Prime Minister Menachem Begin

For days, tension permeated the Knesset. Stocky, gesticulating men combed its corridors, committees, and canteens, their numbers rising daily like tugboats heaving in fresh infusions of lobbying power. They were El Al union men, accompanied by their whispering lawyers, intent on scotching Prime Minister Menachem

Begin’s resolve to halt the national airline’s flights on the Sabbath, from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. Without letup, they pressured, pestered, and petitioned the parliamentarians. Even the ever-ebullient, highly erudite, and strictly observant interior minister, Dr. Yosef Burg, was collared.

He was waylaid by a union man who placed an amicable arm around his shoulder, jabbed a forefinger into his chest, and barked into his face so grimacingly that his head was jerked backwards as if to have the arguments shoved physically down his throat.

This was on May 3, 1982, the day Premier Begin limped into a crowded Knesset chamber tense with expectancy. He was in pain, recovering from a severe hip injury, and it was with heavy, purposeful steps that he mounted the tribune to deliver his El Al speech. He began quietly, factually, declaring that the government had finally decided to halt all El Al flights on Shabbat and festivals, a revelation that sent eyes glaring and hatreds flashing in the public gallery where the union men sat.

Simultaneously, a sudden restlessness seized the opposition benches, which erupted into a paroxysm of heckling: “So why don’t you shut down TV on Shabbat, too?” screamed one.

“What about football matches on Shabbat?” bawled another.

“Are you going to stop Jewish merchant ships at sea, too?” shouted a third.

This spasm of derision fazed the Premier not one little bit. On the contrary, it supplied him with new inspirations of vitriolic wit.

“Shout as much as you will,” he ribbed, his deep-set, bespectacled eyes scanning the opposition faces with scorn, his gaze finally settling on the young, secular, radical left-winger, Yossi Sarid. “I have nothing to say to you and your kind, Mr. Sarid,” he said, with a glance that could wither. “In fact, I have nothing to say to anyone who supports a Palestinian state that is a mortal danger to our people.”

And then, changing tone, he pitched his voice to a muted, sonorous, trembling pitch. This man, who believed in oratory as the supreme artful weapon, a matter of style, cadence, and the application of controlled but massive intellectual energy, intoned: “Forty years ago I returned from exile to Eretz Yisrael. Engraved in my memory still are the lives of millions of Jews: simple, ordinary folk, eking out a livelihood in that forlorn Diaspora where the storms of anti-Semitism raged.

“They were not permitted to work on the Christian day of rest, and they refused to work on their day of rest. For they lived by the commandment, ‘Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.’ So each week, they forswore two whole days of hard-won bread. This meant destitution for many. But they would not desecrate the Sabbath day.”

“So, stop football on Shabbat, too?” butted in Sarid provocatively, triggering off another squall of jeers, hissing, and name-calling.

Adroitly, to the delight of his supporters, Menachem Begin put his power of mimicry to full use by calmly raising his right hand as if to catch a ball, tossed it back, and resumed his rhetorical flow: “Shabbat is one of the loftiest values in all of humanity,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “It originated with us. It is all ours. No other civilization in history knew of a day of rest. Ancient Egypt had a great culture, whose treasures are on view to this day, yet the Egypt of antiquity did not know of a day of rest. The Greeks of old excelled in philosophy and the arts, yet they did not know of a day of rest. Rome established mighty empires and instituted a system of law still relevant to this day, yet they did not know of a day of rest. Neither did the civilizations of Assyria, Babylon, Persia, India, or China. None of them knew of a day of rest.”

“So, put on a yarmulke,” sneered Sarid.

“Chutzpa!” boomed Begin, bristling. “I speak of our people’s most hallowed values, and you dare stoop to mockery. Shame on you!” Then, arms up, fists balled, he thundered with the devotion of a disciple and the fire of a champion: “One nation alone sanctified the Shabbat, a small nation, the nation that heard the voice at Sinai, ‘So that your man-servant and your maid-servant may rest as well as you.’ Ours was the nation that enthroned Shabbat as sovereign Queen.”

