No Higher Honor: A Memoir of My Years in Washington

by Condoleezza Rice

  Two nights later, I looked around as my car headed up Pennsylvania Avenue past the brilliantly lit white government buildings and toward the Capitol for the President’s final State of the Union address. I’d made this ceremonial trip several times before, attending six State of the Union speeches, two inaugural addresses, and a joint session of Congress on September 20, 2001, when the President had comforted and rallied a stricken and terrified nation. It seems like yesterday that I came to Washington, I thought. No, it seems like forever.

  Inside the Capitol that night, I lined up in the anteroom with my Cabinet colleagues. “Ladies and gentlemen, the President’s Cabinet,” the cloakroom manager announced. And as the door flung open, I could see the blinding camera lights and the outstretched hands of legislators lining my path. I stepped forward to lead the Cabinet as secretary of state one last time.

  THE MOMENTS of reflection were always fleeting though as the next crisis emerged. Iraq was continuing to improve, but not without violence and occasionally a mystifying and deeply regrettable mishap such as a mistaken strike on Iraqi civilians instead of the intended al Qaeda target. The Iraqis were taking more and more control of their own affairs—not always a good thing. In February they passed a law that threatened yet again to enrage the Sunnis, pushing the limits of de-Baathification to the point that the jobs of many ordinary people were imperiled. It was a sign of the hatreds simmering just beneath the surface of the new inclusive democratic institutions.

  But it was Afghanistan that now seemed most at risk. After Musharraf’s deals with the tribal leaders, the region in Pakistan near the Afghan border became a more secure safe haven for Taliban fighters. Consequently, the Pashto heartland of Kandahar and Helmand provinces in southern Afghanistan were increasingly violent and difficult to govern. NATO, which had enthusiastically taken on the military mission to defeat the Taliban, was experiencing enormous strain as unequal distribution of responsibilities—and casualties—became a source of conflict among members of the coalition. The governments of Canada, the Netherlands, Denmark, and Great Britain, in particular, bristled as they watched other countries restrict their military presence so their soldiers would be exposed to minimal conflict. For their allies it meant facing even greater risks. And the Karzai government, which was somewhat incompetent, was showing signs of venality—even deep-seated corruption.

  Eliot Cohen, who’d succeeded Phil Zelikow as counselor in the department, took responsibility for digging into the Afghan issue. The counselor has no defined portfolio and can take on directed assignments of that kind. What he found was disturbing. We all knew that the effort in Afghanistan was floundering, but Eliot thought it was nearing catastrophic failure. Steve Hadley had begun a thorough review with an eye to a revised strategy. The NSC would develop two different types of policies, ones that we could implement before leaving and others that we could at least start, leaving the next administration with a better platform from which to improve the situation.

  Coordination with the allies was one of the problems that needed immediate attention. Therefore, David Miliband, the British foreign secretary, and I set off together for Afghanistan to demonstrate unity of purpose. I also wanted to see firsthand what was happening outside of Kabul, so we decided to go to Kandahar. Our meetings with the joint military task forces—Canadian, British, U.S., and others, known as RC-South—were unsettling. I was accustomed to the tight integration of American civilians and military in Iraq through the Provincial Reconstruction Teams. We certainly had our problems, but here in Kandahar it looked as if the civilians and military had no idea what each other was doing. I kept getting less-than-satisfactory answers to my questions, and when one general said, “Well, that’s not possible,” in response to a question about better governance in one area, I became furious. “I’m an American,” I said. “Nothing is impossible.” There was silence for a moment or two, and pretty soon the meeting dissolved. I made a mental note to talk to the President and Bob Gates about what I’d experienced. It was imperative that we get a handle on the effort in Kandahar in particular, as it was the Taliban’s home and its stronghold.

  Later in the day Karzai met with David and me. I’d been vaguely aware of the Afghan president’s claim that the British were scheming against him. The charge rested on his knowledge of the activities of two diplomats who were holding discussions with former government officials who were, according to Karzai, out to overthrow him.

