Years of Upheaval

by Henry Kissinger

  Not that Israeli negotiators are ever easy. There was to be no sightseeing yet in Israel. Even at less than an all-out pace, there would be a schedule to demonstrate to the cabinet that the Israeli negotiating team had not failed to test my endurance. My call on Golda was followed by a three-hour working dinner on Saturday evening with the negotiating team, ably led by Deputy Prime Minister Yigal Allon, an old and cherished friend since the 1950s when he had been my student at Harvard. Afterward, there was an hour’s meeting with Defense Minister Dayan to go over the Israeli plan in detail. On Sunday, January 13, I had breakfast with Allon; a working lunch with Foreign Minister Eban and the negotiating team; a meeting with the families of Israeli prisoners of war held in Syria; yet another review of the political provisions with Eban; and a reception at Dayan’s house near Tel Aviv, over an hour’s drive away.

  Through it all, the negotiators exuded the relaxed manner that in Israel denotes that the internal controversy has been temporarily shelved: For the first time there was a full cabinet decision in favor of disengagement. The Israelis had achieved this by resolving all controversial items in their favor — leaving it to me to persuade Sadat to accept them.

  The cabinet had shown considerable ingenuity in response to my argument that I could not go to Sadat with the Dayan plan on a take-it-or-leave-it basis and therefore needed a fallback position. So it broadened my horizon of negotiating methods by simply turning the Dayan plan into the fallback position, giving me an even tougher new position with which to open the bidding. I knew that Sadat would not be taken in; there had been too many leaks of the Dayan plan in the Israeli press. Some bitter sessions were clearly ahead in both Aswan and Jerusalem.

  Israel’s proposed line of withdrawal in the Sinai was still west of the strategic passes, in the foothills of the mountain range traversing the Sinai from north to south. As for the Egyptian line in the Sinai, the new formal position turned some areas occupied by the Egyptian Third Army over to the United Nations. (The more generous fallback position — the Dayan plan — gave Egypt an unbroken line some six to ten kilometers to the east of the Canal.) The force limitations were unchanged: no more than two or three battalions across the Canal, no tanks, and no artillery. No Egyptian surface-to-air missiles could be established on the west bank within thirty kilometers of the Suez Canal (or forty kilometers west of the Egyptian forward line), nor any artillery capable of reaching Israeli positions. (For this purpose the Israelis had drawn different lines for different calibers of guns. This would involve the backward movement of another 100 Egyptian artillery pieces and several surface-to-air installations.) Tanks even in the thirty-kilometer zone west of the Canal would be limited to 300. “I can hardly wait to break this news to Gamasy,” I said half-jocularly to the Israeli team.

  The Israeli answer was that if Sadat did not intend to go to war, he would not need forward forces. This was true enough, but it overlooked the issue of principle in accepting severe arms limitations deep inside territory that was indisputably Egyptian and accepting withdrawals of major forces from positions held even before the recent war.

  In addition, Israel toughened its political conditions. It demanded explicit assurances that Sadat would clear the Canal, rebuild the Canal cities, permit Israeli shipping through the Canal, and declare an end to the state of belligerency. I did not debate these terms, concentrating on clarifying the Israeli position and asking factual questions. I pointed out that Sadat’s reaction was likely to be complex but I saw no point in seeking to modify the Israeli proposal until I had his view:

  We are running into the danger of talking slogans. If he rejects it, from my judgment of what I have seen, it is because of his own domestic position. Just as you have a domestic position, he has one. And you are asking him to give the army, which he has finally got under control, a lot of orders that will be extraordinarily unpalatable to them. I do not know whether he can do it or not. I have no question in my mind, having spent these many hours with him, that he genuinely wants a settlement and that he almost certainly wants peace in the Canal zone. Whether his domestic situation permits him to do what you think you require for your domestic situation, that I don’t know, and we will now find out within the next 36 hours. No sense debating it. But it is not as simple as “does he want peace” or “does he not want peace.”