A crescendo of approval from the government benches sent the rafters rattling, muffling every last vestige of dissent. And he, the Great Commoner, idol of the common folk, caught up on the wave of his own enthusiasm and sense of mission, rose to a pitch of almost uncontrollable fervor, and thundered on: “So, are we in our own reborn Jewish state to allow our blue-and-white El Al planes to fly to and fro as if broadcasting to the world that there is no Shabbat in Israel? Should we, who by faith and tradition heard the commandment at Sinai, now deliver a message to all and sundry through our blue-and-white El Al planes: ‘No, don’t remember the Sabbath day. Forget the Sabbath day! Desecrate the Sabbath day.’ I shudder at the thought.”

The ensuing ruckus was terrific. The speaker sat ham-fisted, vainly banging his gavel, which thudded as soundlessly as a velvet mallet. So Begin himself raised his palms and then lowered them gently, once, twice, thrice, until the furor quieted of itself. Whereupon, to hammer his point home, he quoted the words of the celebrated secular philosopher of early Zionism, Ahad Ha’am: “More than the Jews kept the Sabbath day, the Sabbath day kept the Jews.”

With that, he raised his eyes to the public gallery and vouchsafed its occupants an intensely solemn stare. “Let me say this to the good workers of El Al,” he told the crowd. “The government has been the object of threats. We disregard them. In a democracy, government decisions are not made under threat.” And then, like a sudden bugle call to historical grandeur, he perorated with compelling passion: “Know this: We cannot assess the religious, national, social, historical, and ethical values of the Sabbath day by the yardstick of financial loss or gain. In our revived Jewish state we simply cannot engage in such calculations when dealing with an eternal and cardinal value of the Jewish people: Shabbat, for which our ancestors were ready to give their lives.

“One thing more. One need not be a pious Jew to accept this principle. One need only be a Jew.”

The original article can be found here: http://www.wherewhatwhen.com/read_articles.asp?id=275

Prime Minister Levi Eshkol

On the Seventh Day

An Arab sword of Damocles hung over Israel’s neck in June 1967, and so perilous was its blade that foreign capitals spoke chillingly of the country’s imminent slaughter. But then, within six amazing days, the IDF crushed army after Arab army and felt the jubilation of David with Goliath prostrate at his feet.

Then the seventh day dawned. Soviet Russia swiftly replenished Goliath’s arsenals, while David’s sling lost much of its propellant thrust. France, long Israel’s backer, imposed an arms embargo, and only America could redress the balance. It was this, above all, that drove Israeli Prime Minister Levi Eshkol to seek an urgent meeting with President Lyndon Johnson, who, in January 1968, extended to him a friendly invitation to his Texas ranch.

The talks took place in the President’s den – a mixture of warm leathers, rust couches, and a low, husky oak table, around which the principals and their aides sat. No two men appeared so absolutely unalike in appearance and temperament. The one was a towering Texan – vigorouss, groomed, abrasive, and commanding – the other a paunchy, stooped, bespectacled, balding Jerusalemite with a wise, family-friend countenance.

* * *

Without ado, the Prime Minister bent his mind to the hub of his argument: “The heart of my mission, Mr. President,” he said, “is how to create peace in the Middle East at a time when the Syrian and Egyptian armies are being rebuilt by the Soviets at a menacing pace – so fast that the Arab leaders are contemplating renewed war.”

“How fast?” asked Johnson. He was sitting at the very edge of his chair, his demeanor intense. A white dog at his feet barked and sniffed the Prime Minister’s shoes, and the President snapped, “Quiet, Yuki! Down!”

“Egypt, Syria, and Iraq have already replenished their air forces to a combined strength of 460 fighters and 47 bombers,” answered Eshkol. “Egypt alone is now almost back to its prewar air strength. Moreover, the quality of their aircraft is vastly improved.”

