Years of Upheaval

by Henry Kissinger

  The Barrages is an elegant building north of Cairo built for the use of British engineers in the last century. It is located in a verdant part of the Nile valley in the midst of spacious gardens near a canal that has been used for irrigation since time immemorial. We drove through a beautiful garden of jasmine shrubs and banyan trees to a graceful flight of stairs leading to a large villa. To the left of the entrance was a large reception room where Sadat was waiting, wearing a military uniform.

  When the press and the security men had left, Sadat began the conversation, seated on a low sofa along the far wall, and then continued at dinner when a table was wheeled in. Without referring to the perplexities of Geneva, he outlined his view of the future. He profoundly distrusted the Soviet Union, he said. On each visit to Moscow he had been humiliated by Soviet crudeness and condescension. The Soviets had only wanted to use Egypt for their own selfish designs. They had broken Nasser’s heart in the literal sense of the word; he had returned from his last visit to Moscow a few weeks before his death determined to cut loose from an embrace that threatened to suffocate. Now that he had restored Egyptian self-respect, Sadat intended to carry out this aim. He would gradually eliminate the last vestiges of the Soviet presence: the four MiG-25 Foxbat supersonic jets flying reconnaissance missions from Cairo West airport and the Soviet naval squadron in Alexandria would be sent home. He would let the Soviet-Egyptian Friendship Treaty slide into desuetude or cancel it — he had not yet decided which. But he could not do any of this until the peace process was further advanced. He candidly avowed his dependence on Soviet military supplies. He would prefer to shift to American weapons, but he saw no immediate prospect. Nor could he totally abandon Soviet diplomatic support before he could point to a concrete achievement of another course. And if a negotiating deadlock developed, he would again be driven to war. But he was now looking to the United States: “You hold all the cards here,” he said, using what soon became a standard slogan.

  It was, to say the least, an unusual presentation. The normal procedure is straight blackmail — to threaten to strengthen ties with one’s adversary unless there is progress in the desired direction. Sadat was making no threats, even implied ones. He clearly wanted to free himself of his Soviet connection. All we had to do to induce him to cut his ties to our principal adversary was to proceed on a course on which we had already decided for our own reasons. As often with Sadat, shrewdness masqueraded as naiveté. He had concluded that reliance on the Soviets guaranteed stalemate. He therefore saw no sense in threatening us with what thwarted his own designs. Better to offer the inevitable as a concession, establish a claim for reciprocity, and above all lay the basis for the mutual confidence that was the key to his strategy.

  Sadat added that I had been right four weeks earlier in stressing that peace was primarily a psychological problem, but the barriers were not only on the Israeli side. The Arabs were proud; they had been humiliated. They had difficulty knowing how to go from the impasse in which they found themselves to the peace that most of them wanted. He, Sadat, would try to chart a course — if necessary alone, but he hoped not so far ahead of his brothers that they would not follow ultimately. But Israel had to give him some help. I could tell Golda Meir that he genuinely wanted peace but not at the price of “my” territory. He asked whether I thought Golda was strong enough to make peace — a good question, since he knew peace would not be made by an affable Israeli leader but by a strong one. I said that if strength was the prime requirement, Golda was his man.

  Of course, none of these philosophical musings advanced a solution to the immediate problem, characterized by the irony that a draft letter of invitation threatened the convening of the conference to which everyone had agreed. Solving this conundrum Sadat generously left to me.

  By now I was convinced that arguing about the text of the draft letter was an assignment for a theologian, not a diplomat. We would never get an agreement by an exegesis of its clauses. My major contribution would be to clarify first principles. With all respect, I said, I did not think there was a realistic military option. If the war started again — as Sadat had hinted — the objective circumstance of October would repeat itself. The Egyptian army would still be equipped with Soviet weapons, still dependent on Soviet resupply; he would be driven back to the Soviet Union. We would retain our geopolitical interest in demonstrating that the issue could not be settled by Soviet arms. The result would be another stalemate, at a higher level of violence, and the same dilemmas that were being faced now. Only then he would be a prisoner of Moscow unable to shift back to us.

