only now learning that behind the mask of a professional lay a man with many struggles. It seems obvious, yet how often we forget that people have their own burdens—what we see on the surface isn’t always what they grapple with inside. We forget this—or refuse to admit it—more often now in the age of ubiquitous social media, bombarded with altered photos of smiling faces layered with filters.

There are funny anecdotes too. I found one especially amusing (though I’m unsure if Kishore meant it ironically): a ‘trip’ to Africa and meeting Nelson Mandela. The wife of an ambassador asked her husband not to wash his hands after shaking Mandela’s, so she could shake the hand that shook Mandela’s…

There’s also a scene that resonates deeply with me: Kishore, now dean of the Lee Kuan Yew School of Public Policy in Singapore, meeting Hong Kong billionaire Li Ka-shing to secure a donation for the university. Not a small sum—100 million Singapore dollars—armed only with a recommendation letter from Lee Kuan Yew. The scene captivates with its brevity—it feels as fleeting as the meeting itself. See for yourself:

“I sat on the edge of my chair, ready to begin as soon as Li Ka-shing read the letter. But Mr. Li suddenly turned to me and asked, ‘How much?’ I said, ‘A hundred million dollars.’ He asked, ‘Singapore or Hong Kong dollars?’ I replied, ‘Singapore.’ He frowned. Then he turned to his assistant, Amy Au, and began discussing in Cantonese. I didn’t know what they were saying. I thought I was done for. Instead, after three minutes, Mr. Li reached out to shake my hand and said, ‘OK.’”

This speaks to the esteem in which Singapore’s founding father, Lee Kuan Yew, was held. Mahbubani’s admiration for Lee Kuan Yew surfaces repeatedly in the book—it’s dedicated to him, though the author also credits two others: Dr. Goh Keng Swee (a deputy prime minister who shaped economic and defense policies) and S. Rajaratnam (Singapore’s first foreign minister and later deputy prime minister, key in crafting foreign policy).

Mahbubani’s book isn’t just a tale of Singapore’s success (though it largely is) but a lesson for anyone interested in international politics. It’s a must-read to understand how small and medium-sized states can find their place in a world dominated by great powers.His reflections on geopolitics and the United Nations are invaluable and timely.

Mahbubani reminds us that in global politics, hard interests prevail, and values often yield to brute force. For not only Polish decision-makers but also anyone seeking to grasp global politics, this book is an inspiring read. It teaches us that even the small can achieve greatness with determination and wisdom.