When Richard W. Murphy passed away, the world lost more than just a seasoned diplomat. We lost a man who knew how to tell a story that could sting as much as it could illuminate. Among his many sharp observations, one stands out for its brutal honesty and cultural insight. Recalling Saddam Hussein’s words, Murphy quoted,

“America treats the Third World like an Iraqi peasant treats his new wife. The Iraqi peasant feeds his new wife three days of bread and honey, and then it’s off to the fields for life.” As far as metaphors go, this one’s got a longer shelf life than most foreign aid packages.

Murphy’s career reads like a Lonely Planet guide to every geopolitical hotspot in the second half of the 20th century. From Rhodesia’s waning colonialism to Saudi Arabia’s oil politics, he bore witness to seismic shifts in power. His posts as Ambassador to Mauritania, Syria, the Philippines, and Saudi Arabia weren’t just stamps on a passport—they were front-row seats to coups, revolutions, and royal shake-ups.

In an era where “soft power” is the buzzword of choice, Murphy’s approach was decidedly old school—talk to everyone, especially the ones nobody else will talk to. This approach made him a necessary, if occasionally misunderstood, figure. As Assistant Secretary of State for Near Eastern Affairs (1983-1989), he navigated the U.S. through the Lebanese Civil War, the Iran-Iraq War, and the fallout from the Iran-Contra affair. Not exactly a sleepy decade.

One of Murphy’s less heralded but equally revealing moments came in Syria. Assigned to Aleppo, he quickly learned that the art of diplomacy isn’t all conference tables and cocktails. When a coup attempt broke out, Murphy’s visit to the police station—simply to ensure the safety of American citizens—was misinterpreted as him leading a counter-revolt. In the Middle East, a single rumor can outrun a diplomat’s best intentions, and Murphy’s “role” in the coup dogged him for years.

His tenure in Saudi Arabia was another masterclass in walking a tightrope. The 1960s had the kingdom in a slow boil with Yemen, as Egypt’s Gamal Abdel Nasser poured troops into the conflict. Murphy’s role was to manage U.S.-Saudi relations without getting sucked into the vortex. At one point, he served undercover as a security agent during a wreath-laying at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. His orders? If something happened, “you were there to call it in.” Which sounds like the very definition of ‘good luck with that.’

Despite his proximity to the world’s most volatile regions, Murphy’s reflections on his career remained measured and self-aware. His oral history, recorded by the Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training, is laced with anecdotes that blend humor with sharp insight. He had a keen eye for the contradictions inherent in power—both America’s and others’. His recollections are not simply tales of “what happened” but “why it mattered.”

But it’s that “bread and honey” analogy that sticks. It’s a visceral reminder of how the U.S. often “shows up big” for the first act, only to vanish by intermission. It’s a line that haunts because it’s true, and not just in Iraq. Murphy’s knack for distilling geopolitical folly into folk wisdom is something every diplomat should aspire to, even if most will never achieve it.

There’s a moment in every “Hold My Beer” story when you realize the protagonist has bitten off more than they can chew. Murphy’s life, however, was an example of what happens when you actually know how to chew it. His was a world of coups, embargoes, and misguided invasions—and yet, he never lost his taste for humanizing the whole affair.

We learned as much trekking the same sands. I’d only hope our book is half as interesting as his story.