  As for the letter of invitation, I argued, it was essential to break out of the irrelevancies by which each party was trying to use the drafting exercise to foreordain the outcome before the conference was even assembled. Peace in the Middle East would not emerge from dependent clauses. Perhaps we should scrap the long draft letter in favor of a simple one-paragraph invitation, and let the conference settle all the procedural nitpicks. If we were serious about disengagement first on the Egyptian and then on the Syrian front, the prime task was to assemble Geneva, using whatever letter was easiest, break up into subgroups as rapidly as possible (preferably without Soviet participation), and get on with the serious negotiation. Any reference to the Palestinians was bound to touch an Israeli raw nerve. It was too much to ask Israel to face the issue in this manner immediately prior to an election and after a war that overturned so many of the premises of its previous policy. A short letter of invitation could skirt the whole dilemma.

  Sadat listened in his characteristic pose with slightly narrowed eyes. And he reacted as he had a month earlier. Without argument he accepted the main lines of my presentation. Egypt would attend Geneva, he said, even if Syria stayed away. It could not be beyond the wit of man to draft a letter that met everyone’s needs. He would go along with a short letter of invitation, though it might delay matters because a totally new draft ran the risk of starting the whole clearance process over again. I used this opening to offer yet another compromise watering down the language on Palestinians. If we stayed with the long letter, I told Sadat, it might be best if we agreed on a neutral formulation about other participants that made no explicit reference to the Palestinians at all — such as that “the question of additional participants” would be discussed during the first stage of the conference. The Arabs could say that they would urge Palestinian participation at that point; Israel could say it would refuse — but all this would happen after the conference had opened and the issue would never be settled unless it did.

  Sadat said he would make his decision about this formula after my visit to Damascus; he left little doubt that it would almost certainly be favorable. To ease Israeli anxieties he offered a more fundamental assurance to Israel. Regardless of the phraseology of the letter, he would not raise the issue of the Palestinians during the disengagement part of the negotiations — in other words, not for many months.

  As for my procedural concerns, Sadat agreed that the conference should split up as rapidly as possible into subgroups — it was, in fact, the only way there could be a rapid Sinai disengagement since Syria would surely block a separate move in plenary sessions. For a similar reason — this time to prevent a Soviet veto — he went along with the proposition that the Soviet Union and the United States should not participate in the subgroups. But he had two caveats: The United States had to remain active in the negotiations; as a token he wanted me to return to the Middle East in early January to work with him on the principles of a disengagement plan so that when the Geneva Conference resumed on January 10 (as planned) it would not degenerate into a stalemate.

  It was now after midnight. Sadat suggested that we reserve a detailed discussion of disengagement for the next morning. But the day that had begun in Brussels and taken me from Algiers to Cairo was not over. I left Sadat to meet in Cairo with Soviet Ambassador Vinogradov at 1:30 A.M. I briefed him on the contingency plan for a very short letter of invitation. Without instruction
s he could do no more than report to Moscow.

  All this while, I was constantly reminded of Watergate and the fragility of our domestic base. By his previous evasions, Nixon had lost the power to dominate events. He had become a prisoner of his versions of what had transpired in Watergate and — I remained convinced — of his very real ignorance of what was actually on the tape recordings. He was caught up in December with the furor over an eighteen-and-a-half-minute gap discovered on one of the tapes and over media accusations of irregularities in his income tax returns.

  Nixon would have been superhuman if he had always been able to contain his resentment over his Secretary of State’s being praised for a foreign policy that his own steadfastness had sustained. This was particularly the case whenever some dramatic event generated publicity — the lifeblood of politicians. His pent-up frustration would then burst forth. I fear my reaction to it is more understanding in retrospect than it was at the time.

