One day in February 1995, I was riding in an official vehicle to the White House from Capitol Hill with National Security Advisor Tony Lake. As the NSC’s U.N. director, I had accompanied Tony to meetings with senators we were trying to persuade to fully fund the administration’s budget request for U.N. peacekeeping and to agree that the parameters we had placed on U.S. support for U.N. peacekeeping were wise and sufficient. Even the Democratic-led Senate was highly skeptical of the U.N. in the wake of Somalia and Rwanda. Tony, nonetheless, felt these Hill meetings had gone well, and he was in a relaxed mood.
He turned to me and said, “What is the capital of Tanzania?”
“Dar es Salaam,” I replied.
“What is the capital of Botswana?” he continued.
“Gaborone,” I shot back. Tony validated my answer but dutifully corrected my pronunciation.
“Burkina Faso?”
“Ouagadougou,” I countered, feeling pretty good about my answers but bewildered as to the purpose of this pop quiz.
“Good,” Tony said. “How would you like to be the NSC senior director for African affairs?”
I was flummoxed. Knowing he was playing with me, I still marveled that the national security advisor was promoting me to the NSC’s top job on Africa on the basis of a capitals quiz. I asked for a night to consult with Ian and think about it, which he granted.
This time, though still a bit hesitant to get pigeonholed in Africa, I felt I could accept an Africa job with less risk. I had demonstrated my chops in a global portfolio, performed well enough to be selected for promotion at an early stage, and relished the opportunity to run my own office. In accepting this post, I would be Dick Clarke’s peer, just two years after being christened his baby director. I would have a regional portfolio, making me the coordinator of U.S. policy for the forty-eight countries of Sub-Saharan Africa. This was preferable to having a “functional,” or geographically cross-cutting portfolio, like the U.N. or nonproliferation or intelligence, because I had line responsibility for a defined portion of the planet. And, after two years under Dick’s rigorous tutelage, I felt ready for whatever might come next.
I also had to admit to myself that, on some level, I began in Africa and never left. Conceived in Nigeria, raised amidst the wooden sculpture of the Yoruba and Igbo, student of the complex history of Africa and its diaspora, activist against apartheid, scholar of Zimbabwe’s struggle for independence, intrepid backpacker, and bush taxi vagabond, I am ever steeped in Africa. Always. It remains an inextricable part of me.
The next morning, I told Tony that I would be honored to accept, and for the duration of the Clinton administration my work centered on Africa.
As I started in this new role, I felt proud to focus on Africa and come back to the region of my graduate studies. Believing deeply in Africa’s importance and potential, I resented the prejudice and shortsightedness that historically had relegated the continent to the bottom of America’s national security priorities. The U.S., I had come to appreciate, has a profound national interest in expanding prosperity in this important emerging market, improving livelihoods, resolving conflicts, bolstering security, and advancing democracy and respect for human rights. Now it was my job to insist that the people and countries of Africa be deemed as worthy and deserving of America’s attention and resources as any other region.
Several issues dominated my tenure from 1995 to 1997 as special assistant to the president and senior director for African affairs. Among them were: Burundi, which remained an ethnic tinderbox after Rwanda; South Africa, whose brand-new democratic government led by Nelson Mandela we had a deep interest in supporting; Angola, where the lengthy civil war had resumed; Liberia, the war-wracked West African nation with the closest historical ties to the U.S.; and Nigeria, Africa’s most populous country, which was suffering under a brutal military dictator.
Africa was gaining prominence on President Clinton’s foreign policy agenda, as a region to which he was becoming increasingly drawn. Moreover, Tony Lake, his national security advisor, was himself originally an Africa hand. In addition to preventing and responding to conflicts and crises, President Clinton sought a positive partnership with countries in Africa, based on mutual respect and enhanced engagement. He was especially committed to promoting economic growth and opportunity and confronting Africa’s security challenges, including the burgeoning threats of disease, notably HIV/AIDS, and terrorism.
It was terrorism that elevated Sudan to a place of unusual prominence on the Clinton administration’s agenda, making it a consistent focus of my attention throughout my tenure at the NSC and State Department. In February 1993, shortly after President Clinton took office, terrorists led by Omar Abdel Rahman, known as “the Blind Sheikh,” detonated a truck bomb under the World Trade Center in New York City, killing six and wounding over one thousand. I was barely three weeks into my first job at the NSC, and my boss Dick Clarke had lead responsibility for counterterrorism at the White House. I observed closely as he tracked events and worked through the FBI and Justice Department to bring the perpetrators to justice and foil additional attacks.
