Later On

A blog written for those whose interests more or less match mine.

“I Fought For a Better Israel Than This”

leave a comment »

Hirsh Goodman has a long read in Politico about his experience in Israel, a story of dashed dreams:

had been in Israel for just over two years and was nine months into my compulsory military service when war came.

I had just received my wings and red beret and achieved a childhood dream of becoming an Israeli paratrooper. Growing up in apartheid South Africa, I had but one goal: to be an Israeli. And now I was preparing to defend a nation even younger than I.

The Egyptians, for the first time since 1956, had moved forces into Sinai, massing 100,000 men and 900 tanks virtually on Israel’s southern border. Transistor radios carried increasingly dire reports: The Iraqis had sent troops and jets to bolster the Jordanian army on our eastern front, where Israel was just nine-miles wide at its narrowest. To the north, the Syrians were digging in their artillery on the Golan Heights from where they could look down on the Israeli settlements and towns. On May 26, 1967, Egyptian President Gamal Abdel Nasser said it plain in a public speech: “This will be total war. Our basic aim will be to destroy Israel.”

Two days later, Levi Eshkol, the indecisive prime minister, read from a handwritten text without his glasses, stumbling over last-minute corrections. Public confidence plummeted. The patriotic songs on the radio began to sound as hollow as the assurances of government spokesmen. The economy came to a near halt as tens of thousands of reserves were called up and cars and trucks were commandeered for military service. People were told to tape their windows and blockade entrances against shrapnel. Much of central Israel was within Jordanian artillery range and there was a distinct feeling that we would be overrun.

In desperation, Eshkol asked his political and ideological enemy, Menachem Begin, the right-wing leader, to create a unity government. Begin agreed on the condition Eshkol invite another political rival, Moshe Dayan, a former chief of staff and war hero, to join them as minister of defense.

Soon after, we were waiting to board a plane for a planned jump on Egyptian positions in northern Sinai. The jump was canceled when it was learned that the Egyptians had peppered their positions with iron stakes to impale us. Instead, we moved on the ground to a dense eucalyptus grove close to where the borders of Israel, Egypt and Gaza meet. Early on the morning of June 5, flanked by tanks and with Israeli jets whizzing overhead, we advanced on Sheikh Zuweid, a complex of trenches surrounded by barbed wire and mine fields. It was my turn at the head of the column when, out of nowhere, an Egyptian soldier appeared, his Kalashnikov cocked and pointing at me. I emptied the magazine of my Uzi in controlled bursts. I felt no sense of victory as he died, just relief that the situation was not reversed.

That night, our mood turned to elation when we heard over our crackly radio that our air force had destroyed 90 percent of the Egyptian air force in a surprise attack that morning. With little opposition, we reached Kantara on the Suez Canal in what seemed lightning speed. The radio delivered more good news: Israel had taken East Jerusalem and all of the West Bank to the Jordan River and all of Sinai. Nasser’s army, like his air force, was decimated, the dunes of Sinai littered with the discarded boots of fleeing troops. On the sixth day, after losing the Golan Heights, Syria joined Egypt and Jordan in agreeing to a cease-fire.

Israel’s astonishing, almost miraculous victory imprinted the still-young nation’s presence indelibly on the Middle East. But though the war led to eventual peace with Egypt and Jordan, it never brought it full acceptance from its neighbors. And even though it ensured Israel’s existence, in the long term it may have done as much harm as good. I feel that I have earned the right to say this: For 50 years, I have watched as a soldier, journalist, husband and father as successive Israeli governments failed to leverage this victory into lasting peace, as Israel’s continued occupation of the West Bank eroded the country morally, democratically and in the esteem of the international community.

Never have I seen Israel as divided as it is now, almost at war between those who want the occupation to end and those who want to keep the West Bank’s 2.7 million Palestinians under Israeli rule in perpetuity, seemingly oblivious to the cost involved. I left South Africa as a young man because I hated racism and apartheid. Israel’s occupation of the West Bank is not apartheid, but is unfair. Being an occupier of another people is not what I had in mind when I came to the country or when I went to war in 1967. I wanted to help build a country where my children would live and their children after them. But the failure to make peace puts this in jeopardy if Israel slides from being a democratic, moral and tolerant Jewish state into the pariah apartheid South Africa once was.

