Scholar–practitioner, author, educator, and former ambassador
I’m pleased to share that my article “Presentability and Representability: Rethinking Individual Diplomatic Representation” has been published online in the Hague Journal of Diplomacy. I’m grateful to colleagues, editors, and reviewers whose thoughtful feedback helped improve the paper. The full article is available here:
I am deeply grateful to my university, the University of World Economy and Diplomacy, and personally to Rector – Senator Sodyq Solikhovich Safoev for the Spirit of UWED Award.
It is a great honor to teach at UWED, one of the leading universities in Central Asia, and to work with such talented students and colleagues.
More than a decade ago, I published a book in Russian titled As a Power with a Power: The Politics of Interpersonal Relations.
It was not a book about grand strategy or formal authority. It was about where power most persistently lives – in everyday interactions: in offices and families, in negotiations and silences,
in status cues, symbols, routines, and unspoken rules.
The book grew out of lived experience and an attempt to understand power more honestly – its mechanics, its seductions, its limits, and its ordinary, often invisible forms.
Today, I find myself thinking about power in a slightly different register – in relation to thought.
Confucius and Machiavelli both sought political office. Both wanted to operate inside power. Yet their lasting influence came not from the positions they held, but from the ideas they were compelled to articulate when power remained out of reach.
Power attracts, even reflective minds. It offers immediacy, visibility, and a sense of significance here and now.
And yet: power makes a person significant in life, thought – even after.
#power #thought
A new conversation on my Diplomatic Nexus channel.
Together with Professor Eric Shiraev, we examine character attack as a strategic tool in diplomacy and the problem of reputation management under political pressure.
Character attack is not simply a personal insult or rhetorical excess. It is a method of influence that can delegitimize actors, reshape negotiations, and alter diplomatic outcomes. Despite its growing relevance, this phenomenon remains surprisingly underexplored in mainstream diplomatic studies.
Professor Eric Shiraev (George Mason University) is a leading scholar on character assassination and reputation dynamics, and the author of more than thirty books on political psychology, leadership, and influence.
The conversation is relevant for diplomats, analysts, and anyone interested in how power operates beyond formal negotiations.
Subscribe and like.
It happened in Japan, at one of Tokyo’s train stations. My friend and I were waiting for the train to Kyoto. A woman’s voice announced arrivals and departures, but I understood nothing in Japanese. I noticed my friend kept glancing at his watch. I asked:
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”
But it seemed to me he was hiding something.
“Is the train late?” I continued asking.
“Oh, if only!” he answered, looking at his watch again.
“What do you mean?” I was surprised. “You don’t want it to be late, do you?”
“No, quite the opposite.”
I didn’t understand anything.
“You see, if the train is late, the company has to pay us compensation. It would be nice to earn a little extra.”
“And that’s why you keep looking at your watch?”
“Yes, judging by the announcement, there’s a chance the train might be delayed. So I got my hopes up a little… But to tell the truth, I’ve never had a case in my life where a train was late.”
“Let me also pray mentally for it to be late,” I said and closed my eyes.
While we stood on the platform praying, the train safely (and, to our regret, on time) arrived. My friend looked at me guiltily and shrugged. With a deep sigh, we boarded the train and departed for Kyoto. But then a secret hope arose in me.
Maybe we’d be delayed en route and arrive late to the ancient capital of Japan? Alas, this hope didn’t come true either. Moreover, our return train also arrived in Tokyo on schedule.
Well, what can you do? There are times when even prayers don’t help.
First published on my Substack: https://alisherfaizullaev.substack.com/p/the-train-to-kyoto
#Train #Japan #Delay #Pray
The Hunger Volunteer
In the early nineties, I spent two weeks at an acquaintance’s home in New York. She was a devout and fairly well-off woman of pre-retirement age who worked as a management consultant at a large company. She told me that every Sunday she and her friends did charity work and invited me to join them. I gladly agreed.
Getting up early and drinking, as was customary in that house, a glass of orange juice instead of breakfast, we left the house at seven. We arrived at some building in the New York suburbs. Around eight in the morning, about twelve of us volunteers had gathered. Judging by their appearance and manners, these were people of means. Voluntary assistance to those in need is considered a noble cause and is fairly widespread among Americans with middle and higher incomes.
