AUGUST 1990. Iraq invades Kuwait. The mad Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein is capable of anything. President Bush and his European and Soviet allies are anxiously monitoring the situation.
The first American soldiers land in the Saudi desert. The U.N. Security Council adopts resolutions demanding the Iraqi army’s immediate evacuation of Kuwait. Saddam couldn’t care less. For the killer of Baghdad, the chapter is closed.
According to Henry Kissinger, there will be no military intervention; Bush will not make a move. Kissinger knows Washington better than anyone else. Amr Moussa, the Egyptian ambassador to the U.N., disagrees: The war will take place, it must. Saddam must be defeated, not only to help Kuwait, but to protect the entire Arab region. If Saddam succeeds, he will emerge as a latter-day Salah el Din, the uncontested leader of Islam.
As yet Saddam has done nothing against the Jewish state, but everybody knows he is capable of the worst. He counts on the world’s indifference. If he could gas thousands of Kurds with impunity in 1988, what will prevent him from doing the same to the Israelis?
Fully expecting war, Sigmund Strochlitz and I board an El Al flight to Tel Aviv. It is the evening of January 12, 1991. As we enter the terminal at Ben-Gurion Airport we see droves of people preparing to leave the country. Is it the fear of gas? Israelis are used to danger. In 1956, 1967, and 1973, they rushed back from wherever they were—Europe, the United States, Asia—to rejoin their combat units.
I see Prime Minister Shamir and tell him how traumatic the threat of Scuds is for people haunted by the word “gas.” “Have faith,” he responds. “Our army can deal with it.” The next day I meet with his defense minister, Moshe Arens, who tells me the same thing, though he adds with a straight face: “Of course if a Scud happens to fall on your head, it won’t be pleasant.”
Arens arranges for me to visit the military zone. A liaison officer drives us “somewhere.” We are received by an air force colonel who takes us on a tour of his base. I chat with his colleagues and subordinates. If Israel decides to respond, these are the men—officers, pilots, and technicians—who will be doing the job. They exude confidence. In their presence even I feel invincible.
I board a parked F-16. I am afraid to move. What would happen if, by accident, I were to push the wrong button? “Better you don’t know,” says one of the officers. Later, in his Jeep, the colonel details some of his responsibilities. “What if there were an alert right now?” I ask. “How long would it take you to reach your command and give the appropriate orders?” He calmly glances at his watch: “Ninety seconds,” he says.
We lunch with his staff. Suddenly I hear a loud exchange outside the mess hall. Someone wants to enter, and the M.P. on guard refuses to let him in. This hall is reserved for high-ranking officers. “But,” says a voice, “I don’t want to eat. I’ve come to see my uncle.” It’s my beloved sister Bea’s son, Steve, a doctor in the legendary Golani Division. I had called him as soon as I landed, but he explained he couldn’t meet me; he was on duty.
We embrace. This kind of miraculous encounter can happen only in Israel. “I saw the television crew,” says Steve. “They told me it was for ‘some writer.’ I thought it might be you.” I would have been disappointed if I had had to leave Israel without seeing him.
It has been said of every war, but for Israel the Gulf War is in fact different from the others. Imposed by a cruel and cynical enemy, it seems to take place unilaterally. Israel appears not to be participating, at least not actively or directly. Because the Americans and their allies attack Baghdad, Iraq is now bombing Israel. It is an aggression that is insane, criminal, absurd, but, coming from Saddam Hussein, it surprises no one. We witness a new and incomprehensible phenomenon: The missiles are falling and the Israeli armed forces are not responding. Is it a policy of restraint rather than strength? Let us say, a policy of strength that expresses itself with restraint. For the first time in its history Israel leaves its defense to others. And the people do not protest. The ideological conflicts of yesterday are forgotten; this is not the time to engage in fighting among brothers. With this policy of restraint Israel earns the respect of many nations. Strange: In 1967 Israel was admired because it fought; now people praise it for not fighting. But how long will this current of sympathy last?
I marvel at the friendly and generous behavior of the civilian population during alerts. People are courteous, warm. Nobody is pushing, nobody is losing his temper. There are no tears, no hysteria. One hides one’s fears as best one can. One tells funny stories, evokes memories. Radio programs of patriotic and sentimental songs from the time of the Second Aliyah are interrupted by the coded warning “snake viper,” to announce an alert. Israelis seem grateful to visitors who choose to be with them. A taxi driver refuses to be paid. At the restaurant we are offered free drinks.
At night one is afraid to fall asleep, afraid to be awakened by the sirens, and afraid of having to head for the sealed rooms; afraid to have to use the gas masks. I don’t even know how to use mine; never mind.
My cousin Eli Hollander invites me to his house for dinner. “We’ll wait for the Scuds together,” he says. A funny thought. An image returns: Our last Sukkoth together, in 1943, in the little town of Khust, in the Czech part of the Carpathians.