Not long after the World Trade Center was bombed, an FBI informant revealed another plot orchestrated by Abdel Rahman to assassinate public figures and attack multiple landmarks in New York, including U.N. Headquarters, hotels, office buildings, the Holland and Lincoln Tunnels, and the George Washington Bridge. As the bombers were mixing their explosives, federal and local officers busted in and arrested them on June 24, 1993. Five of the eight perpetrators entered the U.S. on Sudanese passports, and there was compelling evidence that two officers at the Sudanese Mission to the U.N. had offered to assist the plotters, including by providing diplomatic license plates and vehicles to enable the perpetrators to access the garage at U.N. Headquarters. As a result, in 1993 the U.S. designated Sudan a State Sponsor of Terrorism and imposed sanctions for its role in supporting terrorism both abroad and on U.S. soil, for its close ties to Iran, and for its continued provision of a safe haven inside Sudan to various Palestinian and other terror organizations, as well as their financiers and leaders, including Carlos the Jackal, Abu Nidal, and Osama bin Laden.
The Clinton administration’s concern about Sudan’s support for terrorism only heightened in 1995 when Sudan was involved in a failed attempt to assassinate Egyptian president Hosni Mubarak. Egyptian gunmen shot up Mubarak’s armored car as his convoy was driving from the airport to the Organization of African Unity (OAU) Summit in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. I was alerted promptly by the White House Situation Room and informed that Mubarak escaped unharmed. His motorcade diverted immediately to the airport, enabling Mubarak to return safely to Egypt. We later learned that the gunmen had traveled to Ethiopia on Sudanese passports and used weapons shipped into Ethiopia on Sudan Airways. Two of the perpetrators fled on Sudan Airways back to Sudan, where they conveniently disappeared. When Sudan refused to hand over the suspects, the U.S. led moves at the U.N. Security Council to impose diplomatic and airline sanctions on Sudan.
Sudan’s sustained support for terrorism, combined with the dangerous environment in its capital, where U.S. officials had been threatened, subjected to harassing surveillance, and twice attacked, led the administration to consider closing the U.S. embassy in Khartoum in February 1996 and relocating the reduced embassy staff to Nairobi in neighboring Kenya. The final straw was an attack by Sudanese agents on a U.S. embassy vehicle that seriously wounded the official inside.
I favored closing the embassy for security reasons, as did the CIA and my bosses at the NSC. The secretary of state, however, ultimately makes such decisions, and the ever-cautious Warren Christopher faced significant pressure from the Africa Bureau and, in particular, the new American ambassador, Tim Carney, to keep the embassy open. Carney, a mustachioed, bespectacled, professorial diplomat who had just secured his first ambassadorship, quickly revealed himself to be more sympathetic to the government of Sudan than most U.S. decision makers. In the Principals Committee meeting where the issue was debated, Carney argued strenuously to keep the embassy open; he saw merit in maintaining close communication with Khartoum. Secretary Christopher ultimately decided to close the embassy, necessitating that Carney vacate his post in Khartoum and perform his ambassadorial duties from a rump office in Nairobi. I believe that Carney always blamed me for that decision.
My view was that the regime in Khartoum, then led behind the scenes by the radical Islamist cleric Hassan al-Turabi, was plainly opposed to the U.S. and our national interests. The indisputable evidence included its active support for terrorism, gross violations of human rights—particularly against the people of southern Sudan and later Darfur—and efforts to destabilize friendly neighboring states. Add to that the regime’s long-standing support for the brutal Lord’s Resistance Army, which for decades has terrorized northern Uganda.
On a bipartisan basis, U.S. policy in both the administration and Congress was supportive of the people of southern Sudan and hostile toward Khartoum. As I testified before Congress in July 1998, we viewed Sudan and its National Islamic Front government as “the only state in Sub-Saharan Africa that poses a direct threat to U.S. national security interests.” This determination led the Clinton administration to adopt a policy aimed at pressuring the regime in Khartoum to fundamentally change its behavior. Rather than a policy of regime change, this was one of pressure, isolation, and containment. In keeping with our growing concerns, I directed the interagency process that resulted in the administration’s imposition of comprehensive economic sanctions on Sudan in November 1997, freezing all Sudanese assets in the U.S, banning all investment and most trade with Sudan. These sanctions were swiftly backed by Congress and codified into law.