  And yet there was, despite the seemingly harsh terms, a sense that this was not Israel’s last word; that we were seeing a show of bravado for domestic Israeli consumption. In the expressive body language of diplomacy, we were heading for a breakthrough, and in the final analysis, for all the tough talk, Israel would make a significant contribution to it.

  The sessions with the Israeli negotiating team had been relatively easygoing; no one spoke of deadlock. That was the mood, too, during the Sunday evening reception in Dayan’s simple residence in Tel Aviv; it turned into a festive occasion. The house itself was like a suburban American dwelling; but its garden was a museum of Dayan’s archaeological treasures, reflecting the obsession of so many Israelis with reestablishing ties to their distant past or at least with defining the ancient identity of their country — as if to banish the nagging sense of insecurity by a tangible demonstration of historical continuity. Dayan and Chief of Staff General David Elazar took me into a small study to show me two maps: the tough “new” line, which was less forthcoming than what Gur had shown the Egyptians at Geneva; and the one Dayan had submitted in Washington (the same as Gur’s) — now the fallback position. We all knew that I would spend little time on the new line; all the Israelis were rather mischievously proud of their ingenuity over the “new” position. When we came out, a crowd of newsmen caught the mood of expectancy. “The reason the Israelis don’t get better treatment,” I said, “is that Eban doesn’t kiss me.”

  Before leaving for Aswan, I instructed Scowcroft to brief Dobrynin. We were anxious to avoid Soviet interference while negotiations were approaching a climax. If Moscow thought we were destined to fail, it might stake out a tough position to pick up the pieces. If it understood that we were heading not simply toward “principles” but toward a completed agreement, the Kremlin might seek to abort the process and force us back to Geneva. The briefing was factually correct if not a masterpiece of precision and lucidity. It simply informed Dobrynin that I had reviewed the situation with both sides, had made some progress (without defining toward what), and would pass on further information as we went along.

  At 8:15 P.M. that Sunday evening, we were airborne again for Aswan. Joe Sisco, efficient, superenergetic, sometimes supplying more answers than there were questions, announced to our press contingent: “Welcome aboard the Egyptian-Israeli shuttle!” Thus was shuttle diplomacy named.

  The Flying State Department

  THE shuttling command post was a US Air Force Boeing 707 called SAM 86970. (SAM stood for the Special Air Missions unit of the Military Airlift Command; 86970 was the tail number.) It had been used on occasion as Air Force One by Presidents Eisenhower and Kennedy; it was used as Air Force Two by Lyndon Johnson as Vice President.3 By 1974 it was the third-ranking plane in the Presidential fleet. Like a once-rich family that had seen better days, it obscured its reduced eminence by the pride of its superb crew and the spick-and-span appearance of an upholstery that was not refurbished in the years I used the plane. Its Air Force personnel took loving care of it; they and my team became good friends.

  The first object to strike one’s eye as one entered the plane from the front was a large electronic console served by two sergeants. It was the hub of a communications network that connected SAM 86970 with every part of the world in a matter of minutes by coded teletype and — if necessary — telephone, though I used the latter very infrequently. While airborne I received through this machinery all necessary telegrams from the State Department or White House; I sent out over it all instructions to the Department, or backchannel messages to the White House Situation Room. In some capitals where we had no embassies — or where I wanted to keep t
he exchange with Washington from the local embassy — we used it as a communications center even on the ground. Since I chose to remain in charge of State Department business even while traveling, an enormous volume of cable traffic poured in, handled by the aircraft’s skilled communications personnel, annotated by my own staff, digested by me and my colleagues, and sent out again over the same system. This small, rather exposed area was in effect the heart of the entire enterprise. Without it shuttle diplomacy would have been impossible.