But in June 1967 these feelings were many years away. All we could hear was cheering. As we marched back into Israel, crowds strewed flowers in our path, lavished us with sweets. We rode through the Lion’s Gate of the Old City of Jerusalem bound for the Western Wall. Even for secular Jews like me, it was a dizzying and emotional moment. But even in that victory tour there were the signs of the struggles to come. In a string of Palestinian villages east of the Old City, we saw white flags hanging from homes and the stunned looks on the faces of those who watched us drive by.

It took a while to digest that our role had shifted from conqueror to occupier. Back on duty in the Sinai, there were some uneasy moments, like escorting prisoners of war for interrogation, knowing what lay in store for them, or turning pleading civilians away at roadblocks, under strict orders not to let them through, no matter what reason they gave.

About a month into this routine there was an incident that left me deeply conflicted for the first time since arriving in Israel. Palestinian fedayeen operating out of Gaza started laying mines on the railway line to the Israeli border. Someone came up with the idea that the best way to prevent this was to place a flatbed carriage loaded with Palestinians in front of the engine.

Late one night, several of us were sent to a refugee camp in southern Gaza with orders to round up about 20 young men for “carriage duty.” As our miserable victims were dragged from their homes, trembling at the feet of armed soldiers screaming at them in Hebrew, a language they could not understand, I felt a wave of nausea come over me. I saw South African police rounding up “pass-offenders” for mandatory jail terms; despite myself, I heard echoes of the Holocaust as we forced these confused and terrified people onto a train carriage. My feelings were not rational or proportional—there was no comparison between this and the Holocaust, I knew. But I couldn’t shake my conscience. I felt that what I had done was inconsistent with why I had come to Israel. I feared becoming, once again, a stranger in my own land.


The period after the war was heady. Suddenly we could camp in Sinai and dive in the Red Sea; put a note in the Western Wall and pop off to Bethlehem for cheap shopping and lunch. Israelis packed Jericho’s open-air restaurants and markets, buying up bags of local fresh oranges as fast as the sellers could grow them. We moved around freely and without fear, even through the refugee camps in Gaza en route to some of the beaches on the Mediterranean. There was a sense of security in the land. Israel had strategic depth and full control over the territories it conquered, little thought being given to the fate of the 1.5 million Palestinians now under Israeli military occupation.

Moshe Dayan, the defense minister, said the Palestinians would be happy with limited self-rule, minus control over security issues and foreign affairs. Others, like Begin, believed that economic prosperity would solve the problem. Only the police minister, Eliahu Sasson, had the courage to state the obvious. He urged his cabinet colleagues to compromise with the Arabs even in the absence of full peace and to reach an agreement on the West Bank as quickly as possible, warning of possible collapse if the occupation continued. But in September came the “three nos” from the Arab League summit in Khartoum: No peace with Israel. No recognition of Israel. No negotiations with Israel. I don’t think I remember a week without conflict since.

Renewed hostilities began almost immediately. Israeli forces dug the Bar Lev Line on the east side of the Canal as Egyptian artillery shells began to rain down with increasing frequency. The few weeks I spent stationed there—utterly exposed—were probably the most frightening of my life. By the time a cease-fire was reached with Egypt in August 1970, over 1,400 Israelis had been killed, nearly twice as many as in the Six-Day War and nothing to show for it.

Nasser had found Israel’s Achilles’ heel: a high sensitivity to casualties. Everyone had a son, brother, cousin, husband in uniform. With barely 2 million Jews in the country, virtually no family or community was left unscathed.

