by Yaël Dayan
My uncle, Ezer Weizman, was sworn in as Minister of Defense. He was campaign manager for the Likud, and it was not presumptuous on his part to claim full credit for his party’s victory. If he, too, had doubts concerning my father’s nomination, he was forced, and later privileged, to tolerate the “brother-in-law” image, rather than stand center-stage with Begin alone. Arik Sharon was Minister of Agriculture. Father, who admired Sharon as a military genius, did not have a good word to say about his entrance into the political scene, and this is a discreet understatement. Yadin was nominated Deputy Prime Minister. The party I voted for, which had generated high inspirations as a new liberal center, eventually failed to deliver, or even function adequately.
My father, seated across the table from Begin at the cabinet meetings, was not surrounded by friends or political supporters. He never treated the political arena as a socializing medium, and being more experienced than most of the new ministers gave him a sense of seniority. Begin had complete authority over his own colleagues. His choice of my father, accompanied as it was with having to accept Father’s preconditions on several major issues, was not a subject for criticism or dispute. The immediate objective was the proposed Geneva conference, chaired by the U.S. and the U.S.S.R., where, according to Security Council Resolution 338, peace negotiations were to commence between Israel and the Arab countries. United States President Carter took a personal interest in speeding up the preliminaries, and my father was busy preparing the policy papers should such a conference take place in the near future. His senses, his intuition, his cerebral capacity—for forty years, tuned to the constraints of warfare, sharpened and molded in the variants of the battlefield—were now centered on the supreme and coveted final fight, the battle for peace. As in war, it was a win-all/lose-all proposition, depending on intricacies of phrase, originality of thinking, and flexibility of policymaking. Embarking on peace negotiations was not a deviation or even a comeback for my father, but a logical continuation and culmination of everything he had devoted himself to up to now.
A certain routine was resumed, yet there were differences. The “office” now meant Jerusalem, but my father preferred to commute rather than occupy the official Foreign Office residence in the capital. Zahala was his castle, and the short car ride to Jerusalem didn’t trouble him. The bodyguards, drivers, secretaries had never really disappeared while he was out of the government, so there wasn’t a sudden reappearance of an entourage to intrude on his privacy. Yossi, his Ministry of Defense legal adviser and all-around troubleshooter, was appointed Director General of the ministry, and Father’s name, which was hardly absent from the newspapers during his “private years,” again captured headlines all over the world. In many ways, he was the darling of the media. When one thought all was reported and covered and told, to saturation, he still managed to produce the one unexpected item, the half-phrase, the new key word, or a facial expression that was still “news.” Rahel was in her element. Matching accessories and the perfect hairdo, dinner-table conversations with ambassadors and the right remark at cocktail parties, the elegance and charm at home and on their official travels—she was the perfect Foreign Minister’s wife and must have made it easier for him to cope with the less exciting or boring aspects of his new position.
The house changed, too. My parents’ bedroom was annexed to the kitchen, which was wallpapered and spacious now. My own room became my father’s bedroom, smaller for cupboards being put in, and sparsely furnished. My portrait, painted by Boris Chaliapin in livelier-than-life oils, was for a while in the living room and later in Father’s bedroom, together with framed photographs of his mother, his sister, and Rahel. My brothers’ room, extended to include a walk-in closet, was now Ranel’s bedroom, and an additional guest toilet room was added to the house. Later, a “dream bathroom,” as my father defined it, was built for Rahel, marble and femininity combined, to Father’s delight, and he insisted on showing it to guests, taking pride in his ability to supply his beloved wife with “luxury like in the movies.” A well-deserved change from where the family started many years back, when we had to walk to the back-yard lavatory in Nahalal, carying a lantern. New carpets, new vitrines for the collection, new paintings on the walls, some wall-to-wall carpeting, and a few well-chosen pieces of antique furniture. All in good taste, on the cold side, like a well-manicured hand or a fresh hairdo in which no rebellious curl is allowed a mischievous angle.
