The Prime Ministers: An Intimate Narrative of Israeli Leadership

by Avner, Yehuda

  I have often been asked how I felt at that moment, and I wish I had a poetic answer to the question. I know that tears rolled down my cheeks and that I had my head in my hands when the voting was over, but all that I could recall about my feelings is that I was dazed. I had never planned to be prime minister; I had never planned any position, in fact…I only knew that now I would have to make decisions every day that would affect the lives of millions of people, and I think that is why perhaps I cried.21

  I, a junior member of her staff, never saw her cry, though there were enough excruciating moments ahead when she had reason to do so. But Golda was made of sterner stuff. She was, as Abba Eban put it, a “tough lady with a domineering streak.” Her “talent lay in the simplification of issues. She went straight to the crux and center of each problem…. When officials analyzed the contradictory waves of influence that flowed into decision-making, she tended to interrupt them with an abrupt request for the bottom line. The quest for the simple truth is not easy when the truth is not simple.”22

  For her, the bottom-line practical answers were rooted, first and foremost, in the creed of her Labor Zionist faith – a faith that never wavered even when it was rebuffed time and again by her fellow socialist delegates at the United Nations – the very same comrades with whom she happily hobnobbed in the committee rooms of the Socialist International, the worldwide association of social democrat, socialist, and labor parties, in which she played an active part. So she would oftentimes brood and be bitter, prowling the length of the carpet, arms rigid, head down, talking non stop in whole paragraphs about Israel’s isolation in the international community because representatives of socialist countries behaved no differently toward the Jewish State than their reactionary counterparts, allowing anti-Israel resolutions to pass wholesale.

  “I look around me at the United Nations,” I once heard her say, “and I think to myself, we have no family here. Israel is entirely alone here, less than popular, and certainly misunderstood. All we have to fall back on is our own Zionist faith. But why should that be? Why? Why?”

  Strangely, Golda Meir made no attempt to answer her own earth-shattering question: why, indeed, was the Jewish State the perennial odd state out in the family of nations?

  I, having returned from Washington in the fall of 1972 to head up the prime minister’s Foreign Press Bureau, was quick to realize that what she said of foreign relations very much applied to the foreign media as well: Israel was constantly being singled out by the press. On an average day, the Jewish State played host – still does – to one of the largest foreign press corps in the world. This seemed to me to reflect not mere international interest, not mere international curiosity, not mere international preoccupation; but an outright international obsession.

  Foreign correspondents to Israel habitually camp out at the American Colony Hotel which, by Jerusalem standards, stands in a class of its own. Once a nineteenth-century Pasha’s palace, it is suffused with an aura of understated elegance and a patrician grace, coupled with an aroma of British imperial stateliness. One can imagine Lawrence of Arabia chatting with General Allenby in its leafy courtyard, or Agatha Christie sipping tea with Sir Ronald Storrs in its spacious, high-windowed Pasha’s Room upstairs.

  With the passage of the years, as the tears of the Jewish-Arab conflict fell ever more heavily over the land, the international press corps found this genteel and very Gentile relic of cozier times conducive to their purposes. The American Colony Hotel is well situated on the seam between Jerusalem’s east and west and, by common consent, its well stocked and companionable bar has long been designated as a kind of neutral watering hole where Jews and Arabs can meet foreign correspondents – and each other – free of constraints.

  The first time I visited the place was the day after I started my new job, to keep an appointment with an independent television newsman from Chicago. Finding no sign of him in the lobby I sauntered upstairs to the Pasha’s Room, where an Arab wedding was getting into stride. Streamers and balloons festooned its ornamental domed interior. It was filled with dark-suited males and virtuously clad females, socializing separately. A trio consisting of an accordionist, a saxophonist, and a mandolinist were playing soft Oriental melodies. When they switched beat to pound on tabors the men stepped onto the dance floor to perform the dabke dance, each resting a hand on his neighbor’s shoulder, stomping in unison to the staccato tempo of the little drums, chanting praises to Allah.