  Much to my astonishment, he took the opportunity of our meeting to accuse David and the United Kingdom of trying to oust him. “Either you know what’s going on, or your people aren’t telling you what they’re doing,” he said, leaving little room for an acceptable response. David tried to reason with him that Britain was doing no such thing. Karzai would not be mollified. Finally, I spoke up for the Brits, but he just shut me down. “America doesn’t have anything to do with this treachery,” he said.

  David and I had the same thought: Better to end this meeting now. It was a very troubling moment but not the last time that Karzai’s conspiracy gene would get the best of him. Then, at lunch, he was like a different person—all smiles and happy host. “Try this wonderful pudding, it’s an Afghan delicacy.” Wow! What’s going on here? I wondered.

  When I got home, I told the President that we needed to stay really close to Karzai. He agreed and intensified his personal contacts with the Afghan. Perhaps it was just the stress of governing the ungovernable, but Karzai sometimes seemed to believe the worst about the foreigners trying to help him. That day it was the Brits. It was only a matter of time until those feelings would apply to us as well.

  NOT LONG after returning from Afghanistan, I joined the President for his final trip to Africa and an opportunity to celebrate all that he’d done for the continent. But, as the President made his way across the region, the biggest stories were about the unfolding violence in Kenya and the threat of civil war.

  Africa was clearly making progress toward democratic governance, with peaceful transfers of power in countries like Benin, Mali, Sierra Leone, and Liberia. In several places, though, elderly strongmen had signaled their desire to hold on to power. Because the President of the United States was well respected in Africa, having launched AIDS and malaria programs and large increases in foreign assistance, it fell to him to gently encourage—even cajole—those leaders to move on. Nelson Mandela had once told the President that his people had begged him to run for a third term. “I told them that I want African leaders to see that it’s okay to retire,” the jovial Mandela had said. The President compared him to George Washington, who’d refused to become king. “Your country is lucky that he was that kind of man,” Mandela said. “Africa doesn’t have enough of them.”

  The President recalled that discussion with Mandela many times. In 2006, when President Olusegun Obasanjo of Nigeria sidled up to the President and suggested that he might change the Constitution so that he could serve a third term, the President told him not to do it. “You’ve served your country well. Now turn over power and become a statesman,” he’d said.

  After a strong public rebuke from the United States and condemnation of his efforts by the international community, the Nigerian Senate rejected the constitutional amendment proposal that would have allowed Obasanjo to serve a third term. The crestfallen Obasanjo was initially angry, accusing Jendayi Frazer of undermining him in the press and with his own people. “I’ll never deal with her again,” he told the President.

  The President responded, “Well, she’s a good person. But the main thing is that your country needs you to do the right thing.” Obasanjo did cede power—to a handpicked successor—but at least he was unsuccessful in changing the Constitution.

  Before Obasanjo, the President had had the same “fireside chat” with longtime Kenyan President Daniel arap Moi, who’d come to the Oval Office in 2002, hoping to convince the United States that his country needed him for stability. The President delivered the tough message: when the Constitution says it
’s time for elections, you need to step down. Moi, also under pressure from African leaders, relented, and elections for his successor were held in December 2002.

  Fortunately, the elections in Kenya went smoothly. Mwai Kibaki defeated Moi’s handpicked candidate by a large margin. When the aging Kibaki was elected, there was great hope that Kenya had turned the corner toward a stable democracy. We even invited Kibaki to the White House for a rare state visit, made somewhat difficult by his fragile physical condition as the result of a near-fatal accident during his campaign. Nonetheless, he had seemed to be an honest, if hardly inspiring, choice for the post-Moi era.

  But he, and particularly the people around him, had turned out to be intolerant of opposition and determined to stay in power. When Kibaki’s run for reelection in December 2007 proved inconclusive and allegations of fraud began to spread, conflict erupted in Kenya that would last well into the first few months of 2008.

  The election was so poorly run that it isn’t clear to this day who really won. As December turned into January, both sides continued to claim victory. A key problem was that Raila Odinga, the challenger, who had many of the characteristics that Kibaki did not (youth, charisma, and energy) was from the marginalized Luo ethnic group, and Kibaki is from the traditionally more powerful Kikuyu. Both groups claimed their candidate as the winner, and the post-election confusion threatened to plunge the country into civil war.

