To the world, Madeleine Albright will always be remembered as America’s first woman secretary of state. She thrived in that role as a consequence of her intelligence, strength, and her mastery of a profoundly challenging role at a time when the United States was, briefly, the world’s sole superpower.
In a moment during her tenure as secretary of state that resonates greatly with the current one, a brutal authoritarian leader, Serbian President Slobodan Milosevic, threatened the peace of Europe.
It was Albright who championed taking a stand against him. She helped manage the mobilization of NATO during that war, in Kosovo, the last time NATO was activated to respond to a crisis in Europe. Milosevic later became the first sitting head of state to be charged with war crimes.
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Albright’s contempt for thuggish leaders with no respect for the rule of law, at home or abroad, came to her naturally. Her family escaped Hitler’s Europe in 1939, two weeks after the German army invaded her native Czechoslovakia. The Albrights returned after the war, only to have to flee the Soviets in 1948.
Her appreciation for America—our country’s unique virtues and the need to be willing to fight for the freedoms we so value—flowed directly from her personal experience.
One of her gifts was infusing those around her with her convictions. She was a master communicator who pulled no punches, but regularly managed to drive her points home with equal parts dry wit and conviction.
When Albright was U.S. Ambassador to the UN during the first term of the Clinton administration, then-Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Gen. Colin Powell expressed his reluctance about deploying U.S. forces to the former Yugoslavia—which was unraveling in civil war, ethnic cleansing, and wanton violence on civilians. Albright’s response was, “What's the point of having this superb military you're always talking about if we can't use it?'
A few years later, in 1996, the Cuban military shot down two civilian aircraft associated with an anti-Castro group over international waters. Albright acidly observed, “This is not cojones. This is cowardice.”
One of her most famous remarks was associated with her tireless championing of women. She was not someone who saw her own groundbreaking career achievements as enough. She felt that the only way women could ultimately undo the imbalances of history and enjoy the full range of opportunities they deserved was if they helped each other. “There is a special place in hell,” she said, “for women who don’t help other women.”
Of course, the glass ceilings she shattered—and her great success in the jobs she held after breaking through—made a huge difference. After serving on the staff of Sen. Edmund Muskie, Albright was one of the first women to serve on the National Security Council staff during the Carter administration. (I’ll never forget a wry observation of hers on governmental absurdity: On her last day working for Muskie, she wrote a letter to President Carter. Then, on her first day as an NSC staffer, she was tasked with writing the letter of response to that letter.)
The number of women who have followed in her footsteps is one of the measures of her role as a trailblazer. When she was under consideration to become secretary of state, one argument against her nomination was that a woman would not be accepted in that role in many corners of the world. The fact that two of her next three successors as America’s chief diplomat were also women is testimony to how quickly attitudes can be adjusted when it is demonstrated that the best person for the job happens to be a woman.
In Washington, DC, of course, Albright was known by those who worked with her and her friends in a different light. She became well-known in the capital by hosting salons in her Georgetown home that brought together some of the city’s best, brightest, and best-connected. In that setting and in private meetings, her warmth and her humor were as evident as her steely intelligence and insight.
Her personal qualities are the reasons many will mourn her even more as a friend than as an extraordinary colleague. When you were with her, the connection was direct, and she mastered the most important ability of any diplomat, she was a great listener. She also happened to be a fantastic storyteller, as well as a compassionate and nurturing friend.
In part, this is because she never lost sight of where she came from, as aware of the setbacks and challenges she faced in life as her successes. And she was a natural teacher and counsel—imparting the lessons she learned back to those around her, whether they were presidents, candidates, foreign leaders, or junior staff.
In fact, of all my memories in Washington, one of the most indelible for me was also one that forever changed my view of how the city worked.
I remember recounting to her my unease the first few times I found myself in the Situation Room during my time in the Clinton Administration; telling her how out of place I felt. She responded, “Let me tell you something, everyone in that room has impostor’s syndrome. We all think we don’t belong. We all remember who we were in high school and wonder how we got to where we are now.”
It was a great leveler. It was also the kindest and most helpful thing she could have said.
But, of course, I knew when she said it that she was anything but an impostor. She was one of those rare leaders who are set apart not just by their hard work or public achievements, but by their humanity.
For those who knew her, that is undoubtedly why she will be most missed. But for those who did not, it is also why her actions—as a diplomat, a teacher, a champion of women—will resonate with so many for so very long. She had the strength to translate compassion, decency, and values into action. In a moment as fraught as our current one, we can only hope fate sends our way more leaders like her.