  Two middle-aged fellows with drooping mustaches, in dazzling white tasselled keffiyehs – the fathers of the bride and groom presumably – were heaved onto hefty shoulders and, to the shrill ululations and the clapping hands of the women, gyrated in extreme excitement, yelping and flailing the air with finely wrought ornamental daggers. Faster and faster they twirled, and only when the music rose to a crescendo and sounded an authoritative final chord did the dervish-like swirling ease and the ovation fade.

  Spotting me, the man whom I had come to meet signaled recognition and, dabbing a sweaty brow, swiftly made his way to the door where I was hovering. He apologized for not having met me in the lobby as arranged, and panted, “It’s this dancing. I lost all sense of time. Forgive me.”

  He was conspicuous in a gaudy, awning-striped shirt and a polka-dot bow tie, and his name was as chummy and as ebullient as his face: Buddy Bailey.

  Over a drink in the bar, Buddy told me he had been commissioned to produce a television feature on Golda Meir and the future of Jerusalem, and that his Palestinian cameraman was the father of the bride upstairs, hence his hop, skip and jump on the Pasha Room’s dance floor. What he wanted from me was assistance in arranging a couple of interviews, one with Prime Minister Meir, if possible, and also some insights into present-day Jerusalem.

  Buddy Bailey admitted to only the most cursory knowledge of his subject, confessing that he was far too much on the go to be able to do much homework. “I know it sounds crazy,” he owned up, “but I’ve only the vaguest recollection of your Six-Day War, and how you came to be in Arab East Jerusalem in the first place.”

  “Can I recommend a book or two before you start production?” I asked.

  He sounded shocked. “Me – a book? I don’t have time for books. Guys like me have to rely on guys like you for information.”

  “So how do you hope to produce – ?”

  “You see those guys over there?” He stopped me, pointing to a group of fellow journalists. “How many of those people do you think ever do real research? Go on, ask them! Ask them how many know anything about the history of Zionism, or how the conflict began, or how you came to be in the West Bank. Go on, ask them.” He was growing insolent in defense of his ignorance. “Ask them how many know your language – even those posted here. I bet not a one. All we journalists are slaves to all-news-all-the-time deadlines. We live by them, from one to the next. Who’s got the time to do research? Our bosses want human action, not complicated facts.”

  “So how on earth do you dig up your information?” I asked naively.

  “By poking our noses where your television cameras and newsmen poke theirs, and by picking the brains of guys like you, and by getting tips and gossip from Arab locals, like my cameraman upstairs.”

  Suddenly, he swiveled around. A hand had descended on his shoulder from behind, and he called out in delight, “Talk of the devil! Fayez – it’s you! I was just talking about you. Join us. Wedding going okay?”

  Fayez threw us a dazzling smile, dabbed his brow with a corner of his keffiyeh, and heaved mischievously, “I’ve been dancing far too much with my daughter, the bride, so I sneaked out to cool off and indulge in a little forbidden stimulant while my guests upstairs are not watching.”

  “A Scotch here, please, barman,” called Buddy Bailey, snapping his fingers. “Black Label. Make it a double.”

  Fayez downed half his drink in a single swig, checking the room to make sure no one of his faith was catching him in the act, and downed the rest. Relaxed now, he chuckled, �
�Forgive my agitation. It’s the excitement of the wedding.”

  “Fayez,” said Buddy Bailey cheekily, throwing him a wink. “I have a question. I’ve been telling Yehuda here how tough it is for a foreign correspondent like me to get a grip on the conflict between you two. What do you think the chances are of you and Yehuda making up and shaking hands, eh?”

  The man sounded a hiccup, “What do you mean, making up, shaking hands?”

  “Peace. Making peace. Letting bygones be bygones.”

  Fayez looked me up and down, lazy laughter in his eyes, and said in perfect Hebrew, “You and me – peace?”

