D-Phat

I recently found out that my step-sister is coming to the end of her one-year maternity leave. Yes, you heard right. One year. Now, before you all quit your jobs to sign up to whatever it is my step-sister does, I should warn you. It’s not as easy as all that. In order to get this job, she had to do a law degree, a Master’s Degree at Cambridge (yes – the one in England, not the one that sells free degrees from their grimy window in Surry Hills), an internship at the United Nations, and who knows how many sexual favors. And even then, there was the background check, the psychometric test, the written test, and then the interviews. All this, to get into the trainee program at the Departments of Foreign Affairs and Trade (DFAT).

D-Phat

And yes – to answer your question: my step-sister is annoyingly perfect.

I can think of at least 20 people – off the top of my head – who would lie, cheat, kill or steal (or a heady combination of all four) to get one of these coveted Grad jobs. I can think of another 30 who would quite like one, but who’d have to stop and think for a second before shooting their best friend in order to qualify. I suppose that it’s fair enough; one you get in, you relocate to Canberra (gross), apply for international placements, learn a new language full time, then have all your accommodation and travel paid for while you get sent on three-year postings all over the world.

And it is hideously, painfully, and notoriously, difficult to get a place as a Grad.

More than one keen as mustard International Relations major has been left disappointed, finding themselves rejected by the one place that wouldn’t think their papers on MI-5 links in the Uzbek Symphony Orchestra anything other than a conspiracy theorist wank written by a Dan Brown wannabe. And then comes the most difficult part: trying to find a path now that you have no future and are completely unemployable (although I hear that there is a real drive for Farsi speakers at your local Woolworths).

It is probably this selective hiring, as well as the glamour of international travel, that gives DFAT it’s elitist glow. It was during the period 1989 – 1994, that Geoff Forrester – who was, among other things, an interpreter for Gough Whitlam during his talks with President Soeharto during the 1970s – set himself to reforming this perceived elitism. While pats on the back were administered by the Australian Senate in 1993/1994, not everyone views this period in DFAT’s history as the Golden Era.

Looking back on the changes, Rebecca Weisser wrote for The Australian:

With zeal driven by a politically correct fire in his belly, Forrester launched a cultural revolution to “de-stream” the department, getting rid of barriers between the political and diplomatic staff on the one hand and the consular and administrative staff on the other.

The lunacy of the reform was compounded by the half-hearted manner of its execution. The department still spent thousands of hours recruiting about 30 of the best and brightest graduates from a field of up to 3000 candidates each year but at the same time promoted those who had joined the department without tertiary qualifications to important diplomatic positions.

Rhodes scholars were posted as administrative officers in charge of housing while former administrative staff represented their nation’s interests in major international forums. [1]

It’s not that I don’t think that it would be a nice humbling process to have the Rhodes Scholars of the world washing the dishes, but it seems as if the complex world of international relations should be elitist. And if you’re going to have one of the most competitive entrance exams in the country, then perhaps you should just embrace it and tell everyone: “Yes, we are elitist. And if you don’t make the cut, then you don’t make the cut”.

I think that Jack poked his eye while trying to answer the phone...

It sounds harsh, but who do you want to be flying the fighter jet when the aliens invade? Jack the Work Experience Kid or Will Smith?

Damn straight – you pick Will.

Kicking alien-ass - Fresh Prince of Bel Air style.

I was holidaying in the South of France earlier this year, and happened to have dinner with a former diplomat-turned-astronomer. After trying to marry me off to his son (I’m almost certain he would have been the very caricature of a red-headed, dangerously thin Eton-valedictorian…who possibly gets nose-bleeds when he’s overexcited and harbors a latent homosexual attractions to his Cambridge room-mate), and giving me a garish white Oxford University cap, he proceeded to tell me a little about his career. The way he spoke of it, the Foreign Service of Britain was a very civilized boy’s club – harkening back to the days when war could be averted over a few martinis and a game of polo. No talk of elitism there – it’s just an unavoidable aspect of Her Majesty’s Service.

Let’s be honest: DFAT is a sweet gig. But there are a lot of sacrifices: first, the ones you had to make to get the killer transcript that got you through the door; and second, being willing to sit without growing roots. Also there is a distinct danger that you might go blind while staring at seating charts for the next sushi-luncheon with the third-in-line to the throne of Bhutan. So think about the real experience of joining the Foreign Service before you throw your hat in the ring. When it comes to international relations, the influence of forces seen and unseen can influence you at any turn. We just have to look at the key players in international affairs to see that not everyone is a cut-copy bureaucrat: they come from the worlds of science, politics, academia, and business. There is more than one way to find your way to the table, so think of a few options before you hurl yourself off the top of a building the moment you receive your DFAT rejection letter.

Or if that fails, you can always just wander into the most obscure country you can find and knock on the door of your local consulate. I hear the Mongolia is nice this time of year.

[1] Quote is from Rebecca Weisser’s article “What DFAT needs is scalpel, not an axe” from The Australian (18 January, 2008).