The garden still had its dream quality, my father’s obsession with the height of shrubs and free air passage giving it an added dimension. He was forever climbing ladders, raising branches, and anchoring them up against their natural botanical tendency. Father’s own corner, where he glued his pieces together, tested with acid their authenticity, and looked his shabbiest best, remained unchanged. I still had access to that corner, and felt intimate and protected when we had the chance to share a brief hour there.
He welcomed my decision to resume my studies, and I had a now-or-never feeling about it. Raheli, our daughter, began school in the fall of 1977, and Dov was in his second year as Deputy Commissioner of the War College, having served as military spokesman during the two years following the Yom Kippur War. I took courses in the Open University, which enabled me to do most of my studies at home, attending a biweekly afternoon session with a tutor and working at my own pace. My choice of courses was obvious only to me. Biochemistry, biology, genetics, and zoology. A minor compensation for not having studied medicine, and a major effort on my part to keep up with developments in this sphere, which I regarded as an overwhelming breakthrough. Languages, literature, art, history, I felt I could study on my own. The science that fascinated me was a new world. Learning it meant activating a dormant sector of my brain, and I was not satisfied with popular literature on the subject. I listened to lectures with awe, and treated the laboratory like a shrine. Dissecting animals and using an electronic microscope filled me with infantile pleasure, and good results on exams gave me a new sense of pride. I would never be a working scientist (although I would always continue to study seriously), but I felt privileged to be allowed a glimpse into the secrets of creation, rather than remain an ignorant tourist in the palaces of discovery of the elements of which we are composed.
My mother’s house assumed its own character. It was crowded with objects, paintings, books, handmade artifacts. It was always spotless but had the warmth of a lived-in house even when it was new. My grandparents’ house was an annex to hers, and they spent more and more time there, until they rented out their Jerusalem apartment and started living full-time in Herzlia, north of Tel Aviv. Mother, unwillingly, accepted the fact that I was not about to punish my father (and mostly myself) for having remarried. If I was to remain a part of his life, I had to accept it on his terms. The most important relationship he had was with Rahel, to the exclusion of whatever or whoever didn’t find a positive modus vivendi with her. My brothers visited Zahala occasionally, behaving well, though often grumbling afterward. They were never deprived of attention when they wanted it, but they seemed to want it less, finding the new filters in Father’s life artificial and not too pleasant.
In October 1977, widows and bereaved parents gathered—the fourth year—in front of the house in Zahala to demonstrate. Those who still held him responsible for the Yom Kippur War dead felt doubly cheated, seeing him tread the corridors of power. Father had good reasons to be less susceptible to the hurt inflicted on him by the silent accusations. We were four years removed from the last war, and he had cause to believe that it would take less time to achieve a peaceful solution to some of the tragic conflicts in the area. Furthermore, in his own estimate, it was the Yom Kippur War that prompted, at least in Sadat, a search for new options at the conference table, rather than risk another defeat in battle. His assessment was based on a series of secret meetings in August and September with the Shah of Iran and King Hussein of Jordan, and, most important, hosted by King Hassan of Morocco, with Dr. Hassan Tuhami as personal representative
of President Sadat.
The Morocco meetings were conducted in the best spy tradition. Father, disguised with a mustache, a wig, and dark glasses—a routine which amused him but irritated his good eye—changed cars, exited through back doors into garages, and was driven to remote airports in Europe, to be flown to Rabat by private jet. The very first moments with Dr. Hassan Tuhami were cold. Both men were excited and sent feelers out which served as icebreakers. Both men avoided lengthy, flowery introductions. The subject was peace; compromises had to be made; both countries preferred some form of direct negotiations, followed by American or international sponsorship; and Egypt was reluctant to admit the Russians “through the back door” of a Geneva conference. The central issue was the returning of the Sinai Peninsula to Egyptian sovereignty, and it was clear that the era of interim agreements was over. For the first time, a full and normal peace treaty was discussed in detail. King Hassan helped relax the atmosphere. The hospitality was lavish, in the best Oriental style, from sumptuous meals to carpeted bathrooms with pink towels and a supply of bottled scents.
