Dear Sir:

A Checkered History of Correspondence in Crisis

The world witnessed an odd combination of high-tech and low-tech gamesmanship from Iran last week. As his country remained under United Nations scrutiny for continuing to enrich uranium, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad seized upon a curiously old-fashioned expedient to change the subject: He sent an 18-page letter to President Bush.

In an era of video-enabled cellphones and text messaging, an actual letter from one head of state to another has an almost quaint feel, as though diplomatic history had suddenly rewound to an old black-and-white film. By sending his rambling missive to Bush, Ahmadinejad has joined a long list of scribbler statesmen who over the centuries have used posturing on paper to try to reshape world affairs -- for good or for ill.

Otto von Bismarck was a particularly skilled practitioner of the epistolary arts. In 1870, he took a tepid telegram and used it to provoke war with France. At the time, he was merely head of the Prussian government. But he aspired to unite the fractious German lands and turn his boss, King Wilhelm, into an emperor. The problem was France, which he reckoned wouldn't accept Prussian expansion peacefully. So Bismarck needed an excuse to use force.

Then the French ambassador pushed his luck by tracking down the king at a German spa to discuss who might claim the Spanish throne, and Bismarck had his opening. The king sent Bismarck a telegram describing the spa visit, and Bismarck edited it to appear that the French emissary had grievously insulted Prussia. He released it to the German press; the ensuing coverage was as sensational as it was predictable. German troops began mobilizing within three days and by the beginning of September the Napoleonic regime collapsed. By January, the king had become the emperor, and Germany was en route to dominating Europe.

Not long after, President Woodrow Wilson recognized the dangers that correspondence could pose. He had seen the United States whipped into war fervor by the revelation of the 1917 Zimmermann telegram, named after the German foreign minister who most unwisely dispatched it to his ambassador in Mexico. The telegram proposed a deal for the leaders in Mexico City: Support us against the Americans, and you'll get Arizona, New Mexico and Texas once we win. When World War I ended -- with the Southwest still firmly under the U.S. flag -- Wilson vowed to prevent such hidden diplomatic deals from recurring. In his famous "Fourteen Points" speech to Congress in 1918, his first point demanded that "diplomacy shall proceed always frankly and in the public view."

Of course, with leaders such as Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin on the rise, such noble sentiments had little chance of enduring. The two tyrants sealed one of the most notorious pacts in history via a simple exchange of letters. Eager to invade Poland, Hitler wanted some assurance that the Soviet Union would not take umbrage at the sight of advancing Nazi forces. His minions had been making progress on a nonaggression pact, but not quickly enough to satisfy the Führer.

On Aug. 20, 1939, Hitler suddenly decided to write a letter to "M. Stalin, Moscow" requesting that he receive the German foreign minister in two or three days to seal a deal. Hitler's decision to put this in writing, without assurances that Stalin would respond positively, convinced Stalin that he was serious, since German prestige rested entirely on how the Soviet leader chose to answer. Stalin responded favorably the next morning, signing the telegram "J. Stalin." Hitler, rejoicing, did not wait for the treaty signing. He directed that the attack on Poland should begin on Aug. 26, thereby catapulting the world into another global conflagration.

Letters have not always been used to start immediate military conflict; indeed, during the Cold War, the two most famous examples offered alternatives to the use of force. U.S. diplomat George F. Kennan's legendary Long Telegram of Feb. 22, 1946, describing Soviet aims from his vantage point in Moscow, argued that the problem of Soviet expansion was "within our power to solve -- and that without recourse to any general military conflict." Thus, the doctrine of containment was born, the founding idea of the long, cold war that followed.

And it was a long, rambling cable from Nikita Khrushchev at a crucial moment in the Cuban Missile Crisis that ultimately provided a way out. On Oct. 26, 1962, the Soviet leader offered to remove the missiles from Cuba in exchange for a pledge that the United States would not invade the island, a condition Washington could accept. However, to the consternation of President John F. Kennedy and his advisers, a tougher letter arrived the next day. In one of the best moves in political history, Kennedy ignored the second letter and responded to the first. The gamble succeeded. The morning of Oct. 28 brought the welcome news from Radio Moscow that the missiles would go.

If there is a lesson from this checkered history of correspondence in crisis, it is this: Content doesn't count. The historical record shows a clear mismatch between what was written in a letter and its consequences. Zimmermann meant to threaten the United States in secret; instead, his leaked telegram shored up its public resolve. Bismarck used a boring missive to mount a war; Kennedy ignored public demands of the Soviets to maintain peace.

Now, Ahmadinejad's letter is a highly suspect olive branch and an obvious public relations ploy. But it represents a rare opportunity in this particular contest of wills. Surely, there is a foreign policy official in Washington today who can figure out something better to do with Ahmadinejad's letter than ignore it.

Mary Elise Sarotte teaches international politics at St. John's College, University of Cambridge.