“And their ground forces, what of them?” asked the President.

“In tanks,” replied the premier referring to a typed page, “the Egyptians are almost back to their prewar strength. The Egyptian navy is stronger than before, with rocket-equipped vessels. The number of ground troops is rapidly rising beyond their June 1967 strength.”

“Do you see signs of an actual Russian physical presence there?”

“Certainly. Our assessment is that there are at least 2,500 Soviet military experts in Egypt today.”

“Okay, that’s the Arab side. Now what about your side? What do you have?” The President was eyeing the Prime Minister unblinkingly, as if trying to track the motives behind his thoughts.

Eshkol’s response, when it came, was slow, soft, and disturbing: “We have no more than 150 aircraft, all French, 66 of them virtually obsolete. The French are contracted to send us 50 more, but, because of their boycott, we won’t get them. In a word, Mr. President,” and here their eyes met and caught, “we presently do not have the minimum means to defend ourselves.”

A flicker crossed Johnson’s brow, and he exchanged glances with his advisers. “So what are you asking for exactly? Spell it out.” The voice was terse and tight.

Eshkol, knowing this was the decisive moment, adjusted his spectacles, cleared his throat, and said in a measured tone, “What I’m asking for, Mr. President, is the one aircraft that has the necessary range and versatility to enable us to face down our enemies. I’m asking for your F-4 Phantom jets.”

Johnson’s eyes became strangely veiled. The Phantom was America’s newest, state-of-the-art fighter bomber.

“Mr. President,” pressed Eshkol, a sudden edge of desperation in his voice, “please understand, my country is extremely vulnerable. One defeat in the field can be fatal to our survival. What I ask of you is the minimum for our self-defense. Without those Phantoms we will be deprived of our minimum security. We need 50 Phantoms as rapidly as possible.”

Johnson returned him an unreceptive look, and Eshkol, really charged up now, said, “Mr. President, last June our enemies tried to destroy us, and we defeated them all. Had we waited one more day, even one more hour, before forestalling them, the outcome might have been very different. Yet I come here with no sense of boastful triumph; nor have I entered the struggle for peace in the role of victor. The only feeling I have is one of relief that we were saved from national disaster, and I thank G-d for that. Now, all my thoughts are turned toward winning the peace – peace with honor between equals.”

“That is a noble thought,” said Johnson.

“Thank you, but we need the tools to help bring that peace about. I regret to say that” – a sudden bitter irony crept into his voice – “the United States is the only source we have for those tools. Within two years, our Arab neighbors will have 900 to 1,000 Soviet aircraft. So it’s an either/or situation. Either you provide us with the arms we need, or you leave us to our fate. It’s as simple as that.”

And then, almost in a whisper, “Mr. President, Israel is pleading for your help.”

* * *

Lyndon Baines Johnson put the back of one beefy hand against his mouth, chewed on his knuckles contemplatively, made a tent of his hairy fingers, and said, “I am impressed by your statement, Mr. Prime Minister. However, as you know, we are facing a difficult situation in Vietnam, calling on our resources. I suggest, therefore, you look elsewhere to find your weapons, not only here in the United States.”

Eshkol threw him a cynical smile. “Please tell me where. I would be delighted to look elsewhere if you can give me an address.”

“That’s as may be, but I regret that your visit here is so closely tied to this matter of the Phantoms. Planes won’t radically change your realities. Your big problem is how two-and-a-half million Jews [Israel’s population at the time] can live in a sea of Arabs.”

Secretary of state Dean Rusk, a solid and benevolent sort, chimed in to say in a reasonable and persuasive tone, “Mr. Prime Minister, in all honesty, whatever efforts Israel makes in the field of military buildup, the Arabs will better you every time. If the Arabs see an Israel they cannot live with, one that is intolerable to them, they won’t back away from an arms race. On the contrary, they will turn increasingly to the Soviets, to the detriment of the American interest. So what we would like to hear from you today is what kind of an Israel do you want the Arabs to live with, and what kind of an Israel do you want the American people to support? The answer, surely, is not to be found in military hardware.”