  He removed his keffiyeh, scrubbed his curly graying hair with his knuckles, pulled back his shoulders, lifted his jaw, and in a voice warped with whisky, said, “Habibi – My friend – it won’t work. Our genes are too different. You Jews come from everywhere. You are mongrels. We Arabs come from the desert. We are thoroughbreds. You think in subtleties, we think in primary colors.”

  “What do you mean – primary colors?” I asked.

  He placed a hand on my shoulder, whether in fellowship or to steady himself I could not tell, and rambled on, “Primary colors means that there is nothing subtle about the desert. Everything there is in the extremes – blazing hot days, icy cold nights, arid sands, luscious oases. That’s why we Arabs are most at ease in the extremes. It’s in our blood. We can be over-generous one minute, over-greedy the next, hospitable one minute, cut-throat the next, fatalistic one minute, straining at the leash the next. And at this minute” – he had me by the hand – “I’m in a highly hospitable mood, so please come upstairs and join my daughter’s wedding. No? You have other things to do? Fine! Then I shall go alone,” and off he went, walking with the over-disciplined stride of a man under the influence.

  “What was that supposed to mean?” asked Buddy, mystified.

  Bemused myself, I answered, “I’m not at all sure. I’m not sure how much was him doing the talking and how much was the drink. But what I do know is that when it comes to our conflict they do appear most at ease in the extremes.”

  Chapter 18

  Golda and Oriana: A Romance

  During my two-year stint at the Foreign Press Bureau I discovered that the journalist whom Prime Minister Golda Meir admired and liked the most – loved even – was Oriana Fallaci.

  Oriana Fallaci was all the rage in her native Italy. She had a reputation for brilliant and often controversial writing, as well as for being a fearless war correspondent. Her firsthand account of the Vietnam War – Nothing, and So Be It – was an international bestseller. Fallaci’s talent for powerful and hard-hitting political interviews was world renowned, and it was said that she was the one journalist to whom virtually no prominent leader could ever afford to say no.

  Her interviewing technique was unique. Unlike Buddy Bailey and his ilk, she would spend weeks researching her subjects in obsessive detail. Any attempt to patronize her, or to humor her with false conviviality, or to seek to justify an injustice of any sort could put a match to her Roman fury – as when she ripped off her chador in the middle of an interview with Ayatollah Khomeini when he said Muslim women must never uncover their faces, or when Fidel Castro huddled up to her a trifle too close and she told him he stank of body odor, or when she threw the microphone of her tape recorder in the face of the boxer, Muhammad Ali, when he belched into hers.

  A mistress of theatrics, Oriana Fallaci could display irreverence one moment, and charming sweetness the next. She could tease out deeper meanings from answers to seemingly superficial questions. Even the toughest interviewees could be disarmed by her feigned innocence, by the impression she gave that all she asked was merely for her own enlightenment. Henry Kissinger wrote in his memoirs that his 1972 interview with her “was the single most disastrous conversation I have ever had with any member of the press.” In it, Kissinger was seduced into acknowledging that the Vietnam War was “a useless war” and to absurdly admitting that he often thought of himself as “the cowboy who leads the wagon train by riding alone ahead on his horse.”

  When I met Oriana Fallaci in the lobby of the American Colony Hotel preparatory to her interview with Prime Minister Golda Meir, I had to fight an impulse to stare. Fallaci was a sinewy lady, hardly more than five foot tall, forty-odd years old, with a very Italian face full of chutzpah and mettle that demanded attention: a wealth of auburn hair, high cheek bones, and stubborn eyes. The moment I told her that the prime minister wanted to know what she wanted to talk to her about I got a taste of her tongue:

  “Mrs. Meir shall know what I shall talk to her about when I talk to her. And if she has a problem with that, I shall pack my bags and go home right now.”