There were catches. Dr. Tuhami insisted that President Sadat could not meet with Begin before the Sinai was returned. Egypt refused to be the only Arab country involved in negotiations, and it was obvious that the Palestinian claims and the status of Jerusalem would not be treated by Sadat as minor and marginal issues. Father returned to Israel to report and to dispel the rumors concerning his “disappearance.” Rahel was in the United States (where they were both headed when he “disappeared” in Brussels on the way to the airport), and he called me from Jerusalem to suggest we meet in Zahala.
The refrigerator was empty, the water heater disconnected, but we managed to produce a cup of tea and some dry cereal. It was too late and he was too tired to worry about physical comforts. He was leaving at dawn for New York, and our meeting was brief and warm. He did not talk much, but what he did say was enough. He did not turn into an optimist overnight, but his intuition was positive. “Something good may come of it all …”
My father’s reputation as “the only man in Israel who can talk to the Arabs” was not a result of his soft-spoken, easy manner, or of the shrewd, almost frightening image he had acquired as a war hero. His Arabic was basic, and all serious negotiations were conducted in English or with the help of a reliable translator. The Arabs didn’t feel too comfortable in his presence, and there was no kissing and hugging, yet it worked. What my father had was what really mattered, authority and credibility. They trusted his word, and he, theirs, and he didn’t have to pretend. He did have respect for the Arabs. There was no hatred, and there was a genuine desire to search out the possibilities of living together. He was never condescending; he had a special warm feeling for the Arab farmer and for the wandering Bedouin, and he respected their traditions. In his ruthlessness as a stubborn, tough negotiator, there was always a streak of deeply felt solidarity. He knew when to be flexible, because he realized when their ability to compromise stopped, and in fact he did not turn negotiations into bargaining. His effort was directed at finding a formula that would be beneficial to both sides.
The ball was rolling now, and Sadat’s proposal to visit Jerusalem and address the Knesset gave a tremendous boost and momentum to something that was already in the works. This did not detract from the total surprise and sense of disbelief when the actual date of Sadat’s visit was announced. On Saturday, November 19, 1977, at eight in the evening, the Egyptian President’s Misr 0-1 landed at Ben-Gurion Airport. Like hundreds of thousands of others, we were at home watching the historic event on television, both ecstatic and very nervous. Every minute detail had significance, and we sat close to the screen, as if otherwise we might miss an expression or a word. The national anthems were played; the guard of honor stood proud and erect; the long line of dignitaries, Arabic and Hebrew alike, paraded, their faces mostly set in joyous smiles mixed with an occasional suspicious stare. Were we dreaming? Was it a momentary illusion, a cunning trick, or an act of bravura which would have no follow-up? The excitement was overwhelming, and even Dov, whose pessimism almost matched my father’s, allowed himself a moment of hopeful joy.
Sadat himself, at his best, had a hypnotic, engulfing warmth. His gestures were expansive, his frequent smile was like sunshine, and his handshake a wholehearted expression of generosity. An enormous crowd greeted the cavalcade of cars at the entrance to Jerusalem. In one of the cars, my father rode with Butrous Ghali, his Egyptian opposite number. The night was dark, and Father tried to describe the beautiful scenery to Ghali. He talked of the Philistine coastline and the Judean hills, of the ancient trade routes and the fertile valleys, of old Canaan and the city of King David. I doubt that Ghali was able to listen to the description fully, for he kept emphasizing the tremendous risk Sadat was taking. He had embarked on this initiative alone, opposed by all the other Arab countries.
Sadat, in his speech to the Knesset the next day, and during the working session that preceded and followed it, reduced the nation’s state of euphoria, and caused it to fluctuate from a wishful high to a dangerous low. It was obvious that we could expect no miracle. Barriers which consist of hatred and gravestones, offensive wars and wars of attrition cannot, and perhaps should not, be removed overnight. Peace, like war, had its price, and negotiating the price and the securities to safeguard it was to be a long process of gains and compromises. Sadat had flown over the barrier, and the psychological impact of his act was enormous. But the patient removal of the barrier’s components and the laying down of new foundations for peaceful coexistence had only just begun.