On March 18, 1968, a school bus hit a mine in the Negev. This was the 38th attack by the fedayeen in three months and Israel decided to retaliate. I was in the hospital with chicken pox, furious I would not be on the raid. The target was Karameh, a town in central Jordan, where Yasser Arafat and the Palestine Liberation Organization had their headquarters. Israel assembled a huge force of paratroops, infantry and armor. It was supposed to be a cakewalk. Our goals were to destroy the Palestinian base of operations, kill or capture anyone there, including Arafat, and send a strong signal to the Jordanian monarch to end the terror against Israel from across his border.

The cakewalk ended in disaster. Against all predictions the Jordanians joined in the fray and the Palestinians put up fierce resistance in a 15-hour house-to-house battle. Israel was stunned when the full scale of the debacle became known: 32 soldiers killed, 69 injured, 17 tanks hit and four tanks abandoned behind enemy lines. A year earlier, Israel had conquered the Arab world. Now, its forces were routed by a vagabond band of Palestinian terrorists.

Levi Eshkol died of a heart attack in February 1969. Some said he could not stand the pain of the mounting death toll. Golda Meir, once referred to by David Ben-Gurion as “the best man in my cabinet,” came out of retirement to become Israel’s first and only female prime minister. Begin, who opposed yielding “one inch” of territory, stormed out of the unity government when Meir agreed to “withdraw to secure and recognized boundaries in the framework of a comprehensive peace settlement.” As it turned out, Meir and her cabinet were no less hawkish than he. Dayan said “rather Sharm el Sheikh without peace than peace without Sharm el Sheikh” while Meir rejected overtures from the Egyptians to end the conflict.

Three years later Israel was to pay the price.


By the time war broke out again, on Saturday October 6, 1973, I was married with two small children and had recently been appointed military correspondent of the Jerusalem Post, then Israel’s only English-language daily. For weeks we had been reporting on massive troop movements on the Egyptian side of the Canal and the sudden recall of 20,000 Soviet advisers from Egypt in early October, reminiscent of Nasser’s expulsion of United Nations’ forces just six years before. Though war was clearly on the horizon, Israel’s intelligence chief, Eli Zeira, insisted otherwise. At 2 o’clock in the afternoon on Friday, October 5, Zeira sat at the head of a long, shiny table peeling chilled almonds with a silver penknife. He had summoned the military correspondents to castigate us for causing public panic; the Egyptian troop movements west of the Canal, he said, were only exercises.

Minutes after the surprise attack exactly one day later—which happened to be Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar—the phone rang in our Jerusalem apartment. It was the army spokesman asking me to hurry to headquarters in Tel Aviv. Generally, not a car moves on Yom Kippur, but this day the traffic was heavy with reservists rushing to their units as their code words came over the radio, usually silent on the holy day.

Earlier that morning, Meir had refused a request by chief of staff David Elazar to launch a pre-emptive strike against the Syrians. She said she could not risk the wrath of the Americans. President Richard Nixon and his secretary of state, Henry Kissinger, had told her that under no circumstances was Israel to be seen as starting a war. Israel had to wait for the Arabs to make the first move. It was a costly decision.

That night, I attended a news conference by the prime minister, defense minister and the chief of staff. They assured us that this was not war, just localized Syrian and Egyptian actions that would be contained soon, all of which I reported faithfully in my story the next morning. But by that afternoon, it was war and I was no longer a reporter. I had been called into active duty after hastily preparing the public shelter in our building with water, tinned food and whatever comfort I could find before leaving for the front.

That night, in the cold of a cloudless evening in the Judean desert near the Jordan River, I sat with my comrades huddled again around a transistor radio listening to the news: Tens of thousands of Egyptian soldiers were crossing the Canal virtually unopposed, Israel’s paltry forces there overrun, Syrian armor was advancing on the Golan. There was nothing between the Jordan River and Jerusalem except for us, a reserve paratroops battalion, and a few old tanks. Our planes were coming down like flies in Sinai and on the Golan. Our air force, still basking in the victory of 1967, had totally underestimated the effectiveness of the Soviet-supplied mobile anti-aircraft missiles. On the ground, anti-tank missiles ripped through Israeli armor with ease. So dire had the situation become, said the voice on the radio, that all air force operations had been diverted to the north to try and stop the Syrians. The threat posed by the Egyptians was less immediate, with a lot of sand between the Canal and Tel Aviv, but they were still advancing.

