The Diplomatic Passport

The passport may not be a priority item for most people, but it is an indispensable requirement for the international traveller. It has been around for a little while, the earliest mention of it that I know dating back to around 450 BC.

We read about it in Chapter 2, verses 7 and 9 of the Book of Nehemiah, a cupbearer to King Artaxerxes of Persia. Having been granted his request to go to Jerusalem to help rebuild the great city that was now in ruins, Nehemiah requested a travel document from the king. Nehemiah wrote: “I said unto the king, If it please the king, let letters be given me to the governors beyond the river, that they may convey me over till I come into Judah. And the king granted me, according to the good hand of my God upon me. Then I came to the governors beyond the river and gave them the king's letters.”

The name of the modern document came into being during the reign of King Louis XIV of France. Louis XIV, the Sun King who ruled France for 72 years (1643-1715), is reported to have granted personally signed letters, called “passe port” to his favoured citizens, to enable them safe and unhindered passage through seaports.

My current passports continue the tradition of their Royal Majesties Artaxerxes and Louis XIV, with important letters from my rulers printed on the front pages of the documents. My East African Community Passport of the Republic of Uganda is an unsigned letter from my President to the rulers of other realms. We read on the first page: “These are to request and require in the name of the President of the Republic of Uganda all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary.” The letter is repeated in French and Kiswahili.

My Canadian Passport carries a similar letter, in English and French, inside the front cover. It reads in English: “The Minister of Foreign Affairs of Canada requests, in the name of His Majesty the King, all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary.” His Majesty is King Charles III, who is Canada’s constitutional monarch.

Interestingly, the Canadian ruler does not “require” that I be allowed free passage. On the other hand, my Ugandan Passport, which not only requests but requires my free passage, has not always been honoured by immigration officers in certain lands. Stories of maltreatment of Ugandans at airports abound. I will save mine for my book.

There are passports, and then there are passports. Uganda issues three types. The sky-blue passport, officially called “ordinary”, is for you and me, the untitled, travelling hordes that are rarely allowed to “pass freely without let or hindrance” through foreign airports. Not even African ports of entry treat us like people who breathe the same air as the titled mortals. The only port where I am always happily welcomed with my Ugandan passport without interrogation, is Entebbe Airport, the place where I do not need that passport.

There is a green-coloured one, officially called the “service passport,” issued to people who presumably serve the country more than most folks who labour in the trenches to advance our land and civilization. The green one is for chancellors and vice chancellors of private universities, MPs, heads of government departments, members of permanent commissions, heads of the older religious organizations, and “any other person the minister of internal affairs may authorize.” Sorry, but surgeons and teachers and farmers and engineers and all manner of citizen that keeps the country going does not qualify for the service passport.

Then there is the coveted one, blood-red in colour, displayed by the holders in places where passports are not required. The holder does not mind it accidentally falling out of their shirt pocket while in good company. It is a badge of prestige that some consider to be more precious than their university degrees and wedding rings.

The Ugandan diplomatic passport is issued to twelve categories of persons, including the president and his family, cabinet ministers and their spouses, and foreign service officers and their spouses and dependent children. Interestingly, the spouses of the speaker and deputy speaker of Parliament, and the spouse of the chief justice are not entitled to the red passport.

Chancellors and vice chancellors of state universities, judges at all levels, permanent secretaries, the head of the public service, and the chairpersons of permanent commissions and their deputies get them too. However, their spouses do not. Most intriguing for me is that kings and other cultural leaders get diplomatic passports, but their queens are not entitled to them. Perhaps there is some logic to this choice of which spouses are entitled to the privilege.

Here in Canada, the diplomatic passport is limited to the Governor General, the Prime Minister, the Chief Justice and other judges of the Supreme Court only, members of the federal Cabinet, lieutenant governors of provinces, the speakers of the Senate and the House of Commons, the leaders of the opposition in the Senate and the House of Commons, deputy ministers of federal departments, active diplomats and other government representatives serving abroad, and private citizens nominated as official delegates of the government to international conferences of a diplomatic character.

These people’s spouses do not get diplomatic passports. Furthermore, the use of diplomatic passports for non-official travel is highly restricted. A diplomat on a trip with their immediate family members while posted abroad, a member of the Privy Council of Canada, the Governor General and their immediate family members, and the Prime Minister of Canada and their immediate family members are allowed use for non-official travel. Everybody else must use their ordinary passport for such private travel. A breach of this regulation can lead to severe punishment.

Is a diplomatic passport always a privilege in real life. Perhaps it is, but I once witnessed a situation where that passport did not afford the bearer free passage without let or hindrance. In 1995, Dr. Tibamanya mwene Mushanga, then Uganda’s High Commissioner to Canada, asked me to accompany him to see an old Kenyan friend who was a professor at the State University of New York at Buffalo, New York, USA.

Geru Tesfamichael, an Eritrean Canadian gentleman, who was the official driver of the Uganda High Commissioner, was behind the wheel. The US Immigration officer at the Rainbow Bridge, Niagara Falls, politely received our three passports. He promptly returned my humble, ordinary, dark blue Canadian passport. Geru’s ordinary Canadian Passport followed seconds after. But Mushanga’s diplomatic passport piqued the American’s interest.

Mushanga was quizzed by the officer. Then the American instructed us to park the car. When he invited Mushanga to follow him into the building, I obtained the American’s permission to stay with my friend. We joined a very long queue of ordinary aliens seeking entry into the United States. We waited more than an hour before we were invited to the counter for further interrogation. Mushanga was allowed into the USA because I guaranteed the Americans that I would ensure that His Excellency completely removes himself from the United States that very day.

On our return journey that evening, the Canadian immigration officer subjected Mushanga to a long interrogation, which he received with his trademark defiance. Sensing danger, I asked Mushanga, in Runyankore, to keep quiet and let this ordinary Canadian try his luck. I convinced the Canadian officer that the ambassador came in peace, and that any missing document would be attended to as soon as he reached Ottawa. The lady waved us through and Geru accelerated into the lovely Ontario summer night. Mushanga expressed his feelings to my sympathetic ears, with words that must remain classified. I thought I spied a cheeky smile on Geru’s face.