“These are difficult remarks you are making, Mr. Secretary,” said Eshkol stonily. “All I can say to you now is that our victory in the Six Day War blocked the Soviet Union from taking over the Middle East; and that, surely, is an American interest. As for the kind of an Israel the Arabs can live with and which the American people can support, the only answer I can presently give is an Israel whose map will be different from the one of the eve of the Six Day War.”

“How different?” quizzed Rusk cagily.

Eshkol, his voice brimming with sincerity, replied, “Please understand, we did not want that June war. We could have lived indefinitely within the old pre-1967 armistice lines. But now that there has been a war, we cannot return to those old, vulnerable frontiers.”

Clearly not wanting a high-stress exchange to escalate into an all-out dispute, the President intervened and suggested a break. When the talks resumed, the President said he would like to try and get a peace process going, to which Eshkol interjected with uncharacteristic adamancy, “Mr. President, I would love somebody here in this room to tell me when and where and how I can get a peace process going. I wouldn’t be here asking for Phantoms if somebody could tell me that. But instead of peace, we are faced with an unprecedented Arab rearmament that again threatens our very existence. The immediate issue is the means to defend ourselves against another attempted onslaught. Israel feels weaker now than before the Six Day War. Why? Because as you rightly said, we are a small country of two-and-a-half million Jews surrounded by a sea of Arabs. So what are we supposed to do? Wait until Russia gives them so many planes that they can dictate their terms at will?”

His face had gone white. “Mr. President,” he galloped on, “the State of Israel is the last chance for the Jewish people. I pray with all my heart to avoid another war. But I know of only one address to acquire the means to defend ourselves – and that address is you.”

Robert McNamara, the secretary of defense, raised a finger. He was a handsome man in his early fifties, with a square chin, a fine mop of hair parted in the middle, and rimless glasses that gave him an intellectual look. There was nothing about him to suggest he was in the midst of a Vietnamese war that would prove one of the bloodiest America had ever fought.

“Having studied the evidence,” he began with dispassion, “it seems clear to me that two-and-a half million Jews truly cannot withstand the whole of the Arab world, particularly if the Arabs are assisted by the Russians. Therefore, the supply of a substantial number of the most sophisticated aircraft could only increase Russian support for the Arabs. At the same time, there is no reason for Israel to say it has been abandoned. This will not occur while President Johnson is president. However, for the U.S. to supply you with planes might greatly increase the supply of Russian planes to the Arabs. So, given these unknowns, we have to proceed with the utmost caution.”

This obscure and contradictory comment aroused the ire of General Motti Hod, commander of Israel’s Air Force, who, with undisguised cynicism, countered, “The arms race, Mr. McNamara, has never been influenced by what we have in our hangers. The only limiting factor is the Arab capacity to absorb the aircraft the Soviets supply.”

And then to Johnson, “Your secretary of defense says that as long as you, Mr. President, are president, Israel will never be abandoned. Might I suggest that the one way of guaranteeing that, and of assuring that U.S. forces will never have to come to our rescue, is by keeping our air force strong.”

The President suggested another brief break for consultations, after which he said in summation, “I think we can agree on three objectives. First, there is the need to do what we can to bring about a stable peace. Second, we are all anxious to deter, if possible, an arms race. Third, the United States has a hope and a purpose of assuring, if necessary, adequate equipment to the Israel Air Force to defend itself. And in connection with this goal I suggest that the following sentence be written into our joint communiqué at the conclusion of this session.”

He picked up a paper, and read, “The President agreed to keep Israel’s defense capability under active and sympathetic review in light of all the relevant factors, including the shipment of military equipment by others into the area.” To this he added by way of explanation, “This statement will be helpful in deterring the Arabs, and might even push them toward restraint. It also says to the Soviets, ‘Stop, look, and listen.’ And it gives you something concrete, Mr. Prime Minister, to stand on.”