Our fear was palpable as we listened to the radio that night. Nothing was said, but we truly believed that Israel once again was on the brink of destruction.

Once it was clear that Jordan’s King Hussein would not join the war we were redeployed to the Hermon, a 7,000-foot-high range overlooking Syria and Lebanon, where we were to stay as reservists, far from family and home for nine freezing months, some of us in jeopardy of financial ruin. I was still in my 20s, had been in Israel for just eight years and was in my third war. Since being released from active service in 1969 I had spent hundreds of days in the reserves fighting terrorists over the Jordanian and Lebanese borders. More than once I thought of my kids and what their future would be in this land of never-ending conflict, sometimes even harboring secret doubts as to the viability of Israel’s long-term survival.

The Yom Kippur War cost Israel over 2,600 killed and some 10,000 wounded—a tremendous price for a small country. It also eventually cost the Labor Party its three-decade hegemony over Israeli politics. In May 1977, Begin, the man Ben-Gurion once compared to Hitler, won the election by a landslide. Begin called his election “a turning point for the Jewish people” and encouraged young religious Zionists to build their homes in Judea and Samaria, “Israel’s biblical homeland, never to be returned.”

Begin’s rhetoric seemed to portent a right-wing agenda, but behind the scenes he was laying the groundwork for peace with Egypt culminating in a secret meeting on September 16 faciliated by King Hassan of Morocco between Israeli foreign minister Moshe Dayan and Egyptian Deputy Prime Minister Hassan Tuhami. Then on November 19, 1977, the unthinkable happened. Egyptian President Anwar Sadat arrived in Israel, stepping off his plane onto a red carpet, received by an honor guard and a 21-gun salute.

I watched the scene on television with Eitan Haber, a colleague from Yedioth Ahronoth, a Hebrew afternoon newspaper. We cried with joy. The next morning, Sadat told the Knesset that “We really and truly welcome you to live among us in peace and security.” Begin would go on to declare, “No more war, no more bloodshed and no more threats.”

It was as if the Messiah had arrived.

At a joint news conference in Jerusalem during the Sadat visit, Begin declared that for Israel, territory was “holy.” Sadat responded that for Egypt territory was “holy as well.” Ultimately, Israel gave up every inch of the Sinai, establishing the precedent of land for peace. But there was one issue the two men didn’t touch. In making their peace Sadat and Begin thought they could sweep the Palestinian problem under the carpet. The issue was “referred to committee” where it would remain unresolved and festering to this day.

For the next 16 months I would cover the peace process from up close. I was one of the first Israeli reporters in Egypt. I was more moved seeing the pyramids than when I first touched the Western Wall back in June 1967. Finally, I felt Israel had received formal recognition of its existence as the homeland of the Jewish people, and that now, with Egypt, the most powerful country in the Arab world, on our side, Israel was safe.

During that period, I spent weeks and weeks in Egypt. I traveled relatively freely through the country, unashamedly and without fear telling all and sundry that I was from Israel. I was received warmly, something that would change over time. Many things stand out in my mind from that period, but prime among them is a conversation I had with General Abdel Ghani-el Gamasy, the then-Egyptian minister of defense and architect of Egypt’s strategy in the 1973 war. I asked him why the Egyptian forces, having crossed the canal so easily, had stopped in Sinai and not continued to Tel Aviv.

Egypt’s strategy, he replied, was not to conquer Tel Aviv, but to achieve enough of a victory to restore Egyptian dignity before pursuing a path toward peace. You cannot negotiate on your knees, but only eye to eye, I remember him saying—a sentence that has come back to haunt me many times when thinking how we relate to the Palestinians as masters, not equals.


