Years of Upheaval

by Henry Kissinger

  The U.S. will do all it can in this sense.

  There was another country on which we counted for moderation, which we needed to inform of our decision: Saudi Arabia. Nixon had great regard and affection for the staunchly pro-Western King Faisal, without necessarily embracing the principles of the complex domestic structure he represented. At that time I had no experience with Saudi Arabia at all or of the indirect, adaptable, and subtle method by which Saudi policy is conducted. Underdeveloped in the midst of unimaginable wealth, in transition from feudalism to a future it cannot yet define, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia aims above all to avoid open confrontation or unambiguous pronouncements, striving to advance its security without exposing itself to direct challenge. Its rulers seek to have its policy emerge as the result of a balancing of the interests of others rather than as an assertion of Saudi self-will. They can acquiesce in what they are reluctant to advocate; they can be privately relieved at the thwarting of radical designs to which they have to pay lip service publicly. Later on, I learned that one does the Saudis no favor by asking for their approval on matters that they cannot influence and on which taking a position can only imperil their careful balancing act.

  But as yet I did not possess this insight. Therefore on October 14 we sent two communications to King Faisal: the first a letter from Nixon, the second a message from me. Given the established procedures and Nixon’s preoccupation with Watergate, both messages were apparently drafted under my guidance at State. But in retrospect it would be hard to prove that from the content — unless we deliberately decided to follow a high road-low road approach, which at this writing I do not recall. Nixon’s letter was psychologically just right. It did not refer to the airlift. It simply asked for Saudi understanding of our efforts to end the war and to engage ourselves in the search for a permanent and just peace. It called attention to Nixon’s press conference of September 5, in which he had asserted that the United States was neither pro-Israel nor pro-Arab but pro-peace. It waxed eloquent about Nixon’s desire to work cooperatively toward common objectives. Faisal was not asked to agree to anything nor formally apprised of developments that, once noted, he could only oppose.

  The moral terrain seized by the letter drafted for Nixon’s signature was nearly lost in the heavy-handed missive drafted for me, formally notifying Saudi Arabia of our airlift to Israel, thus forcing it to take a position. I explained our reasoning in terms almost identical to those used in messages to Egypt. But where Egypt, fighting its own battle, had the option of conceding part of its objectives for larger purposes, Saudi Arabia as a bystander did not have that luxury; it had to support the other Arab states unconditionally.

  Finally, I approached the Shah of Iran. His country was the eastern anchor of our Mideast policy. His armed forces, equipped by us, restrained Iraqi ambitions in the Persian Gulf and limited the forces that radical country could commit to the Middle East war. In April 1972, Iraq had concluded a treaty of friendship with the Soviet Union, which everywhere else had always implied not only weapons supply but synchronization of foreign policy. In addition, Iran had a long border with the Soviet Union. Iran’s role in Western strategy was to pose a barrier to Soviet encroachment that could not be surmounted short of all-out invasion, and to help shield the vital Persian Gulf regime from disruption. It was a mutuality of interests. Iran in protecting its independence was also serving to thwart designs inimical to the well-being of our country and our allies, the industrial democracies.

  The continuing nightmare that has befallen the Persian Gulf since the Shah’s overthrow is the most eloquent demonstration of what he contributed to free world security. To us he proved it dramatically during the October war. Iraq did not dare to send more than one division into Syria, nor did it threaten Jordan or Saudi Arabia, its other neighbors. Iran remained the only country that refused a Soviet request for overflights — some of our NATO allies did not feel strong enough for a similar act of resistance. Our fleet in the Indian Ocean was fueled from Iran. And the Shah remained close to Sadat. When after the war Sadat launched on his bold and yet precarious course toward peace, the Shah lent him moral, political, and material support.

  But the Shah, in conducting parallel policies, nonetheless insisted on a demonstration that the proposed course in fact strengthened the moderate regimes of the area. When major decisions were involved, we made sure he understood our reasoning. It was in that sense that I now addressed the Shah on October 14 in a message that shows the difference between ally and puppet:

  The United States is attempting to conduct itself in respect to the Middle East conflict in such a way as to be able to play a useful role in the resolution of the problems of the area, both in ending current hostilities as well as in achieving a permanent peace based on justice. . . .

