Jody Williams

The Vermont schoolteacher who turned righteous anger into a global movement that banned landmines

Most people don't know that Jody Williams almost didn't answer the phone call that would change her life—and the lives of millions of people walking through former war zones. In 1991, she was grading papers in her Vermont home when Vietnam Veterans of America Foundation called asking if she'd coordinate a small campaign against landmines. She nearly said no, thinking it would be just another frustrating advocacy effort. Instead, she said yes and built the fastest-growing humanitarian movement in history.

Timeline of a Revolutionary Life

1950 - Born in Putney, Vermont, to working-class parents who instilled fierce sense of justice
1972 - Graduates from University of Vermont; begins teaching elementary school
1976 - Earns master's degree in international relations from Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies
1984 - Moves to Washington D.C., begins career in humanitarian advocacy
1986-1992 - Coordinates Nicaragua-Honduras Education Project, organizing humanitarian aid during Central American conflicts
1991 - Reluctantly accepts position coordinating International Campaign to Ban Landmines (ICBL)
1992 - Officially launches ICBL with five other organizations in a cramped office
1996 - Achieves breakthrough when major powers agree to negotiate landmine treaty
1997 - Mine Ban Treaty signed in Ottawa; wins Nobel Peace Prize at age 47
1998 - Steps down from ICBL leadership, citing burnout and desire for new challenges
2006 - Co-founds Nobel Women's Initiative with other female peace laureates
Present - Continues activism on disarmament, women's rights, and human security issues

The Accidental Revolutionary

Jody Williams never planned to become a Nobel laureate. Growing up in rural Vermont as the daughter of a county judge and a homemaker, she was shaped by her parents' belief that privilege came with responsibility. Her younger brother Stephen, born deaf, faced constant discrimination that ignited Williams' lifelong fury at injustice. "I learned early that the world isn't fair," she would later say, "but that doesn't mean you accept it."

After teaching elementary school briefly, Williams pivoted to international relations, drawn by the Central American conflicts of the 1980s. For six years, she coordinated humanitarian aid to Nicaragua and Honduras, learning to navigate the complex world of international advocacy. The work was frustrating—bureaucratic, underfunded, and often ineffective. When the Vietnam Veterans of America Foundation called in 1991 asking her to coordinate a campaign against landmines, she almost declined. "I thought, 'Oh great, another impossible cause,'" she recalled.

But landmines were different. These weapons didn't distinguish between soldiers and children, continuing to kill and maim decades after conflicts ended. Williams saw immediately that this wasn't just about war—it was about fundamental human dignity. Working from her kitchen table with a fax machine and fierce determination, she began building what would become the International Campaign to Ban Landmines.

The Nobel moment itself came as a complete shock. Williams was in her Vermont home on October 10, 1997, when a journalist called asking for her reaction to winning the Nobel Peace Prize. "I thought it was a prank call," she remembered. "I hung up on him twice." When she finally believed it was real, her first call wasn't to family or colleagues—it was to her answering machine to change the message, knowing her phone was about to explode. The woman who had spent six years working eighteen-hour days in obscurity was suddenly the most famous peace activist in the world.

What made Williams extraordinary wasn't diplomatic finesse—she was famously blunt, once telling a U.S. State Department official to "cut the crap" during negotiations. Instead, it was her ability to see landmines as a humanitarian issue rather than a military one, and her genius for coalition-building. She understood that governments respond to pressure, not just moral arguments. Starting with six organizations, she built a network of over 1,400 groups in 90 countries, creating unstoppable momentum for change.

The campaign succeeded through what Williams called "superglue diplomacy"—binding together unlikely allies through shared moral purpose. She convinced Princess Diana to walk through minefields, bringing global media attention. She organized landmine survivors to testify at international conferences, putting human faces on abstract policy debates. Most crucially, she bypassed traditional diplomatic channels, working directly with middle-power countries like Canada and Norway who were willing to lead when superpowers wouldn't.

The politics surrounding her Nobel Prize revealed both the power and limitations of international recognition. The Norwegian Nobel Committee's decision to honor the landmine campaign was controversial—the United States, Russia, and China had refused to sign the treaty. Some criticized giving the prize to an American when the U.S. government opposed the ban. Williams herself was conflicted about accepting individual recognition for what she insisted was collective work. "I didn't ban landmines," she said repeatedly. "We did."

The human cost of Williams' excellence was enormous. The six-year campaign consumed her life completely. She worked eighteen-hour days, traveled constantly, and had no time for relationships or personal life. "I became a machine," she later admitted. The stress was so intense that she developed chronic health problems and struggled with depression. When she stepped down from ICBL leadership in 1998, many were surprised—she was at the height of her influence. But Williams knew she was burning out and needed to step back before the work destroyed her.

The "Nobel effect" transformed Williams' life in unexpected ways. The prize brought global recognition but also unwanted celebrity. She struggled with being seen as a symbol rather than a person, and with the pressure to be a perfect representative of peace activism. The prize money allowed her financial freedom for the first time, but also brought requests for funding from countless causes. Most significantly, winning at 47 gave her a platform she used to champion other issues, particularly women's leadership in peace processes.

Williams' approach to activism was shaped by her working-class Vermont roots and her experience with her deaf brother. She believed in direct action over diplomatic niceties, in building power rather than just making moral arguments. "Nice doesn't change the world," she often said. Her success came from understanding that humanitarian campaigns need the same strategic thinking as political campaigns—clear goals, diverse coalitions, media savvy, and relentless pressure.

The landmine campaign succeeded because Williams recognized that the traditional arms control approach—getting major military powers to agree first—would never work. Instead, she built a coalition of smaller countries, NGOs, and civil society groups that created new international law despite superpower opposition. The Mine Ban Treaty became a model for humanitarian disarmament, inspiring later campaigns against cluster munitions and autonomous weapons.

Voices of Conviction

On her approach to activism: "I'm not a diplomat. I don't do diplomatic speak. I think it's a bunch of bullshit, frankly. You say what you mean, you mean what you say, and you do what you say you're going to do."

On winning the Nobel Prize (from her acceptance speech): "Together we are a superpower. It's not about the money, it's not about the weapons. It's about the will. And together, we have the will to change the world."

On the nature of her work: "People ask me if I'm a pacifist. I'm not. I'm not opposed to all wars. I'm opposed to stupid wars, and most wars are stupid. But I am absolutely opposed to weapons that continue to kill innocent people long after the wars are over."

On stepping down from leadership: "I had to get out before I became one of those people who thinks they are the movement. The movement is bigger than any individual, and it has to be able to survive without any one person."

On her legacy: "I hope I'm remembered as someone who got things done. Not someone who talked about getting things done, but someone who actually did it. And I hope other people see that you don't have to be special or have special training. You just have to care enough to act."

Williams' story teaches us that world-changing movements often begin with one person willing to say yes to an impossible task. Her success came not from special credentials or connections, but from combining moral clarity with strategic thinking, and from understanding that sustainable change requires building power, not just making arguments. Her Nobel journey shows us that recognition often comes to those who focus on the work rather than the reward, and that the most effective activists are often those who see themselves as organizers rather than leaders. In an age of complex global challenges, Williams reminds us that ordinary people with extraordinary persistence can still move mountains—one phone call, one coalition, one treaty at a time.