  Farther back, the passenger area was divided into four compartments. The first, on the starboard side, paralleling a passageway, contained two sofas along the side wall that made up into beds; opposite them were a foldout table and two easy chairs. This was my personal compartment, work area, and retreat. Here I read the briefing books, met with colleagues, and took an occasional nap (rarely on the way to a negotiation, when I devoted my time to reading briefing papers).

  The next section was a conference room occupying the width of the plane. Its distinguishing feature was a kidney-shaped table bordered on three sides by sofas in undistinguished but restful bluish-green. The fourth side was an outsized chair built to accommodate Lyndon Johnson. An electric switch controlled its movements in any conceivable direction and some I had heretofore considered inconceivable. The table had a hydraulic movement of its own; owing to the nature of the species it was less versatile than the chair; occasionally an unwary neophyte found himself trapped between a rising chair and a lowering table. The conference area was supposed to be kept clear for the purpose its name suggested. In fact, it usually seated a number of staff aides; it was piled high with bookbags and briefcases and an occasional trunk. When I was closeted in my cabin, exhausted staff members stretched out on the sofas and even the floor. The conference area served a multitude of other purposes. There, I briefed the journalists accompanying me, conducted occasional staff meetings, and frequently took meals with my associates.

  The next compartment was a working area for the senior staff, with two tables, one on each side of the aisle, seating eight altogether. In addition, there was a small table with an electric typewriter; another typewriter could be set up on one of the larger tables if needed. Nearby was a small photocopying machine. Here — on Mideast shuttles — Sisco reigned. The senior staff sorted out the incoming cables and occasionally tested me by slipping in a phony message running directly counter to some instruction of mine and standing by for the fireworks. (They were, of course, even more delighted when I missed it.) They prepared briefing papers for the next stop — usually a memorandum comparing the positions of the two sides, our estimate of their flexibilities, and a checklist of what remained to be accomplished.

  All this was done in a frenzied haste against the inexorable time limit of the next landing. My staff preferred the Aswan shuttle to the later Syrian shuttle because the flights to and from Egypt provided an extra seventy-five minutes of flying time. Once or twice we circled an airport, to the bafflement of our waiting hosts, while we completed our preparations. Man stood the pace better than machine; the photocopier would undertake periodic acts of rebellion. Sometimes it would simply eat a page, refusing to give up either copy or original; on occasion it would burn a page and with billowing smoke threaten to set the plane on fire. Once it broke loose from its moorings and threatened to devour Joe Sisco. Sisco was saved, and Winston Lord observed with relief that if the machine had not been stopped in time, countless copies of Joe might have been distributed throughout the Middle East — a truly mind-boggling prospect that neither we nor the Middle East was ready to face.

  The fourth section was the most fun. In about ten rows of first-class seats were the rest of the staff, security personnel, and communicators, and in the rear, the fourteen or fifteen journalists who generally accompanied me.I The custom of journalists traveling with the Secretary of State had begun, I believe, with Dean Rusk. They were selected by their organizations; the major American newspapers, television networks, wire services, and newsmagazines were almost always represented; the remaining places were rotated among other news organizations. My relationship with that tempestuous bunch was, of course, of a complexity commensurate with our respective functions. The media yearn for access to senior officials and yet are afraid to be taken into camp by them; hence they often err on the side of skepticism or the facile pursuit of credibility gaps. The officials need the media to explain their point of view and are alternately tempted to give them a one-sided account or to pressure them. With all these drawbacks I think back to my association with the men and women in the back of the plane with affection only occasionally tinged with exasperation.

  The journalists on the shuttle had a grueling assignment. They had to follow my schedule; they could never be sure when a meeting would end or a newsbreak might occur. After I retired, usually well past midnight, they had to write and file their reports. They had to be up well before me; they had to get to the airport in time to permit their luggage to be x-rayed for security and for the plane to take off as soon as I arrived. Their accommodations were much less comfortable than mine both on the plane and on the ground. Through all these vicissitudes the reporting from my trips was fair and often penetrating. The aircraft was spared the maliciousness and bitterness of Washington during the Watergate period.