  The truth was, as usual, complex. Nixon clearly did not receive the credit that was his due. The attention paid to the exploits of his subordinate was in part disproportionate, but my notoriety reflected Nixon’s dilemma; it did not cause it. Once Watergate had gone beyond a certain point — at the latest after the discovery of the tapes — it had its own momentum.

  But the same tenacity that made Nixon persist through his travail made it hard for him to abandon the hope that some spectacular achievement might magically end the ordeal. Thus the extensive media coverage of my December 12 speech to the Society of Pilgrims in London inflamed him (see Chapter XVI). I had told Nixon about the planned speech on several occasions. I had cleared the text with the key agencies; General Scowcroft had given him a draft. I do not know whether Nixon read it; it would have been unlikely, given his preoccupations. His objection in any event was not to the substance but to the unexpected publicity — especially as it concerned energy, where he harbored the hope of being able to emerge with some spectacular breakthrough.

  Thus, on December 13, when I arrived in the Middle East, Nixon retaliated by suddenly calling in Soviet Ambassador Dobrynin for a private meeting — an extraordinary event. Scowcroft sent me this news:

  The President a few minutes ago directed that Ambassador Dobrynin come in to meet with him — alone. He indicated in general that he wished to talk about the Middle East but was not more specific than that. Dobrynin came in, met with the President for about 30 minutes, and has just left. I asked Dobrynin how the meeting went and he said it went very well — one of the most satisfactory meetings he has ever had with the President.

  This is obviously a response to the Pilgrim Speech. I will see if Haig can find out what was discussed and will, of course, pass it immediately to you. While I know this is an upsetting development, it could have been worse.

  The last sentence was a tribute to Scowcroft’s subtlety and finesse. I did not view the meeting quite so objectively — especially since the press was given the grand explanation that it had been a “general review” of the “overall relationships between the United States and the USSR.” It was no laughing matter to have the White House announce what could only be construed as a Presidential move to strengthen our Soviet ties on the same day that Sadat had informed me that he planned to end the Soviet-Egyptian Friendship Treaty. Preoccupied with the serious business at hand in the Middle East, in the wee hours of the morning I sent a string of cables to Scowcroft and Haig demanding to be briefed on what was discussed between the President and the Soviet Ambassador. I warned that the negotiations over the Geneva Conference were at a tenuous stage; I would shortly see Gromyko there and I could not know less of the President’s conversation than Gromyko did; Sadat was extremely leery of US–Soviet collusion.

  Neither Haig nor Scowcroft was able to elicit from Nixon precisely what had been discussed; his point, after all, was to demonstrate that he was in charge. On the other hand, it probably was general; no reference to the Presidential conversation ever showed up in any Soviet communication to us. The unflappable Scowcroft, in whom the psychiatric profession lost a potentially distinguished member when he entered the US Military Academy, tried to calm me by explaining why it could have been worse: “We [Haig and Scowcroft] were at least successful in turning off a visit by the Saudi Ambassador which had also been directed.” Haig warned me to make certain that the State Department press spokesman not permit any impression of distance to arise between me and the White House. And he concluded wisely:

  It would be foolish to expect that the present difficulties would disappear and we will, I am sure, have to continue to cope with them and be sensitive to the issues surrounding them. However, nothing would be more self-defeating than to let these concerns dominate the conduct of affairs of overriding importance. Adequate sensitivity to this issue is all that is needed in both the short and long-term, and we have always managed to handle this problem in stride.

  And so it turned out — even though the sun dawned over Cairo before I subsided.

  At 10:00 A.M. Friday, December 14, I was back at the Barrages with Sadat. We turned to disengagement. Sadat asked for our “plan”; he was loath to relinquish the idea that there just had to be some “Kissinger plan.” I told him that it would be a mistake to lay down a hard-and-fast program. It was bound to leak; inability to achieve its precise terms would then be a token of failure overriding the very real accomplishment inherent in any significant Israeli withdrawal and the separation of Egyptian and Israeli forces. I suggested we review the general principles that should guide the negotiations.