Our task was to feed the homeless, unemployed, and all those in need with a free Sunday lunch. We started by cleaning a room that looked like a gym. Then tables and chairs, kitchen and dining supplies, and food were brought in. We worked hard, without breaks, without unnecessary conversation. Everyone was united by a sense of high mission. My only problem was that I was hungry.
By around noon, the preparations were complete. People for whom the food was intended began lining up outside the building. Many of them were dressed in rags and looked, to put it mildly, not great. Apparently, these people came here every Sunday.
Finally, at twelve-thirty we let the first group into the room. Our clients sat at the tables, and we brought them food, drinks, and dessert on trays. The quality of the food seemed decent – at least I, experiencing an ever-growing sense of hunger, wouldn’t have refused to try what I was handing out. But alas, we had no time for that: people kept coming and coming, and we could barely keep up serving them.
It was exactly two o’clock when I finally decided to approach one guy – a Chinese or Korean American I’d already exchanged a few words with:
“Let’s have lunch ourselves – I’m really hungry!”
I still remember the harsh and contemptuous look I received for my words.
“We didn’t come here to eat, but to feed those in need!” I heard.
My companion suddenly reminded me of a red commissar from the time of the great famine. Oh, if only he knew that I needed lunch then no less than those we were feeding!
What could I do – charity is charity. And I, despite my growing hunger and fatigue, continued my heroic efforts at delivering food.
“Hey, over here! Give me another portion of steak, and more potatoes!” someone in a torn sweater called out to me.
I’d barely brought the order when I heard another voice:
“Coffee! Quickly!” A bearded man in a worn cap was asking for a refill before he’d even finished his coffee in a paper cup.
I desperately wanted coffee myself, but suppressing my feelings, I ran to fulfill the client’s wish.
It was three o’clock when I couldn’t take it anymore: picking up a tray, I resolutely approached the serving area and asked for food for myself.
“We don’t have anything left,” came the response.
The clients dispersed, and we began cleaning the room, taking out trash, and sending back the tables, chairs, and other things we’d brought. By five in the evening, the work was done. Looking at my fellow volunteers, I noticed they were satisfied, joking, laughing. By tradition, they were planning to go to a restaurant and invited me to join. I doubted I could afford it, but just in case, I asked which restaurant. Hearing the name, I realized they meant an expensive New York restaurant where dinner would have cost me at least a hundred dollars.
“Oh, what a shame – I have a meeting scheduled somewhere else, otherwise I’ve been wanting to go there for a long time,” I assured my new friends.
They, for their part, expressed regret and hope to see me the following Sunday.
Having reached downtown New York, we said warm goodbyes: they headed toward the restaurant, and I headed to the nearest kiosk to buy a dollar bag of potato chips for dinner.
At the time, I felt I was the unluckiest person in this story. The homeless got a quality free lunch. The wealthy volunteers got their satisfaction from socially useful activity, a sense of duty fulfilled, and a joint dinner at an exclusive restaurant. Meanwhile, I learned a curious aspect of American life, but I was damn tired from a full day of uninteresting labor and tormented by hunger.
Now, with the passage of time, I believe I was very lucky. I understand that I really was helping those in need. Of course, it would have been better if I could have shown greater tolerance and less irritability, perceiving the situation as a chance for self-development, training in inner discipline, and spiritual growth. But life never stops providing chances for self-improvement. As Nietzsche said, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. At least, it can…
First published on my Substack: https://alisherfaizullaev.substack.com/p/the-hunger-volunteer
#Volunteering #NewYork or #NYC #PersonalEssay #Charity
My last name isn’t easy for foreigners. I’m used to people stumbling over it, distorting it, or giving up entirely. But once, I encountered the opposite.
It happened in Seattle. A friend took me to a Vietnamese restaurant where we were greeted by an elderly woman – the owner. My friend knew her and introduced me, mentioning my last name and where I was from. She bowed politely and led us to our table.