This, in diplomatic-speak, translated into, “Yes. You’ll have your Phantoms,” and a deeply relieved Prime Minister responded, “Thank you, Mr. President. I thank you from the heart.”

Lyndon B. Johnson kept his word. Historically, a profound change in the relationship between Jerusalem and Washington was set in motion. America threw in its strategic lot with Israel, so that, henceforth, it would become Israel’s main source of sophisticated weaponry.

This strategic alliance, for all its ups and downs, endures as a bedrock of U.S. bipartisan support, for not only does it enable Israel to retain a qualitative edge in the face of extraordinary odds, it is the indispensable key to any process of peace in the future.

The original article can be found here: http://www.wherewhatwhen.com/read_articles.asp?id=347

Hostages are greeted after being saved

Prime minister Yitzhak Rabin’s military aide, Brig.-Gen. Ephraim Poran – otherwise known as Freuke – was an unexcitable, soft-spoken soldier who had a reputation for keeping his head while others around him were losing theirs. So, when Rabin saw him stride into the cabinet room in the middle of a session and bear down on him with a note in his hand and an agitated look on his face, he knew something untoward was afoot. It was Sunday, June 27, 1976, and Rabin’s features paled when he read what Freuke wrote: “An Air France plane, Flight 139 from Tel Aviv to Paris, has been hijacked after taking off from a stopover in Athens.” Rabin frowned over a file as if intensely studying its contents but was, in fact, desperately trying to think what best to do. Not since the Six Day War had he been smitten with such a sudden blow of anxiety. He needed time; he needed information. On the back of the note he wrote: “Freuke – find out: (1) How many Israelis are on board. (2) How many hijackers are on board. (3) Where the plane is heading.” He then banged his gavel to silence a minister who was working up a froth about the price of bread, informed the cabinet of the shocking news, adjourned the meeting and asked a number of ministers to stay behind to consider a course of action. “The only thing we presently know for sure,” Rabin told them, “is that the hijacked plane is Air France.” And then, addressing justice minister Haim Zadok, a corpulent, round-shouldered, middle-aged man, whose graying head contained an encyclopedic legal mind, asked, “What exactly is the legal status of the passengers on board that plane?” “By law, the passengers are under French sovereign protection,” he answered authoritatively. “The French government is responsible for the fate of them all.” “Yigal” – this to foreign minister Allon – “have your people inform the French government we’re issuing a public statement to that effect. And ask Paris to keep us informed of all their actions.” To me, he said, “Prepare a draft of the statement.” As I began to scribble, Allon rose to leave the room, and was almost out of the door when Zadok called after him, “And tell the French they must make no distinction between the Israeli passengers and the rest.” “That goes without saying,” muttered Allon, slightly huffed. Now Freuke came barging in with a fresh note, which Rabin read out loud: “‘There are 230 passengers on board, 83 of them Israeli, and 12 crew members. The Libyans have allowed the plane to land at Benghazi.’ So now, at least, we know where the passengers are,” commented the premier, his face a scowl. “But there are three crucial things we still don’t know: We don’t know whether Benghazi will be their final stop; we don’t know who the hijackers are; and we don’t know what their demands are.” For the next half hour the ministers mulled over these three unknowns when a secretary entered and passed a note to Allon. “Aha, it’s from the French ambassador,” he said, and he read: “The government of France wishes to inform the government of Israel that the French government bears full responsibility for the safety of all the passengers without distinction on Air France Flight 139, and shall keep the government of Israel appraised of its actions.” “That is satisfactory,” said Zadok, and in the absence of anything useful more to say the prime minister adjourned the meeting, asking everyone to stay close to a phone. It rang in the late afternoon, and the ministers reconvened early that evening. Rabin, now every bit the hard-nosed commander he once was, ran his eyes up and down a dossier, and said, “We have fresh information. The plane was seven hours on the ground at Benghazi, for refueling. One passenger, a pregnant woman, was released. It then took off for Khartoum but was not given permission to land even though Sudan is a haven for Palestinian terrorists. We have no idea where the plane is heading now. As for the identity of the hijackers, it seems there are four – two Arabs from the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, and two Germans from a terrorist splinter group calling itself the ‘Revolutionary Cells.’ That’s as much as we know now.” That night Yitzhak Rabin fell into a woolly sleep until jerked blinking back into reality by the shrill ring of his bedside telephone: “Who is this?” “Freuke.” “What time is it?” “Four in the morning. The plane has landed in Entebbe, Uganda.” Rabin, instantly alert, said, “Better there than an Arab country. We know the Ugandan president, Idi Amin. Didn’t he do his parachute training here?” “He did. And quite a few of our specialists worked in Uganda. Some should know him personally, so hopefully we can straighten this thing out quickly.” “Try and find out who knows him. Any word yet of the hijacker’s demands?” “None.” “Convene a meeting first thing.” THE NEXT morning was Tuesday, June 29, and at 8:30 a somewhat bleary-eyed Rabin reported the new facts to the committee. Hardly had the ministers absorbed what he was saying when Freuke’s assistant came rushing in with a note. The general quickly ran his eyes over it and passed it on to the prime minister who, after a single glance, said, “This is what we’ve been waiting for. The hijackers have broadcast their demands over the Ugandan radio. In return for the hostages, the hijackers want the release of terrorists – they call them freedom fighters – imprisoned in five countries: 40 from us, six from West Germany, five from Kenya, one from Switzerland and one from France. They’ve issued an ultimatum. Within the next 48 hours the released terrorists are to be flown to Entebbe. Those freed by us are to be transported by Air France. The other countries can decide on their own mode of transport.” “And if not?” asked minister Yisrael Galili in his characteristic phlegmatic fashion. “What happens if they are not freed?” Galili had the white hair of an Einstein, the stocky build of a kibbutznik, the shrewdness of an entrepreneur and the veiled eyes of a Svengali. The reason he was merely a minister-without-portfolio was because he did not need one. He was Rabin’s closest political confidant. “If the terrorists are not freed,” answered Rabin, his voice graveyard, “they threaten to begin killing our hostages as of 2 p.m. Thursday afternoon, July 1. That is the day after tomorrow.” The group emitted a collective gasp and the first to break the silence was defense minister Shimon Peres, who delivered an impassioned address on the implications of capitulation to terrorist blackmail. Rabin cut him short with a sardonic, “Before you sermonize any further, I suggest we adjourn until this afternoon to think the matter through, with all its implications.” That’s how it was between Rabin and Peres in those days: absolute distrust. The prime minister promptly called his personal staff and asked for a report on the attempts to persuade Idi Amin to intercede on behalf of the passengers. What he learned caused him to say with a bitter smile, “Clearly, he’s in cahoots with the terrorists.” And then, “I want Motta at the next ministerial meeting” (Lt.-Gen. Mordechai [Motta] Gur was the IDF chief of General Staff). “Why?” asked Freuke. “You have something in mind for him?” Contemptuously, Rabin answered, “No, but neither does Peres. His pontifications about not surrendering to terrorist blackmail are for the record only, so that he’ll be able to say later that he was in favor of a military action from the start. The problem is his rhetoric is so persuasive he believes it himself.” The prime minister opened the afternoon meeting with a crisp and commanding question to Gur: “Motta, does the IDF have any possible way of rescuing the hostages by a military operation?” Peres, irate, intervened, “There has been no consideration of the matter in the defense establishment. I haven’t discussed it yet with the chief of General Staff.” “What?” spluttered Rabin, “Fifty-three hours after we learned of the hijacking and you have not yet consulted the chief of General Staff on the possibility of a military option?” His fury was palpable. Again, he bayoneted into Motta Gur, “Do you have a military plan, yes or no?” Peres again was about to say something, but Rabin forestalled him by insisting that Gur answer his question. “We have started a preliminary examination,” replied the general, a hefty parachutist who had led the assault to free the Old City in the Six Day War. “But I take it at the moment you have no military plan to recommend,” said Rabin, and turning now to the whole table, declared, “There being no concrete