  [T]here is one factor which must be kept constantly in mind. We hope that the Shah will understand that an Arab victory in the present conflict obtained as it would be by the use of Soviet arms, coupled with the victory obtained by Soviet arms in the Indo-Pakistan conflict of 1971, would most certainly lead to a radicalization of regimes in the area and, at least to some extent, globally.

  The Shah should know that we are trying our best to bring the war to a conclusion, with all the above considerations fully in mind. We sincerely hope that the Shah will not let himself be swept along by tactical considerations of the moment to the prejudice of the greater strategic goals which both our countries are pursuing jointly. The President is, of course, greatly appreciative of the courage and leadership shown by the Shah in refusing the Soviet request for military overflight of Iran.

  A stalemate ends either when a battle turns or when one of the principals reassesses the situation. Monday morning, October 15, dawned to both of these developments. The Egyptian offensive into the Sinai had been defeated. Some 2,000 tanks were joined in one of the biggest tank battles in history. Once outside their antiaircraft missile screen, the Egyptian tanks were vulnerable to Israeli air power; at least 250 were destroyed by a combination of Israeli armor, antitank weapons, and air assaults. It was the reversal of the Israeli setback of the week before. The tank was losing its supremacy on the battlefield, unless it was supported by artillery and antiaircraft defense. Now the Israelis would begin to move forcefully on the southern front.

  Also, the Soviets began to nibble at our bait. Dobrynin informed me that Moscow was studying our proposal to link a cease-fire not to Israel’s withdrawal to the 1967 borders but to a general reaffirmation of Resolution 242, which — at least in Israel’s interpretation, not challenged by us — was ambiguous on that point. If such a formulation were finally accepted, this would lead to rapid progress in the Security Council.

  October 15–16: The Tide Turns Again

  AT the WSAG on the morning of October 15, Admiral Moorer estimated that after the Egyptian offensive was finally repulsed, it would take Israel three or four more days to break the Egyptian front. This estimate turned out to be conservative; in fact, the Egyptian front was never finally broken but bypassed.

  Our airlift was proceeding in stunning fashion. Once over its second thoughts, our Defense Department put on the sort of performance no other country can match. Flights of the C-5A began at a rate of four per day, then rose higher. The total of all aircraft — C-5AS, C-130S, and C-141S — was twenty flights a day, carrying an average of 1,000 tons of equipment daily, or about 50 tons each hour. In the first full day of the airlift we had more than matched what the Soviet Union had put into all the Arab countries (Egypt, Syria, and Iraq) combined in all of the four previous days. We were bound inexorably to pull ahead of the Soviet resupply effort. Eighteen hundred tons had already landed; three thousand more tons were on the way. I said somewhat cattily to Schlesinger: “I must say when you want to work you are terrific. You are equally awe-inspiring when you don’t.” It was not incorrect but unnecessary, fueling some later tensions in the Ford Administration when Schlesinger gave as good as he received. Colby wisely proposed that we annou
nce no figures for the airlift and let the Soviets find out its magnitude for themselves.

  I had learned in Nixon’s first term that one must never relax pressures when the opponent is weakening. The right strategy is to combine two seemingly contradictory courses: to increase the pressure and to show a way out of the adversary’s growing dilemma. I put both of these approaches to the WSAG. As for pressure I argued:

  The only way we can wind this up is if the Soviets see we won’t quit and won’t panic; if the Europeans see that they are pushed between losing their NATO relationship and lining up with us. . . . It will help with the PRC [People’s Republic of China] and will limit adventurism in the Soviet Union. When the Europeans are restored to balance, they will realize that we help our friends.

  At the same time I instructed agencies to avoid confrontational rhetoric and not to crow about the airlift. This was to keep the Soviets from trying to raise the ante and to calm the atmosphere for the Security Council deliberations that, if Moorer’s estimate was correct, were likely to occur by the weekend.