Less than a year later, in September 1978, the Camp David Meeting produced a comprehensive paper titled A Framework for Peace in the Middle East. Following Camp David, numerous standstills and deadlocks seemed insurmountable, and only on March 26, 1979, was the final Egyptian–Israeli peace treaty signed by President Sadat and Prime Minister Begin at the White House in Washington, D.C.
These sixteen months of negotiations, varying in intensity, were described in detail by my father in his book Breakthrough. A little of what he went through emotionally can be discerned from the fact that he dedicated the book “To the soldiers of the Israeli Army, the living and the dead.” What he endured physically, it is difficult to describe, as those were the years when his health began to deteriorate. It was obvious to him that his years were numbered, and in the lifelong dialogue with death he might be a loser sooner than expected. As in other wars, he was short of time, and there were things that had to be achieved at any price, before the ceasefire.
There is irony in the fact that I always thought of my father as a healthy, strong man. Since he lost his eye, I doubt that he had an entirely painless day. The image of health stemmed from his unusual ability to endure, ignore, and dismiss pain, his general ignorance concerning the mechanics of the human body, and a stubborn refusal to give in to physical limitations which would create dependence on medicines, doctors, diet, or a routine other than the one he chose to lead. For the first sixty years of his life, there was nothing frail about my father. His arms were blessed with Herculean muscles; he was of medium height; and in his fifties—though he had a tendency to put on weight—he was still light on his feet, strong in his grip, and seldom complained of pain or discomfort. His body grew used to a meager amount of sleep, and he managed to take a nap, warrior style, between things, in the car or on a short helicopter flight. He learned to live with severe headaches—with or without an occasional analgesic—and joked about his slightly defective hearing. With one eye, and one good ear, there were many things he’d rather not see or hear … A renowned neurologist explained to my mother in medical terms his great need for sex as being related to scar tissue formations on his brain, resulting from his head wound. I doubt that my father saw insatiable sexual activity as something “unhealthy.”
His general health and his strong torso stood him in good stead when he was buried under the sand while excavating. The doctors were amazed at the spe
ed of his recovery, to which willpower and determination were major contributors. Still, the months in a cast, the traction, the internal bleeding, the damaged spine and ribs, and the severed vocal cord reduced his body resistance, and ten years later, still well despite a most irregular life, Father himself began to notice (and to ignore) signs of far from perfect function of his organs. A stomach ulcer developed; irregular bowel movements, hemorrhoids, the vicious cycle of gastrointestinal troubles—not helped by an uptight nervous system, a series of chronic allergies, and Father’s strenuous way of life.
Being scientifically ignorant, he fluctuated from a complete trust in doctors—if you have to cut, cut and get it over with—to a primitive trust in his own sensibilities, which resulted in self-cures and his not confiding in doctors when he thought they were needlessly prying and overanxious. He was not afraid of surgery; he wanted to know the truth; but as he was not motivated by fear of death, his own health was not paramount in his mind.
When he mentioned a difficulty in breathing, having climbed a steep hill in the heat of summer, we would have one of those silly conversations: It seems that my heart is not as strong as it used to be. Did you see a doctor? To which he would say either that they don’t know anything or yes, and I’m all right, and anyway I have no time or desire to “take it easy” as they suggest. He did play cat-and-mouse, as when the pains in his chest grew worse and it was obvious to him that his heart was malfunctioning, and he shut himself in the bathroom, leaned against the wall, spread his arms, and waited for the throbbing to ease. He did not want to alarm anybody, and when he told family and doctors, he almost took pride in his success, having managed to keep a major event a secret.
What first irritated and later alarmed him to the point of self-pity and serious depression was a slow loss of eyesight. His right eye, his only eye, became the barometer of his health. As if he knew that it reflected the rest of his body. The less he could see, the more dependent he became. The best eye surgeons in the world tried and failed, and it added to his edginess, fatigue, and fatalism. He was Hercules, he was Samson, and he was Job. His sandglass could not be tilted over and over, and his calendar for two years had had the word PEACE inscribed on it in big letters as his single major objective. It was a desperate race between two delicate wicks, the flutter of the flame for life and the short, easily extinguishable candle of the striving for a stable peace with at least Egypt.