By now a lot of you will have heard of the death of a former colleague and friend of mine, Dr. Alexandros Petersen, who was a victim of the Taliban’s most recent terror attack in Kabul last Friday.
Douglas Murray has paid kind tribute in the Spectator. The Henry Jackson Society has carried a tribute, and Iain Dale published some respectful details of mine and Alex’s latest endeavour with him on his website earlier this week.
But while many have already paid tribute to Alex’s high grade intellect, I feel it necessary to write something about the type of guy he was. As a buddy. And as someone with whom I distinctly and immediately connected, upon his arrival in London some years ago.
Despite Alex’s lofty credentials, what I loved about him most was that he was a “proper bloke”. Always immaculately turned out, Alex, to my recollection, loved nothing more than a quiet drink in a decent pub or bar. It didn’t need to be anything fancy, but Maker’s Mark was his tipple of choice, and it wasn’t long before I joined him as an avid fan.
I have a lot of hilarious memories of Alex, as do other friends and colleagues. Apparently I did such a good impression of his received, D.C.-native accent that people couldn’t tell the different between us down the phone, or even if they shut their eyes. He very much enjoyed that prank, and there were a number of times that I arranged for him to meet with people, against his wishes, by pretending to be him on the telephone. His face was always a peach when I told him where he was meant to be and why. But not for a second was he ever embittered by it.
And that’s because Alex was fun-loving. He loved a jape, a ruse, a scheme, and I suppose in one respect, this might have been his downfall. He was well known for his reckless demeanour, but what could be misconstrued for a lack of concern was actually indeed, the way I saw it, a sheer love of being alive. He travelled to conflict zones, and all around the world, in his various foreign policy advisory roles, and in October last year he told me how he had founded a new political risk advisory firm. We wished each other the best over a glass of Gewürztraminer in St. James’s when I saw him last.
Alex had a wonderful mind. He was sharp, witty, erudite, and was consistently impassioned to work harder, and follow his romanticist dream of promoting democracy and espousing conservative philosophy the world over. In most rooms he was a giant, literally, and intellectually, and he exuded a kind of self-confidence one can only expect from someone who is truly, at his heart, humble.
To me, Alex was always the other ‘big kid’ in the room (the first being me). The guy who you knew would be tittering to himself at a silly joke, but remain straight-faced and business-minded when the time necessitated. When I would shop at Sainsbury’s for dinner for a late night in the office, he would buy family-sized apple pies and consume them in minutes. When I would ask innocent yet ignorant questions about U.S. politics he would respond intently and quizzically along the lines of, “You don’t know who Spiro Agnew was?!” And always…. absolutely always… he would work, play, and rest with a smile on his face.
And to read Alex’s work, such as his book, The World Island, or any of his blogs, op-eds, or shorter reports, you would never think for a second that behind the intellect, behind the prose, behind the insight, was a man who just loved, like me, to hit the town and soak up his surroundings. But that’s exactly who he was. And that’s precisely how I will remember him.
Alex had a sizeable impact on my life, from introducing me to Maker’s Mark, Ethiopian food, and in sharing my admiration of former U.S. presidential candidate Barry Goldwater. We almost never disagreed on matters of policy, public relations, or even where to go to drink. And if we had, I would have deferred to him at almost every turn. Because, with respect to Goldwater’s 1964 campaign slogan, I had an outlook towards Alex, who was older, wiser, and more well-travelled than I ever was. That outlook was: “In your heart, you know he’s right”.
And he was.
R.I.P. Dr. Alexandros Petersen.
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