  Nixon almost simultaneously was interjecting on his own initiative a public comment certain to increase the sense of menace to the Arab side. At a ceremony that day to award the Congressional Medal of Honor to nine members of the armed forces, he extemporized that our policy was like the one we had followed in Lebanon in 1958 or Jordan in 1970: to defend the right of every Middle East nation to live in independence and security. The analogy left something to be desired. In 1958 moderate Arabs regarded our move into Lebanon as a major assurance of their security. In 1973 the security of Israel, the country we were now upholding, was not considered a major interest — to put it mildly — by even the most moderate Arab state. The reference to Lebanon could only imply that we were not excluding military intervention on the side of Israel. When press queries cascaded in, I did not back off the implied threat though I would not have recommended it. I instructed State Department spokesman Robert McCloskey to say simply that the President had spoken about “principles,” not tactics — a comment so opaque that its precise meaning eludes me even at this writing.

  In light of our tough stance, the response to our messages of the previous day astonished me. The various Arab countries may not yet have grasped the size of our airlift, but they were bound to know that it was substantial. Nevertheless the immediate reaction was milder than expected. On October 15, the Shah responded. His only comment was that he had been warning for some time of the effect in the area if Soviet arms were decisive in another military victory. In other words, he went along with us.

  Late on October 15, Ismail replied in a manner that under the circumstances can only be called extraordinary. He reaffirmed Egypt’s “determination” to keep open “this special channel of contact.” No other party spoke in Egypt’s name; in other words, we should pay no attention to interpretations from Moscow that differed from what Cairo told us directly. Ismail denied any intention to humiliate Israel “because Egypt tasted what humiliation means.” He expressed his “appreciation” for our efforts to achieve a cease-fire as a preliminary to a political settlement — contrary as they were to Egypt’s views. However, experience caused Egypt to doubt that such a separation would work in practice. In short, Ismail spoke to the principal armorer of Egypt’s enemy as would one urbane man of affairs to another. His objection to our approach was its impracticality; presumably if we could demonstrate how our diplomacy might succeed, Egypt might change its attitude.

  Only then did Ismail refer to the airlift, dismissing it as “unacceptable,” as he had previous arms sales to Israel. But he did not linger over it nor did he threaten any consequences. Instead, he urged me to redouble my efforts to link a political to a military solution. And then — amazingly — he invited me to visit his country:

  Egypt will welcome Dr. Kissinger in appreciation for his efforts. The Egyptian side will be prepared to discuss any subject, proposal or project, within the framework of two principles — which, it is believed, Dr. Kissinger does not reject, neither does any one — that Egypt cannot make any concessions of land or sovereignty.

  With warmest regards. Hafiz Ismail.

  It was the message of a statesman, for there could be no doubt that Ismail was speaking in Sadat’s name. It is easy to go with the tide; more difficult to judge where the tide is going. But only the wisest of leaders have the foresight to look at a distant objective and in its name stand up against all pressures. Sadat knew that we were working to thwart his military designs. He could easily have used the airlift as an alibi for the setbacks that the defeat of his Sinai offensive had made inevitable; he could have unleashed the mobs in the Arab world against us, as Nasser had done with far less provocation in 1967. But Sadat was tired of spilling blood for futile causes. He was willing to forgo posturing for attainable progress. Unlike Nasser, he saw no future in being the leader of radical Arabs who confused rhetoric with achievement. He had taken the measure of Soviet support: always enough to keep tensions high, never enough to bring about a settlement.

  But Sadat should not be conceived as a sentimentalist. He knew how to defend the interests of his country. While restrained in public utterance, and courteous, he saw to it that we were aware he had other options. There is no doubt that he was the godfather of the oil embargo soon to descend on us. In this complicated manner he performed the amazing feat of beginning to turn away from the Soviet Union, on whose supplies he was yet totally dependent, and to move imperceptibly toward us, who were thwarting his short-term designs. In the midst of war he began to walk the path to peace.

  The Saudi reaction to my message was much more complex. Prince Fahd, Deputy Prime Minister, informed us that the situation was deteriorating. He felt that America’s friends were now in a hopeless dilemma. If the Arabs “won,” the Middle East was forfeit to the Soviet Union. If the Arabs “lost,” the Soviet Union could be relied upon to rebuild the Arab armies; Soviet advisers would be invited back into Egypt. It would grow impossible for any Arab to say with pride that he was America’s friend.