  When we did so, the Kilometer 101 negotiations proved to have been helpful after all — especially some of the Israeli ideas that Yariv had tried out on Gamasy. Building on the Yariv-Gamasy conversations, I put forward the concept that a thinned-out Egyptian force would remain east of the Canal, Israel would pull back to the area of the Mitla Pass about twenty miles from the Canal, and a UN force would be placed in between. Sadat and I made no effort to draw lines or to define the limitations of arms applicable to each zone. That was to be left for a later trip and for what we still expected would be the subsequent negotiations in Geneva.

  After lunch with Sadat, we both met the press. I used the occasion to nail down the agenda of the proposed Geneva Conference: “We agreed that disengagement of forces — separation of forces — should be the principal subject of the first phase of the peace conference and I will go to other countries to discuss with them their views on how to proceed.” Sadat took over and put his stamp of approval on what I had said publicly and, even more, on the procedure I intended to propose privately to other leaders: “I am really satisfied after the long, fruitful discussions we have had.”

  There was an odd exchange about the timing of the disengagement. A reporter who misjudged the significance of that holiday for a devout Moslem asked if Sadat still hoped for a disengagement agreement before Christmas. Sadat said he did. He knew very well that we had agreed that nothing would happen before my next visit early in January. He had not yet learned to cope with the obstreperous American press — a skill he later mastered brilliantly.

  As I left Cairo, I felt that the pieces were at last beginning to fall into place: Egypt was almost certain to attend Geneva; Jordan would not stay away lest it leave the field to the PLO. We had agreed with Cairo on a timetable and the general outline of a disengagement scheme. Sadat had also promised to recommend the lifting of the oil embargo in January after disengagement was achieved. The principal question mark was still Syria, but my talk with Boumedienne was encouraging on that score as well. My mood was buoyant. Mocking my 1972 press conference announcing the Vietnam breakthrough, I told the journalists: “It is my judgment that a conference is at hand.”

  Return to Riyadh

  THE city of Riyadh, thrown onto a barren plateau as if by accident, reflected a deliberate decision to move the working capital of the Kingdom from hot, humid Jiddah to the higher elevation, drier air, and relatively more benign temperatures of the desert — tho
ugh the stress must be on the term “relatively.” Riyadh thus incarnated the somewhat mysterious quality of the state. Though the King resided there with his ministers at least eight months of the year, it had no official status. Foreign embassies were in Jiddah with the officials of the Foreign Ministry, whose head, Omar Saqqaf, spent most of his time near the King in Riyadh.

  It was a system marvelously designed to limit opportunity for foreign importuning or pressure. Until the late 1970s, hotel space in Riyadh was both scarce and inconvenient. Ambassadors who appeared unbidden might not find accommodation and would certainly have difficulty arranging an interview. Diplomats were summoned or had to request an appointment some time ahead. The American Ambassador was inconvenienced by this arrangement only if, like Hermann Eilts (when he was Ambassador to Saudi Arabia), he disliked flying and drove ten hours to Riyadh whenever a high-level meeting was needed. Appointments were granted to our diplomats to all practical purposes automatically; relations were cordial and friendly.

  My arrival on December 14 — my second visit to Saudi Arabia — reflected this amity. Omar Saqqaf, dressed in formal robes, was again at the foot of the stairs with his ubiquitous string of worry beads. As before, he took me by the hand and led me between the two rows of white-robed troops to the marble royal reception hall. We were served bitter Saudi coffee while television filmed the reception and the journalists accompanying me sought to ask questions.

  In Saudi Arabia the reporters traveling with me always seemed to me to lack the bite and sassiness they displayed at most other stops. They were being treated with the greatest courtesy as guests of whom a reciprocal courtesy was expected. I will leave it to my companions on many a long trip to respond that courtesy was second nature to them. They would deny that they were intimidated; perhaps their restraint was due to the fact that we usually arrived in Riyadh at the end of exhausting journeys and they were looking forward to a rest that might at any moment be put in jeopardy if a clerk in what was then the only hotel in town mislaid their reservations.