  Former UN secretary-general Kofi Annan was asked to mediate the conflict. I tried to help from a distance, phoning Odinga, then Kibaki, then Odinga again to encourage a power-sharing arrangement. By the time the President and I landed in Benin, a republic on Nigeria’s western border, the situation in Kenya had worsened. Armed gangs “representing” each of the contenders were engaged in open warfare that began in the western town of Kisumu and spread to the slums of Nairobi and beyond.

  The press hounded the President at every stop: “What is the United States doing to stop the violence in Kenya?” “Are you afraid of civil war?” It was one of those times when I wanted to cry out, “Does every problem in the world belong to the United States?” But of course I didn’t. The President and I decided that I should break off from his trip and go to Kenya. I called Kofi and asked, “Can you use my help?” He was grateful for my offer and we agreed that I’d come the next day.

  I decided to leave after the Tanzania portion of the trip. It was an important stop from a policy perspective. Tanzania had received an MCC grant and was a model AIDS relief recipient, and its president, Jakaya Kikwete, was one of the bright, young democratic leaders of Africa. I also wanted to be present when the President greeted the families of the victims of the 1998 U.S. Embassy bombings. So I attended the events in Dar es Salaam, including a dinner that I’ll never forget. Often the social dinners are routine and blur one into another. But that night I sat with the foreign minister and several others who’d been on the border at the time of the Rwandan genocide. “At first we didn’t believe the stories we were hearing,” one official said. “And then people started to stumble into refugee camps—missing limbs, hacked off hands and feet.”

  “We should have done something,” another said.

  Suddenly no one had much of an appetite. My mind wandered back to our visit to Rwanda—sitting with President Kagame and listening to his recounting of his own participation in the military confrontation with the genocidaires. And then there was the genocide museum in Kigali. One exhibit was a letter from a young boy who had expressed faith that the UN troops would come in time to save his family. They didn’t, of course. I’d better get on that plane tomorrow and make something happen in Kenya, I thought. Once ethnic violence begins, you never know where it’s going.

  The next morning I got on the plane for Kenya. The route we traveled filled me with awe, as our plane flew right over Mount Kilimanjaro. I made a mental note to return when I could enjoy the view. There wasn’t time right then, but one day there would be a chance to witness this natural wonder without the pressures of my current job.

  I arrived in Kenya and headed for the Nairobi Serena Hotel, where Kofi had taken up residence. In the car, our ambassador Michael Ranneberger handed me a newspaper. The headline was an appeal to both Kibaki and Odinga. “Don’t Kill Our Kenyan Democracy,” it said. “This is the headline in every newspaper and on every television station,” he said. “It’s a coordinated effort by civil society and the press to push the leaders toward agreement. The Kenyan people don’t want a civil war.”

  “Then there’s something to work with?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he replied, “it’s just you’ve got two bullheaded politicians who can’t see past their own interests.”

  When we reached the hotel, Kofi greeted me at the door. He’d already been in the country for a month and looked a bit tired. I’d worried that I might be “bigfooting” him by swooping down as the U.S. secretary of state. That wasn’t how he saw it, however. He needed help, and it wouldn’t be the first time we’d worked as a team. But I promised him that I would make clear that my efforts were in support of his. After all, I’d soon be back on a plane and he’d have to carry the negotiations forward to conclusion. We held a short press availability so that the point could be made at the start of my visit.

  Then I went to see the parties—first Kibaki and then Odinga. The president and his aides were gathered in his very hot second-floor offices. I guess the air conditioning isn’t working today, I thought. Or maybe the Africans just like it hot. Or maybe they’re trying to make me uncomfortable. Whatever the explanation, we sat there in the stultifying heat discussing the future of Kenya. Kofi had gotten the two men to agree to share power, but the devil was in the details. Odinga wanted to be a prime minister with real powers; Kibaki was determined to thwart him. The challenger wanted the Finance Ministry and Defense. The president wanted to give him no powerful posts at all.