I had argued for a complete trade ban, including a prohibition on the U.S. continuing to import gum arabic from Sudan. A rare product found only in trees that grow throughout Africa’s Sahel region, gum arabic is a key ingredient in sodas, newspaper print, and prescription drugs. Senator Robert Menendez from New Jersey, the geographical heart of the pharmaceutical industry, vehemently objected to sanctioning gum arabic, even though it was Sudan’s largest export to the U.S. A force on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Menendez was typically tough on human rights and terrorism; in this case, however, he sought an exception for his home-state industry. Viewing his proposed exemption as a gutting measure, I argued strenuously that Secretary Albright should resist his demand. Admittedly, my vehemence may have been excessive. In retrospect, my doggedness reminds me of my refusal as a child to cede any ground during dinner table battles when convinced of the righteousness of my position.
To douse my fervor, Albright enlisted her counselor and close advisor, Wendy Sherman, who knew the Hill extremely well, having served as assistant secretary of state for legislative affairs. Wendy sat me down in her seventh-floor office to explain that Secretary Albright had to be pragmatic. When you are responsible for U.S. policy toward the whole world, not just one continent, as Wendy patiently reminded me, you must choose your battles carefully. This was a fight that mattered greatly to the powerful Menendez, who could hold more important administration priorities hostage. I was rolled—politely but firmly. For me, this was a resounding policy defeat.
As part of our toughened approach, we supported neighboring states’ efforts to counter the regime in Sudan and helped them defend against rebels backed by Khartoum. Through the Frontline States Initiative, the U.S. channeled $20 million in nonlethal, defensive military aid to Ethiopia, Uganda, and Eritrea starting in 1996. We also signaled our support for the independence aspirations of the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement (SPLM) of southern Sudan, which was fighting for the right of self-determination or, failing that, for a new government in Khartoum. In later years, when Sudan launched its bid for one of the rotating African seats on the U.N. Security Council in 2000, the U.S. organized a rare and surprisingly successful campaign to deny Sudan its anticipated seat, substituting Mauritius, a friendly, democratic market economy, in its place.
The enduring challenge we faced, as we aligned U.S. policy with that of Sudan’s neighboring states, was casting our lot with undemocratic leaders. We had to weigh competing imperatives. On the one hand, a core pillar of our policy toward Africa was the promotion and consolidation of democracy and defense of human rights; on the other, our top priorities in East and Central Africa were counterterrorism, reducing ethnic conflict, and preventing another genocide. As a result, there were times when regional cooperation to advance U.S. security interests took precedence over democracy promotion. For a period, I and others in Washington (outside the human rights community) saw potential in several of the relatively “new” or up-and-coming African leaders. To overgeneralize, Meles Zenawi of Ethiopia, Isaias Afwerki of Eritrea, Paul Kagame of Rwanda, and Yoweri Museveni of Uganda, each in his own way seemed in the early to mid-1990s to be intelligent, straightforward, independent-minded, self-reliant, and economically astute leaders who were willing to work with Washington to address security threats and conflicts in Somalia, Sudan, and later in Congo, formerly Zaire. At the time they stood in contrast to the calcified leaders-for-life in places like Mobutu Sese Seko’s Zaire, Mugabe’s Zimbabwe, and José dos Santos’s Angola; and, for a while, they seemed willing to collaborate in the service of goals we shared.
Later, in 1998, when their mutual cooperation openly frayed, these so-called “New African Leaders” turned their guns on each other and, in some instances, their own people. The unsavory compromise we had made of prioritizing American security interests over our values became ever more costly and difficult to stomach. Human rights activists and some journalists leveled substantial criticism at the Clinton administration and me personally for our perceived coziness with these deeply flawed leaders. We erred, in retrospect, in heralding their leadership as “new” and as a departure from the norm. I do not regret our cooperation over issues of mutual interest, such as Sudan, but believe we would have been wiser to explain our approach in terms of national interests, while avoiding praise for individual leaders and speaking out more forcefully about their failings and abuses.
By the time President Clinton and his cabinet-level advisors approached the end of his first term, they had brokered a landmark peace agreement in Bosnia and defused a political crisis in Haiti. As their confidence in executing national security policy grew, they came to see beyond Africa’s multiple crises to perceive its long-term potential. In Washington more broadly, attention to Africa was rising. It was a rare foreign policy arena in which partisan differences were few, and cooperation was the norm.