I accept my cousin’s invitation, but at the last moment I am forced to cancel. That evening I listen to the news. A missile attack has just been launched. Later, I call Marion to reassure her. Then I call Eli to make sure he is all right; no answer. Nor do I reach him the next day. A month later, I hear from him. He thanks God that I canceled our appointment: “Had you come, we would have stayed home. Since you didn’t, we spent the night at our children’s house. Our house was completely demolished by a Scud.”
Miraculously the Scuds caused no fatalities. Even more miraculous, thus far, they have not contained gas. Still, the threat of chemical warfare remains everyone’s obsession. “And to think it was German engineers who supplied the gas to Saddam Hussein,” whispers an old woman. Someone else notes that Germany sold the gas to Iraq and the masks to Israel.
The old question of Israelis versus Diaspora Jews surfaces again. A Davar editorialist lectures foreign Jews who did not experience the missile attacks, practically labeling them bad Jews. Let them stay home, he concludes. Similar odious attacks are published under other bylines. Why didn’t the Diaspora Jews come? And those who did, why didn’t they stay longer? And those who stayed longer, why aren’t they settling in Israel? What are they waiting for to break with the gilded lives they lead in exile? Rarely have I sensed, in the Israeli press, such hatred toward the Diaspora.
I am reminded of an incident that occurred during the Lebanon war. A journalist asks to see me. I receive him at the Hilton in Tel Aviv. His demeanor is unappealing, self-important; what he has to say makes him even more repugnant. Is he trying to provoke me? He gives me a description of what is happening in Lebanon, where the war is in its second week: Israeli soldiers, he tells me, are behaving “like SS.” Incensed by this analogy, I get up. He continues: “And it’s your fault.” Seeing my amazement, he corrects himself: “Of course, I am not speaking of you personally; I am referring to Diaspora Jews, especially Jewish intellectuals. If you were here, our soldiers would not be committing these atrocities….”
He later publishes a pamphlet in which he describes the Jews of the Diaspora, myself included, as more dangerous to Israel than Yasir Arafat.
I try to determine to what extent his opinions are shared in Israel. The results of my investigation scare me. I hear Israelis more intelligent and cultivated than he express, in more elegant terms, more or less similar ideas.
The foreign correspondents have a different point of view. They pelt me with questions: “Why did you come to Israel now?” “Are you attracted to danger?” I try to explain: I love Israel too much to stay away when it is in danger. Having lived what I have lived, having written what I have written, I am compelled to link myself to its destiny.
What about the bombings of the Iraqi military bases? And the punishment inflicted on Baghdad? “You are known as a man of peace,” notes an Italian newspaperman. “How can you identify with those who make war?” Normally this kind of question troubles me. But in the context of this conflict the question seems irrelevant. This is a war that Israel endures but does not participate in. It is Saddam Hussein’s war. The security of the civilized world is at stake, its right to peace, not just Israel’s future. We should have understood and intervened the day he ordered the Kurds gassed. If at that time we had convened an international tribunal to try him for crimes against humanity, the Gulf War could have been avoided.
This is what I say when I testify, for the second time, before the U.S. Senate’s Foreign Relations Committee, which is debating the need to establish an international court to bring Saddam to justice. The senators’ unanimous vote is yes.
• • •
The pressure exerted on Shamir by Bush was too great for Israel not to take into account. During that entire period Israel did not make a move. The United States showed its gratitude: Its intercepting missiles, called “Patriots,” could be seen at strategic locations; they were reassuring. But people didn’t think they were the reason why the Iraqi missiles caused so little damage. But then what was the reason? Miracles were a big topic in Israel, not only in religious circles. Even Yitzhak Rabin mentioned them in a speech he gave in the synagogue I attend in Manhattan, which caused one listener to comment: “Now that is a miracle—to hear Rabin use that word.”
In the Hasidic courts and the yeshivas, every situation is examined in the light of biblical texts. Thus, on Shabbat, one reads the passage: “God will do battle for you and you will remain silent.” In Brooklyn the Lubavitcher Rebbe declares to his followers: “You have nothing to fear; the war will be over before Purim.” My friend from the camps, Rebbe Menashe Klein, promises me solemnly that “nothing will happen to Israel.” I am told that a third rabbi has made a similar promise. Perfect. Three rabbis constitute a tribunal. And a tribunal has the power to issue a verdict. And even the heavens must obey a rabbinical verdict. In that case, why worry?
Only, I have learned to be wary of miracles. They trouble me. They trouble me even in the context of Hasidic tales, to the point that when I tell them I try not to make too much of them. True, I believed in them as a child, like everybody else. They fascinated me. Today they are a problem. They imply God and His selective compassion. If God has at times taken the trouble to save His people, why has He been so sparing in His interventions? He could have intervened more often. Paradoxically, for my generation, there are many miracles to be thankful for.
As a child in Sighet I would repeat my prayers; daily rituals contain their own miracles. I still believe this. But today it is their human dimension that matters to me. “And God in all this?” asks one of my characters in The Trial of God. I would answer: The very question contains the miracle. What is a question if not the element that allows a human being to transcend himself? A morning prayer tells us: “Every day the Creator renews His creation.” In other words, miracles abound, only man is sometimes blind.