military solution, we shall have to…” – he paused as if hesitant to express his next thought – “…consider negotiating with the hijackers for the release of the hostages.” The ministers engaged in a fretful discussion about the frightening thought of attempting to rescue so many scores of hostages 2,500 miles away in the heart of Africa, and the unthinkable alternative of negotiating with the killers. LATER THAT evening, over a drink in the privacy of his room – the prime minister was drinking and smoking more heavily now – Rabin confided his inner thinking to his staff in these words: “I long ago made a principled decision that if a situation were ever to arise, as it has now, when terrorists would be holding our people hostage on foreign soil and we were faced with an ultimatum of either freeing killers in our custody or our own people would be killed, I would, in the absence of a military option, give in to the terrorists. So I say now, if the defense minister and the chief of General Staff cannot come up with a credible military plan I intend to negotiate with the terrorists. I would never be able to look a mother in the eye if her hostage soldier or child, or whoever it was, was murdered because of a refusal to negotiate.” On the following morning, Wednesday, June 30, Rabin opened the meeting with the following chilling statement: “The terrorists have carried out a selection of the passengers. They have separated the Jews from the non-Jews. The non-Jews have been released. The Jews number 98. They are threatened with imminent execution. The ultimatum expires in less than 24 hours. So, again, I ask you, the chief of General Staff – Motta, do you have a military plan?” “We are looking at three possible options,” answered the soldier. “One is to launch a seaborne attack on the Entebbe airport from Lake Victoria. The other is to induce the hijackers to transact an exchange here in Israel, and then jump them. And the third is to drop parachutists over Entebbe.” Silence! Skeptical glances. Nervous shuffling. “Are any of these plans operational?” asked the prime minister, his face cold, hard-pinched. “No.” “In that case,” said Rabin with alacrity, “since the terrorist ultimatum is scheduled to run out at 2 p.m. tomorrow, I intend to propose to the full cabinet that we negotiate with the hijackers their terms for the release of the hostages. If we are unable to rescue them by force, we have no moral right to abandon them. We will negotiate through the French. Our negotiations will be in earnest, not a tactical ruse to gain time. And we will keep our side of any deal we strike.” “I object,” countered Peres. “I’m sure you do,” hissed Rabin between clenched teeth. But this time Peres was not to be silenced. “We have never agreed in the past to free terrorists who have murdered innocent civilians,” he thundered. “If we give in to the hijackers’ demands and release terrorists, everyone will understand us, but no one will respect us. If, on the other hand, we conduct a military operation to free the hostages, it is possible that no one will understand us, but everyone will respect us, depending, of course” – his voice trailed off into a whisper – “on the outcome of the operation.” Rabin, glowering, blazed back, “For God’s sake, Shimon, our problem at this moment is not more of your heroic rhetoric. If you have a better proposal, let’s hear it. You know as well as I do that the relatives of the hostages are beside themselves with anguish, and for good reason. What do they say? They say Israel freed terrorists after the Yom Kippur War in exchange for the bodies of dead soldiers, so how can we refuse to free terrorists in exchange for living people, our own people, about to be executed?” Peres, features frozen, said nothing, and when it came to the crunch, he voted with the rest of the ministers to negotiate for the release of the hostages though the auspices of the French. NEXT MORNING, with hardly more than a few hours to spare before the executions were to begin, the prime minister reported the full facts to the full cabinet which, likewise, voted unanimously to open negotiations through the French. Now, he met with the Knesset Foreign Affairs and Defense Committee to report on the cabinet’s decision, and to ask for its support. After hearing Rabin’s report, leader of the opposition Menachem Begin said, “Mr. Prime Minister, may I request a brief interval for consultations?” “Yes, but please be quick. Time is running out.” Begin speedily rose and departed to an adjacent room together with a number of his party members. Within minutes they were back. “Mr. Prime Minister,” said Begin with enormous gravitas, “this is not a partisan matter for debate between