  I did my best to help by briefing the journalists on every shuttle on a “background” basis — meaning I could be identified only as a “senior official.” Usually I invited them up to the conference area soon after we took off from one location for another. I rarely gave details of the actual negotiations, but I strove hard to explain accurately the issues involved and the prospects as I saw them. The regulars on the shuttle grew adept at piecing together what I was saying, so much so that they took delight in trying to get Sadat, especially, to confirm what I was eager to keep confused until all the parties were in agreement. Occasionally he obliged, to my acute dismay; yet he probably understood the politics involved better than I supposed, for his revelations never did the damage I feared.

  I hope the media representatives will not think I am letting them down if I record my conviction that as the shuttles went on, my journalistic companions developed a vested interest in a successful outcome, which faced me with a terrible prospect if the end failed to live up to their expectations. Some of this may have sprung from a wish to give purpose to the physical discomfort of the shuttle, or from the reality that our success would give a reporter more exposure and prestige. Whether these hard-bitten professionals would admit it or not, I also believe that among their reasons was a hope that in the midst of Watergate their country could accomplish something of which they could be proud. And though this is not their job, they gave me moral support — not in their reporting but in their attitudes — at several crucial moments.

  Such was the caravan that rode SAM 86970 back to Aswan, carrying with it the formal Israeli proposals.

  Aswan Again: January 13–14

  WE arrived at 10:30 P.M. in the blackout. Mercifully, Fahmy asked for no debriefing beyond my statement that I had maps now and an official Israeli plan. Sadat was content to wait until morning to see me.

  The President greeted me at 10:00 A.M. on Monday, January 14, in the gazebo of his spacious garden outside the villa, on a glorious clear day with the temperature in the seventies. He still wore his heavy military uniform; he showed no impatience while we engaged in small talk for the benefit of the photographers. Finally after half an hour he took me inside. I had aides bring in the two maps given to me by Israel. Since I knew that the so-called fallback position was the only real Israeli line, I went lightly over the first one for fear that Sadat would be offended by it. I said that we would save a lot of time if we started from the premise that Israel would not withdraw farther than to the west side of the passes as part of the disengagement scheme. Sadat commented only about the proposal that Egyptian forces to the south withdraw a few kilometers westward in favor of UN forces. That was a moral issue; he insist
ed Egyptian forces could not be asked to withdraw from their own territory. I outlined the Israeli proposal on deployments and began listing the political demands when Sadat interrupted: “My associates should hear this with me.” It was the only time in negotiating that Sadat implied the need for the concurrence of subordinates. It showed how prickly the issue was that Sadat on that one occasion used me to help build a consensus on the Egyptian side.

  Consensus was not, however, what emerged at first. We adjourned to the conference room, where for one of the few times in my dealings with Egyptians we faced each other in the classic negotiator’s pose. On one side of the table sat the American delegation: I, flanked by Joe Sisco and Ellsworth Bunker (in his capacity as Ambassador to the Geneva Conference), with Peter Rodman as note-taker. Sadat, who was accompanied by Gamasy and Fahmy, did not bow to diplomatic custom all the way — he did not bother to call in a note-taker.

  The meeting began with a joke. I said the next few hours would tell whether what I brought was going to be known as the “Kissinger plan” (that is, succeed) or the “Sisco plan” (that is, fail). Fahmy quipped if it turned out to be a Sisco plan, they would preserve his body in the Valley of the Queens. But the jocular mood disappeared quickly when I went through the Israeli disengagement scheme, covering its military aspects in great detail. Sadat said little, puffing on his pipe and interjecting occasional crisp, clarifying questions. When I started listing Israel’s other conditions the mood grew frosty. With respect to the obligation to open the Suez Canal, he blurted out: “These are political issues!” When I read out a new Israeli idea that all foreign troops and volunteers leave Egyptian soil, he snapped: “Ridiculous.”