The Education of an Idealist

21. April 24

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22. Turnaround (#litres_trial_promo)

23. Toolbox (#litres_trial_promo)

24. Revolutions (#litres_trial_promo)

25. All Necessary Measures (#litres_trial_promo)

26. Let’s Pray They Accomplish Something (#litres_trial_promo)

27. One Shot (#litres_trial_promo)

28. “Can’t Be Both” (#litres_trial_promo)

29. The Red Line (#litres_trial_promo)

30. “Chemical Weapons Were Used” (#litres_trial_promo)

31. When America Sneezes (#litres_trial_promo)

32. Upside-Down Land (#litres_trial_promo)

33. Us and Them (#litres_trial_promo)

34. Freedom from Fear (#litres_trial_promo)

35. Lean On (#litres_trial_promo)

36. Toussaint (#litres_trial_promo)

37. The Golden Door (#litres_trial_promo)

38. Exit, Voice, Loyalty (#litres_trial_promo)

39. Shrink the Change (#litres_trial_promo)

40. The End (#litres_trial_promo)

Afterword (#litres_trial_promo)

Picture Section (#litres_trial_promo)

Footnotes (#litres_trial_promo)

Notes (#litres_trial_promo)

Index (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Samantha Power (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PREFACE (#ulink_b2f5ce01-952b-5dcd-9de3-df1ec67b7c34)

On a bright Saturday in September of 2013, I was sitting in a crowded diner in midtown Manhattan with my husband, Cass, and our kids, four-year-old Declan and one-year-old Rían. My cell phone rang. The White House switchboard was on the line: “Ambassador Power, please hold for the President of the United States.”

I took two long sips of water and walked out of the restaurant’s clamor toward the corner of 50th and Lexington.

I had first met Barack Obama eight years before, when he was a newly elected US senator. Although he was already considered a bright young star in American politics, I would not have predicted then that within a few short years he would become president. And I would have found it unbelievable that I—an unmarried Irish immigrant, obsessive sports fan, journalist, and human rights activist who had not served a day in government—would, within that same period, gain a husband and two children and be named United States Ambassador to the United Nations.

And yet there I was, with a security detail hovering, about to confer with the President while my family sat nearby.

Obama was not calling for a Saturday-afternoon chat. Syrian president Bashar al-Assad had recently unleashed chemical weapons against his own citizens, killing 1,400 people, including more than 400 children. This atrocity crossed the “red line” that the President had drawn when he threatened the Assad regime with “enormous consequences” if it used chemical weapons. In response, Obama had initially decided to order air strikes in Syria, but Congress—and most of the American public—had not supported him.

Then the unforeseen happened: Russian president Vladimir Putin, Assad’s ally, offered to work with the United States to destroy Syria’s large chemical weapons stockpile.

Locking down the specifics was left to me and my Russian counterpart at the UN. If we failed to negotiate a Security Council resolution, President Obama did not have a Plan B.

“Hey!” Obama said when he came on the line. Despite the gravity of the situation, he used the same airy inflection as when we first met in 2005.

I had only become UN ambassador the previous month, and Obama understood that I was facing a high-pressure diplomatic assignment. He was checking in to be sure we were on the same page.

“I just want you to know I have complete confidence in you,” he said.

I started to thank him.

“But …” Obama interrupted.

At that moment I did not need a “but.”

“But in these negotiations with the Russians,” he continued, “I want to make sure you don’t overshoot the runway.”

The Syrian government was notorious for unspeakable acts of savagery against its own people, and Obama knew I was skeptical that Assad would ever relinquish his chemical weapons. He was concerned I would demand too much from the Russians and cause them to walk away.

“But don’t undershoot the runway either,” he quickly added.

“Yes, Mr. President,” I said.

We hung up and I began walking back toward the diner, security agents in tow.

Don’t overshoot. Don’t undershoot. Looking up to the cloudless sky, I found myself wondering something more fundamental: “Where the hell is the runway?”