the coalition and the opposition. It is a national issue of the highest order. We, the opposition, shall support any decision the government adopts to save the lives of Jews. And we shall make our decision public.” “Thank you,” said Rabin clearly moved. Within the hour news blazoned around the world: “Israel surrenders to hijackers!” All of us working with the prime minister were gnawed with a supercharged tension while waiting for a response from the Entebbe terrorists – all of us except Rabin. He summoned me to review the day’s correspondence, and even as I sat there trying to suppress my flutters he seemed unnaturally composed, as if morally fortified by the principled decision he had taken. And once made, his clarity of mind never wavered. So when his red emergency phone, which was linked directly to the intelligence people in Tel Aviv, suddenly buzzed he answered it with a tranquil “Hello.” And then, nodding his head in comprehension, said, “Yes, I see. Good. Thank you. That gives us a little more time,” and he replaced the receiver. “Any news?” I spluttered. “Yes,” he said coolly. “The French have just notified us that the terrorists have extended their ultimatum for another 48 hours to allow for the negotiations to proceed. So we now have until July 4, the day after tomorrow.” Next day Freuke came rushing in with the news that Gur and Peres were working on something that might be ready before the deadline, to which Rabin said skeptically. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” BUT THEY actually did have a plan, a spectacularly daring one, to which Rabin gave his approval after much finessing and refining. Now, he summoned the full cabinet into emergency session, and flatly, factually, without a trace of emotion, said, “As you know, so long as we had no military option I was in favor of conducting serious negotiations with the hijackers. But now we have a military plan.” Gur presented its essentials, explaining that a substantial military force was to be landed at Entebbe by Hercules transport planes. He described the stealth, caution, deception and subterfuge that lay at the heart of the plan, all designed to catch the terrorists and the Ugandan soldiers off guard. “Can you give us an idea of anticipated casualties?” asked one of the ministers apprehensively. Rabin looked the questioner squarely in the eye: “The rescue operation will entail casualties both among the hostages as well as among their rescuers. I don’t know how many. But even if we have 15 or 20 dead – and we can all see what a heavy price that would be – I am in favor of the operation.” “And are you positive there is no other way out, besides negotiating with the terrorists?” asked another. “Yes, I am. If we have a military option, we have to take it up, even if the price is heavy.” Here he paused to scan the faces of his colleagues to gauge their moods. Most expressions remained closed or dubious or anxious, so it was with an almost talmudic intensity that he pressed, “I have said all along that in the absence of a military plan we have to negotiate in earnest. Now that we have a military plan we have to implement it in earnest, even at a heavy cost.” A brief debate followed, after which the cabinet gave its approval, whereupon Rabin again met with the leading figures of the Knesset Foreign Affairs and Defense Committee. After hearing what the prime minister reported, Menachem Begin, speaking in the name of the opposition, solemnly stated, “Mr. Prime Minister, yesterday, when you had no military plan, I said that since the issue was a matter of saving Jewish lives we of the opposition shall lend the government our fullest support. Today, now that you have a rescue plan, I again say, we of the opposition shall lend the government our fullest support. And may the Almighty bring everybody safely home.” As the Hercules planes roared through the night toward the heart of Africa, the prime minister drove to the Defense Ministry where a loudspeaker linkup was installed to relay the reports from the IDF force landing at Entebbe. Reflecting back on that night Rabin would later write: “The military transmissions, laconic and dry, heralded the brilliant success of the operation, which was the furthest ever conducted from Israeli territory. It was carried out exactly as planned… When the news came through that the last of our planes had left Entebbe, we drank a toast to the success of the venture. A few hours later people were literally dancing in the streets as a wave of elation swept over Israel.” Assuredly, the Entebbe rescue operation was Yitzhak Rabin’s longest night. Arguably, it was his finest hour.

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