The Clinton administration was eager to seize opportunities to build a genuine U.S.-Africa partnership. Anthony Lake spearheaded this focus, including by taking personal leadership of U.S. diplomacy to prevent another genocide in Burundi. For a national security advisor—whose responsibilities include every continent and region of the world—Tony devoted uncommon attention to Africa.
Other senior officials followed suit, and I joined several of them on various trips across the continent. Ambassador Albright’s U.N. responsibilities required sustained attention to Africa—addressing conflicts in Angola, Mozambique, Sudan, and Central Africa—and I traveled with her on all three of her official African visits. In 1995, Commerce Secretary Ron Brown famously declared in Senegal that “the era of America ceding the African market to the former colonial powers is over,” shaking France to attention. And, in early 1997, First Lady Hillary Clinton made her first of two solo trips to Africa, visiting West, Southern, and East Africa to promote democratic progress and increased U.S.-Africa trade and investment. I found it gratifying to be working on an area that was attracting top-level interest and where I felt we could paint policy on a virtually blank canvas.
Following President Clinton’s reelection in November 1996, attention turned to who would lead the national security team in the second term. Christopher, Lake, and most of the other Principals departed, and Clinton decided to elevate Deputy National Security Advisor Sandy Berger to national security advisor and U.N. ambassador Madeleine Albright to secretary of state. They, in turn, moved to restock the NSC and State Department with their chosen team.
In early December 1996, I was called to meet privately with Berger and Albright in the White House Situation Room. As my mother’s old friend, Madeleine and Mom had conspired over the years to guide me on various issues—from important professional decisions to tedious judgments about my hairstyle, which they both suggested I should change to look more mature. During Clinton’s first term, of course, Ambassador Albright and I had worked together intensively on U.N. and African matters. Sandy had also become a valued colleague and friend, as we labored through myriad tough issues together.
Once we settled into our seats, I realized that this was to be a conversation about my future. Madeleine said she would like me to serve with her at State as an assistant secretary, a promotion that Sandy enthusiastically backed, even though it meant me leaving the NSC. Questions followed. “Do you want to move to State? What policy areas would be of most interest to you?” We discussed the Bureaus of International Organizations, which oversees U.N. affairs; Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor; and Intelligence and Research. Each was a functional bureau with important but relatively discrete mandates. They also raised the Bureau of African Affairs, which seemed to be their preference.
Secretly, I felt trapped. Africa seemed a bridge too far for me. Not because I was unprepared in substance, but because I knew something no one else except Ian did: I was two months pregnant. Ian and I had barely digested the implications of our decision to start a family and had not told even our parents, much less any friends or colleagues. I wanted to wait at least until the end of my first trimester—past the period of highest risk for miscarriage. Also, such an announcement didn’t seem conducive to constructive consideration of my next career move. So I hedged, implying that Africa may not be the best fit for me. They seemed puzzled. The unprecedented opportunity at age thirty-one to lead a regional bureau should have been highly attractive to me, and while I was capable of running these other bureaus, Africa was squarely in my wheelhouse.
Boxed in, with great trepidation, I confessed, “What I am about to tell you, I have not even told my mother. Madeleine, knowing Mom, you especially will appreciate how hurt she would be if she knew you learned this before her. But I don’t think we can have a meaningful conversation unless you know: I am pregnant.” They were surprised, yet totally supportive, finally grasping my hesitation. I continued, “I worry that I won’t be able to travel to the extent that the Africa job requires if I have an infant. I also would need a first-rate deputy to help me hold things together in the bureau when I do have to travel. Recognizing that I am young and have no prior experience at State, I would want a heavyweight with me.”
They got it—assuring me that they would support me as a new mother, their expectations regarding travel would be calibrated accordingly, and I could have any deputy I wanted.
“I know exactly who I would want,” I said.
“Who?” they asked.
“Johnnie Carson.”
They knew Johnnie. He was one of the most experienced and respected career officers, our ambassador to Zimbabwe and previously to Uganda, and among the foreign service’s most senior African Americans. He was someone I admired and trusted to provide wisdom and ballast to the bureau. “Done,” they said, which I was not sure would be welcome news to Johnnie, since he would have to leave a plum ambassadorship in Zimbabwe and return to a tough bureaucratic job at main State.
