One of the most unsettling times of my government
policy writing career came during the Fourth Gulf War.
The Castorian Parliament passed the “Somewhat Patriotic Act” to
ensure our nation’s security in a time of war. The legislation
lifted restrictions on the gathering of intelligence, gave law enforcement
agencies greater discretion, and expanded the definition of classified information.
This latter directive on information led to regulations that gave the military full and exclusive control over the words
“strategy,” “strategic,” and even extremist variations such as “strategically” and
“strategize” during the promotion and outreach phase of the conflict.
Officials in non-military government organizations could no longer use these words in any official communications. We could talk
about our (deleted) issues and use the terms in informal conversation as long as we did
not type out the restricted words, scribble them on a permanent surface, or
mention them in voice mail messages.
These regs were drafted because our enemies had cracked Castoria’s
access to information system and the process of submitting the requisite $5 fee to get at our (deleted) documents. These now-banned words formed the cornerstone of the branch's policy focus and even part of our name. The meant that those of us in the (deleted) and
Operational Planning Branch were ruthlessly constrained.
We could not write about our group’s work nor make references to our own existence.
We could not write about our group’s work nor make references to our own existence.
“Why not change our name of the group and adopt alternate language for the (deleted) stuff ?” I
suggested.
“You really haven’t thought that one out – have you, Swallow,” my
Director said. “In order to get a branch name change approved, we would have to
submit a proposal citing the old, not-to-be-officially-mentioned name - and we couldn’t tell people what the new words mean without a glossary of
prohibited terms.”
Chastened, I returned to my keyboard and what
now seemed like the impossible task of reporting on the corporate level
achievements of the past year and the plans for the coming year.
"How can I do this without access to the vital tools and
essential terminology of my policy and planning trade," I asked.
"You'll just have to come up with some compensating
... compensating ... uh .... approaches ... or ... ah ... tactics," my colleague Arthur said. "I think 'tactics' is still allowed."
As a consequence of all this, we found ourselves increasing relying on stories and plans form the “Operational”
side of our organization and the branch's planning mandate. Instead of presenting programs,
services, and operations as pathetic foils to the lofty and noble (deleted) stuff (which could no longer be mentioned officially), I and my
colleagues now focused on operations,program delivery, and the actual doing of things as the centerpiece of
our reports and plans.
This had a dramatic impact.
Employees working in the operational groups of the organization were
buoyed and motivated by all the attention they were getting in corporate reports and plans. This reinvigorated their commitment to serving clients and the greater Castorian public. They
developed more ambitious plans, worked harder, and took great pride in reporting on their
results.
The term “Operational” assumed new meaning not only within our
organization but throughout the whole of the Castorian public service. My branch felt proud of our association with the performance of real work and activities that meant something. We breathed new air after so many years absorbed with (deleted) policy and those other (deleted) things.
The value and impact of our approach became absolute and clear this spring when the government introduced legislation to transfer exclusive control
over the words “Operations” and “Operational” to the Department of the
Treasury.
This is great. But it meant that I had to rush to my desk and write this before the bill gets passed.
This is great. But it meant that I had to rush to my desk and write this before the bill gets passed.
