When Jake Sullivan stepped onto the stage at Cook Auditorium on November 4, he wasn’t just returning to his old classroom. He was stepping into a room full of students, faculty, and community members ready to hear from the man who helped shape U.S. foreign policy during two of the most volatile global conflicts in recent memory. Gaza. Ukraine. The Middle East. The stakes were high, and so were the expectations.
Sullivan, who served as National Security Advisor under President Biden, spoke with a mix of conviction and vulnerability. He defended the administration’s record, but he didn’t shy away from the weight of his decisions. “I lie awake at night,” he admitted, “asking myself, should I have done this, should I have done that?” That line stuck. It wasn’t just introspection, it was accountability. And in a moment when trust in government feels fragile, that kind of honesty matters.
But let’s be clear. This wasn’t a confession. It was a calculated reflection. Sullivan knows how to speak the language of diplomacy. He knows how to frame regret without conceding failure. He talked about his “good heart,” his “best advice,” and the options he presented to the president. He emphasized process. He emphasized intention. But intention doesn’t erase impact.
Take Gaza. Sullivan helped broker a short-lived ceasefire earlier this year. He called the suffering of civilians “heartbreaking.” He said the images “break my heart.” That’s human. That’s real. But what about the policy decisions that led to those images? What about the weapons shipments, the vetoes at the United Nations, the silence in the face of disproportionate force? Sullivan didn’t go there. And that silence speaks volumes.
On Ukraine, the tone shifted. Sullivan was more assertive. He framed the administration’s support for Kyiv as a defense of democracy, a stand against authoritarianism. He talked about the middle class, about how foreign policy affects domestic life. That’s a smart move. It connects global strategy to everyday experience. But again, the framing was selective. There was little mention of the billions in military aid, the escalation risks, the diplomatic dead ends. The narrative was clean. Too clean.
The conversation, moderated by Government Professor Jeffrey Friedman, stayed mostly within the bounds of conventional foreign policy discourse. There were no protests. No interruptions. But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t tension. Students in the audience asked pointed questions. They pressed Sullivan on moral responsibility, on the limits of pragmatism. And while he answered with poise, the discomfort lingered. You could feel it in the room.
This event wasn’t just about Sullivan. It was about Dartmouth. About what kind of institution we want to be. Do we host powerful figures to celebrate their careers? Or do we challenge them? Do we ask hard questions? Do we demand more?
Because here’s the thing. Sullivan taught here. He knows this place. He knows its values. And yet, the policies he helped shaped have caused real harm. Civilians killed. Families displaced. Trust eroded. That’s not abstract. That’s real. And if we’re serious about justice, we have to name it.
There’s a tendency in elite spaces to treat foreign policy as a chess game. To talk about strategy, alliances, leverage. But behind every move are lives. Behind every decision are consequences. And when someone like Sullivan comes back to campus, we have a responsibility to confront that reality.
This isn’t about vilifying him. It’s about accountability. It’s about truth. It’s about making sure that our conversations reflect the urgency of the moment. Because Gaza is still burning. Ukraine is still fighting. And the decisions made in Washington ripple across the world.
So what now? We listen. We question. We organize. We refuse to let power go unchallenged. Sullivan’s visit was a reminder that policy isn’t neutral. It’s shaped by people. By choices. By values. And if we want a better world, we have to start by demanding better answers.
Dartmouth students have the tools. We have the voice. We have the platform. Let’s use it. Let’s make sure that when the next policymaker steps onto our campus, they know they’re not just here to speak. They’re here to be held accountable — a responsibility that extends beyond foreign policy discussions to all aspects of how we handle challenging conversations on campus.
Because this isn’t just a lecture. It’s a moment. And moments like this don’t come often. The kind of campus vigils and political reflection we’ve seen in recent years demonstrate that students are ready to engage with difficult questions about leadership and responsibility. Let’s not waste it.