  We did not disagree with Fahd’s analysis of the two choices before us and him. But we drew up a different balance sheet. The risk of the Soviet Union’s rebuilding the Arab armies after a defeat seemed to us a lesser evil than a victory achieved by Soviet arms. We thought it far from preordained that the peace we were seeking would find the Soviets in an improved position. Indeed, our whole strategy aimed for the opposite. Egyptian messages indicated an intention to break free of Soviet tutelage; we were determined to explore the prospect.

  The next day, Tuesday, October 16, King Faisal replied to my message of October 14. In a response more pained than insistent, he apparently charged my letter off to inexperience with things Saudi. He expressed his “great sorrow” about the bitter struggle between the great powers that threatened ruin to all countries in the area. Faisal stopped well short of recrimination; much less did he blame the United States for the current crisis. He restated Sadat’s proposal that Israel return to its 1967 borders. He urged that we stop all arms shipments to Israel. But he defined a penalty for noncompliance that was vague and indirect: If we did not end our support for Israel, Saudi-American relations would become only “lukewarm.” We believed that we had to run this risk in order to arrange a balance of forces that would enable the moderate Arab states to breathe more easily — even if they felt compelled to oppose the tactics by which we arrived at this state of affairs.

  More ominously, Saudi Deputy Foreign Minister Ibrahim Masuud called in the ambassadors of the European Community to warn that unless they pressed us to change our policy, Saudi Arabia would reduce its oil production. We were aware that oil minister Sheikh Ahmed Zaki Yamani was already en route to a meeting of his Arab colleagues in Kuwait that had been called before the airlift. I had not learned then — though I would soon enough — that Saudi Arabia was no more willing to confront the radical Arabs than to confront us directly. The Kingdom judged that its safety depended on presenting itself
as the reluctant implementer of decisions of others. Even had we understood Saudi methods and the prospect that the Kingdom was likely to ascribe its decisions to the requirements of Arab solidarity, we had no other choice than to continue the course on which we were embarked. Vacillation would prolong the war and the attendant risk of its spread. Saudi Arabia’s long-term attitude would be determined by our contribution to the peace process after the war. And for that, Egypt was the pivot. It was in Egypt, too, that Saudi fears of a reintroduction of the Soviet Union into the Middle East would be tested.

  These considerations caused us to return a speedy reply to Ismail’s message of the night before. At 9:08 A.M. on October 16,1 reciprocated Ismail’s expression of the importance of our special channel. But I also sensed that with matters nearing a showdown, the psychological moment to speak more concretely had arrived. It was essential to bring Egypt to a sense of what was possible. We had to give Sadat a pretext for climbing down from the impossible conditions that he publicly repeated within the hour in a speech to his Parliament, cast as an “open message” to President Nixon: a cease-fire conditioned on immediate Israeli withdrawal to the 1967 borders. “We are not ready,” said Sadat in clear reference to his experience with Security Council Resolution 242, “to accept ambiguous promises or elastic phrases subject to all [kinds of] interpretations thereby wasting time and returning our case to a stalemate.”

  The necessity was to convince Sadat of both the limits of the attainable and our seriousness in pressing to the full extent of these limits. There is a temptation to assign intractable problems to a personality who is then endowed with mythical qualities commensurate with the difficulty of the problem. Nowhere is this more true than the Middle East, that home of romantic figures. The various diplomatic spectaculars in which I had engaged — from the secret trip to China to the conclusion of the Vietnam negotiations — had put the idea into the head of the Middle East leaders that I could perform the same role for them. While this was an asset, it also contained the danger that each party would ask me to take from its shoulders the burden of difficult decisions. That would be the road to disaster. Any negotiator who seduces himself into believing that his personality leads to automatic breakthroughs will soon find himself in the special purgatory that history reserves for those who measure themselves by acclaim rather than by achievement. They begin by deluding themselves; inevitably, they will disappoint others.