Two or three weeks later, we found ourselves in the same neighborhood and stopped by again. She greeted us at the door, smiling like we were old acquaintances.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ness, and good afternoon, Mr. Faizullaev.” She pronounced my unfamiliar last name clearly – all four challenging syllables.
I was astonished.
“How did she remember my name and pronounce it so easily after one brief meeting three weeks ago?” I asked my friend.
“I don’t know how she remembered,” he said, “but without some extraordinary abilities, she never would have made it here from Vietnam and built a successful business.”
He was right. I decided to remember the restaurant’s name and hers. I repeated them several times, aloud and silently.
Five minutes later, I’d forgotten both.
First published on my Substack: https://alisherfaizullaev.substack.com/p/a-story-about-a-vietnamese-restaurant
#Storytelling #ShortStory #TravelStories #Seattle #Memory
Mini-parable
There once lived a solitary toad in a small swamp that smelled of mint and wet moss. She was an unremarkable creature, mottled brown and green, but she became famous for her loud and expressive croaking. Animals from all over the forest gathered at the water’s edge to listen, trampling the soft mud into hard-packed earth. At first, the sounds were taken for an unusual kind of singing. Over time, however, many began to discover profound meaning in them. Lovers heard confessions of love, businessmen detected the sound of money, and politicians found hints of power and secret deals.
Soon there were those who, for money, claimed to interpret every shade and nuance of the amphibian’s voice. Matters went so far that some enterprising animals made a handsome profit selling the best places by the swamp and trading recordings of the “sage toad” and the “prophet toad.” Journals and books appeared offering interpretations of her wise croaking “utterances,” and a new form of divination emerged, based on the volume and duration of the toad’s cries.
Then one day, to everyone’s great dismay, the toad suddenly died. She died in full view of the crowd that had gathered to listen to her supposedly profound croaking. Yet even after her death, interest in the recordings did not fade. This prompted a group of forest animals – scholars and devotees who genuinely believed they were preserving her wisdom for future generations – to invent a croakometer, a device designed to decipher the toad’s croaking.
The admirers of the famous toad were astonished when they finally learned what she had been shouting all along:
“Leave me alone.” “I can’t breathe with so many of you here.” “You are destroying the swamp where I live.” “Go away, or the swamp will dry up.” “I will die soon because of this mess.”
Within a year, the swamp had become a dusty depression in the forest floor. The mint was gone. But the recordings sold better than ever.
First published on my Substack: https://alisherfaizullaev.substack.com/p/what-was-the-toad-croaking-about
#parable #miniparable #shortfiction #philosophicalfiction #satire #interpretation #meaning #environment
Yesterday, I had the privilege of conducting “Strategic Thinking in Action” workshop for Model UN participants at the University of World Economy and Diplomacy (UWED). The group brought together students from universities across Uzbekistan, along with international participants. I was impressed by the participants’ excellent command of English and their high level of engagement throughout the workshop.
#StrategicThinking #ModelUN #UWED #Leadership #Education #Diplomacy #Uzbekistan #YouthEmpowerment
There lived a teacher known as a wise man, someone who was said to have reached great understanding. He had many disciples, each working hard, hoping for a single word of insight. But the teacher never spoke at all. He simply sat with them in silence, and this only sharpened their expectations.
None of them questioned his method. They thought doing so would show ignorance. They remembered the saying: “Speech is silver, silence is golden,” and many believed that truth reveals itself only in silence.
One day a disciple reached his limit and asked: “Master, may I ask why we are always silent?”
The others stiffened. They expected anger, maybe a rebuke for ingratitude or foolishness.
The teacher said nothing. He only smiled. To the poor disciple it seemed the teacher glanced toward the door, as if hinting he should leave. Flushed, the student stood up and left the school forever.
The rest lowered their eyes. Some wanted to ask something but stayed silent. Others decided never to ask anything at all.
Years passed. The teacher died in old age without uttering a single word. Only after his death did the disciples discover the truth, written in his old notebook: “I keep silence because my tongue was never loyal to the truth.”
Moral: silence is golden only when the tongue is worthy of speech.
First published on my Substack: https://alisherfaizullaev.substack.com/p/silence-is-golden
#Wisdom #Truth #Teaching #Sage #Master
Alisher Faizullaev 