The first Palestinian intifada erupted like wildfire on December 9, 1987. Yitzhak Rabin, the defense minister, was in Washington to address a conference at the Washington Institute for Near East Policy, where I was a fellow at the time. It soon became apparent something was amiss. Rabin looked increasingly agitated. It was soon clear why: That morning, a military truck had hit and killed four Palestinians in the Jabaliya refugee camp in Gaza. Riots were breaking out across the occupied territories and Israeli troops were coming under a hail of stones.

On the way back to Tel Aviv, Rabin made the unfortunate statement that “we will break their bones.” A few days later, a CBS crew filmed Israeli soldiers doing exactly that and the war was on. Israel was at a total loss as to how to deal with rock-throwing Palestinians. The narrative had been reversed, casting them as David and Israel as Goliath. The military’s inability to suppress the uprising became clear to me once I was back at the paper after my return from Washington. During one unforgettable visit to the Central Command, Amram Mitzna, a general who was to go on to become the mayor of Haifa, showed me a rock-slinging catapult reminiscent of Roman times that was to be used against the Palestinians. This, he said, one hand proudly resting on the monster’s side, is our answer. I felt like I was in Chelm, the fictional town in Yiddish folklore where idiots reside.

In June 1992, Rabin was elected prime minister with a significant majority. We were with friends in Tel Aviv and a loud whoop of joy filled the streets when the results were announced. Though Rabin had been a hard-liner when the intifada broke out, he was seen as a pragmatist, a leader with a vision as opposed to the man he beat: the dour and largely unsuccessful Yitzhak Shamir, also known as “Mr. Nyet” for his propensity to say “no” to everything. With Rabin’s election came new hope.

Rabin had a clear vision of what he wanted to achieve. He set up a strong liberal-left coalition and allowed his deputy, Shimon Peres, to carry out top-secret exploratory talks with the PLO under the aegis of the Norwegian government. These evolved into the Oslo Accords, signed with a reluctant handshake between Rabin and Arafat on the White House lawn, a beaming Bill Clinton between them, on September 13, 1993.
It was a ray of sunlight that would not last.

Rabin was demonized by the right wing at mass rallies where the victor of 1967 was scorned as a traitor with pictures of him in a Nazi SS uniform. Chanting crowds carried a coffin with his name on it. Rabbis of prominent yeshivas on the West Bank incited violence in “the name of the land” and religious fanatics gathered outside Rabin’s home to recite the pulsa denura—the mother of all curses said to bring death within a year. . .

Continue reading.

Tomorrow will be the 50th anniversary of Israel’s attack on the unarmed USS Liberty, which killed 34 crew members and wounded 171. The USS Liberty was an intelligence outpost, listening to transmissions from the 6-Day War that was going on. We don’t know exactly what it was about—NSA knows, but continues to keep details secret. Presumably the USS Liberty was listening to transmissions that the Israelis did not want them to hear. Another report states:

Fifteen years after the attack, an Israeli pilot approached Liberty survivors and then held extensive interviews with former Congressman Paul N. (Pete) McCloskey about his role. According to this senior Israeli lead pilot, he recognized the Liberty as American immediately, so informed his headquarters, and was told to ignore the American flag and continue his attack. He refused to do so and returned to base, where he was arrested.

Later, a dual-citizen Israeli major told survivors that he was in an Israeli war room where he heard that pilot’s radio report. The attacking pilots and everyone in the Israeli war room knew that they were attacking an American ship, the major said. He recanted the statement only after he received threatening phone calls from Israel.

The pilot’s protests also were heard by radio monitors in the U.S. Embassy in Lebanon. Then-U.S. Ambassador to Lebanon Dwight Porter has confirmed this. Porter told his story to syndicated columnists Rowland Evans and Robert Novak and offered to submit to further questioning by authorities. Unfortunately, no one in the U.S. government has any interest in hearing these first-person accounts of Israeli treachery. [Washington Report]

Written by LeisureGuy

7 June 2017 at 8:41 am

Posted in Mideast Conflict

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.