Madeleine and Sandy reiterated that they thought I would be the best person for the Africa job, given my demonstrated ability to digest the issues and drive Africa policymaking, my unique understanding of Clinton’s preferred approach, my closeness to them, and my passion for putting Africa far higher on the nation’s foreign policy agenda.
“We really hope you accept this offer,” Madeleine said, as Sandy nodded in accord.
“Thank you both very much for your confidence in me. Can I have a day or two to talk with Ian?” I replied, rising to my feet and gathering my things.
Together, Ian and I weighed the benefits and downsides, pretty easily concluding that it was an opportunity I should not pass up. We had family in Washington to support us. We could afford a nanny, and, to ensure our family was intact, Ian would move back from Canada, where he was working. The next day, I accepted the job and told my parents, but I never revealed to Mom that Madeleine knew before she did that I was pregnant with Jake.
I remained as senior director for Africa at the NSC well into 1997, as my nomination was formalized, and I awaited my confirmation hearing. Senator John Ashcroft, the evangelical Christian and staunch, if genteel, Republican chairman of the Senate Subcommittee on African Affairs, seemed in no hurry to meet me or set a hearing date.
Months passed, and the administration’s legislative affairs staff tried to figure out why Ashcroft wouldn’t give me the time of day. They ultimately divined that he was reportedly uncomfortable with, and perhaps opposed to, the notion of a young pregnant woman serving as assistant secretary for Africa. Finally, in late July 1997, just as I was due to deliver, Ashcroft agreed to meet me—the prerequisite for a hearing.
Our meeting was set for July 22, and though I was mindful that seeing me in the fullness of my pregnancy would do little to assuage his concerns, I was looking forward to sitting down with Ashcroft and getting the confirmation ball rolling. As fate would have it, at about 4 a.m. on the 22nd, almost a week after I was due, I started feeling the unmistakable pangs of labor. For some hours, they were tolerable, early-stage pains, and I thought—Why not carry on working through much of the day, as I had every day up to that point of my uneventful pregnancy?
Around 11 a.m., Ian and I concluded it was time to brave the blistering heat and humidity to make our way to George Washington University Hospital, where my mom met us. Lois decreed emphatically that I needed to call Ashcroft’s office and postpone our meeting. I objected, arguing that I may never get another chance to see him. She said: “Look, if you go up there and your water breaks in that meeting, you truly will never see him again.” The voice of reason. I called.
Ashcroft graciously agreed to meet me a bit later in the summer, so I ceased worrying about that and focused the remainder of the afternoon on the fact that my epidural wasn’t working to mask my increasingly intense labor pains in a discrete but significant patch of my belly. Some eight hours later, our son, Jake, arrived with what we would later come to recognize as his customary flair for the dramatic, necessitating extraction with the unwelcome use of forceps. Like all new parents, we found our lives had changed forever—for the better.
While in the early stages of my three-month maternity leave from the NSC, Ashcroft finally met with me. He was cordial and forthright in our introductory meeting in his Senate office. Over heavily sweetened iced tea, Ashcroft explained that he chaired three subcommittees and, frankly, Africa was of least interest to him. Nonetheless, he promised to schedule my hearing for September after the Senate returned from summer recess.
My parents and Ian accompanied me to the hearing, and I also carried in a bassinet our six-week-old son. As per custom, at the start of my opening statement, I introduced my family members present, including young “John David Rice-Cameron,” who, although we called him “Jake,” coincidentally had the same given names as the subcommittee chair. John David Ashcroft welcomed us, duly noting his namesake’s presence. I privately wondered if Ashcroft worried that Jake’s quiescence might be short-lived and I might luck into a shorter than usual hearing.
Indeed, the session was not prolonged, extended only by the late arrival of the ranking member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Joe Biden, who apologized for his tardy Amtrak train from Delaware. Senator Biden was effusive, praising my nomination and stressing that he for one had no reservations whatsoever about my comparatively tender age (implying that others may). He recalled at length how he began in the Senate at twenty-nine years old as the single father of two boys, cheerfully recounting how he had done just fine. It was a generous salve, and it also helpfully chewed up the clock. After a nominal quantity of questions, Ashcroft adjourned the hearing before Jake even stirred.
On October 9, 1997, I was unanimously confirmed by the Senate as assistant secretary of state for African affairs. Three months to the day after Jake was born, when my maternity leave expired, I moved to the State Department.