  I started by reminding Kibaki of the great promise that everyone had seen in him when he had first been elected. He’d told the President at the time that he’d institutionalize democracy in his country. Now he had a chance to deliver on that promise. The stubborn old man just kept repeating that he’d won the election, but he seemed to go into and out of focus, suddenly losing his train of thought several times. It was then that I realized that his “people” might be more the problem than he. It’s often the case that advisors have as much to lose as the principal, particularly in Kenya, where political power is often accompanied by considerable wealth.

  In a stroke of good luck, one of the individuals in the room was Kibaki’s coalition partner Uhuru Kenyatta, whose sister had gone to Stanford with Jendayi, the assistant secretary for Africa. I asked Jendayi to call Kenyatta aside and see if he could establish a real bottom line. They agreed to continue their talks after the formal meeting broke up.

  I then went to see Raila Odinga and his advisors at their party headquarters. He was very focused and clear, making the negotiations easier. He wanted enough power as prime minister to govern the country. He also wanted two or more important ministries. He didn’t want to be a figurehead. Then I looked across the table at one of my own former Stanford students, Sally Kosgei. Ironically, here in the middle of this conflict, were two individuals with Stanford ties, each on a different side. But they knew each other, and they knew Jendayi. “They are all children of Kenya’s elites and have known each other since grammar school,” Jendayi explained. These contacts proved to be useful back channels.

  Finally, I met with the business community and civil society and confirmed what the ambassador had said. The dispute was not one that the Kenyan people wanted or supported; no one wanted civil war.

  In the end we were able to help Kofi bring about a power-sharing arrangement, with Odinga in the newly created—and somewhat vaguely defined—position of prime minister, responsible for coordinating government business, and Kibaki as chief of state and head of the armed forces in the role of president. A few months before we left office, Odinga came t
o see me at the department. He was on a mission to recruit foreign investment to Kenya in his role as head of government. “How are you and the president getting along?” I asked.

  “Not bad,” he answered. “I try to respect him for his age. It works okay.”

  I felt very good about the work I’d done in Kenya, most of it without much fanfare. When I returned to Stanford, Diane Comstock, a friend whose church works in Kenya, sent me a note. It was the story of a woman who’d been so moved by what I’d done to “save Kenya” that she had named her daughter Condoleezza. Wow! I thought. That’s unbelievable! Then I had to laugh as I imagined the little African girl learning to spell “Condoleezza.” “She’ll have a head start on the alphabet,” I told my friend. Being secretary of state had its moments. This was one of them.

  49

  WHITHER CHINA?

  JOSH BOLTEN, the White House chief of staff, had given all of us a little “countdown” clock, ticking away the remaining days of the Bush administration. I put it on the corner of my desk. There was still a lot to do, and I was very aware that we’d soon come to a “crossover point,” when other governments would start to look past us to the next administration. The flip side was that several leaders wanted to “finish” important business, since they believed that “the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t.”

  I wondered which camp Kim Jong-il would fall into. In the first quarter of 2008, it seemed that he wanted to “finish” the business with the Bush administration. There had been a thaw in 2007 during which the North Koreans carried out their obligations, allowing IAEA and U.S. inspectors on the ground where, as one press member put it, they “crawl[ed] all over the place,” even destroying equipment related to the nuclear program. The improvement in Pyongyang’s compliance coincided with the election of a new, tough-minded president in South Korea. It helped too that U.S.-China relations were on a solid footing. For a moment in the winter of 2008, it looked as though we might just get the North Koreans to make better choices. The North desperately wanted to be removed from the terrorist list, which identified countries engaged in and supporting terrorism. Somehow the North Koreans seemed to believe it signaled acceptance internationally, though they remained heavily sanctioned. But we were holding out until we could get a look at the declaration of their nuclear facilities, sites, and activities promised in the step-by-step plan that Chris Hill and Kim Kye Gwan had worked out the year before. Still, we were making progress and it was nice that the inauguration of South Korea’s new president could take place without a crisis on the Korean peninsula as the backdrop.