  When I reported back to Mrs. Meir she smiled a mischievous sort of a smile, and then, tellingly, on the appointed day, welcomed Oriana Fallaci into the comfort of her lounge at home, rather than to her office. Golda chose to wear a stylish black dress as any hostess might, and the first thing she did was to thank her visitor for the beautiful bouquet of roses, just delivered. She excused herself to go into the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea, and pouring, she insisted her guest try her cheesecake, as any mother would, and remarked upon how youthful and chic the journalist looked despite the rigors of her job. Golda then delved into an appreciation of Fallaci’s recently published Vietnam War book, comparing that war with her own against terrorism.

  An hour and a quarter later, a captivated Ms. Fallaci found that instead of the fighting bout she had expected to conduct, she had been engaged in a genial female chat, and an equally charmed prime minister said she would love to continue it sometime soon, and instructed me to arrange a date.

  At the door Oriana Fallaci embraced Golda Meir, and entering my car, effused, “What am I to do with a woman like that? How am I to be objective? She reminds me so much of my mother – that same gray curly hair, her tired and wrinkled face, that sweet and energetic look. I think I have fallen in love with her.” Then, exhaling a Gloria Swanson sigh, she heaved, “I need a drink. Take me back to the hotel. I have to think!”

  By the time the second meeting took place, three days later, the journalist had retrieved her warrior professionalism fully, and she pummeled the prime minister with hard-hitting political questions which Golda parried with the tough, singular passion of a Deborah facing down a Sisera. But then, halfway through, Fallaci switched from fortissimo to pianissimo, from Valkyrie to Princess Charming, and gently asked some very personal questions, beginning with “Are you religious, Mrs. Meir?”

  The prime minister answered with a dismissive wave of the hand, and said in a manner that left no room for doubt, “Me, religious? Never!! My family was traditional, but not religious. Only my grandfather was religious, but those were the days when we lived in Russia. In America we observed the festivals, but went to temple very seldom. I only went for the High Holy Days to accompany my mother. You see, to me being Jewish means, and has always meant, being proud to be part of a people that has maintained its distinct identity for more than two thousand years, with all the pain and torment inflicted on it.”

  Abruptly, her voice trailed away and she leaned deeply into her armchair, looking past Fallaci with a remote stare as if recapturing a second thought, an image so vivid she could clearly see it in her mind’s eye. Quietly, almost reverentially, she said, “The one time I’ve ever really prayed was in a synagogue in Moscow. It was shortly after the establishment of the State and I was Israel’s ambassador there. If I’d stayed in Russia I might have become religious – maybe. Who knows?”

  “Why?”

  “Because in communist Russia, the synagogue was the one place Jews could meet Jews. On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur they came in their thousands. I stayed in the synagogue from morning till night. And I, who am an emotional person, really prayed. In fact, I’m the most sensitive creature you’ll ever meet. It is no accident many accuse me of conducting public affairs with my heart instead of my head. Well, what if I do? I don’t see any
thing wrong in that. I’ve always felt sorry for people who are afraid of their feelings, and who hide their emotions and can’t cry wholeheartedly. Those who don’t know how to weep with their whole heart don’t know how to laugh either.”

  “And what about peace – when will there be peace?”

  The prime minister shrugged her shoulders. “I fear war with the Arabs will go on for years because of the indifference with which their leaders send their people off to die.”

  “And what about Jerusalem? Will you ever agree to the redivision of Jerusalem?”

  “Israel will never give up Jerusalem. I won’t even agree to discuss it.”

  “And the Golan Heights – will Israel ever agree to give up the Golan Heights?”

  “No, Israel will never come down from the Golan Heights.”

  “And Sinai – will you be willing to withdraw from the Sinai in return for peace with Egypt?”

  “Yes, Israel will be ready to withdraw from much of the Sinai Peninsula in exchange for peace. But we won’t take the risk of waking up one morning with the Sinai full of Egyptian troops again, as happened on the eve of the Six-Day War.”

  “And Arafat’s PLO – are they a partner for peace?”

  “Never, never, never will I talk to that terrorist Yasser Arafat.”

  “And the Palestinian refugees – will you ever agree to their return?”

  “No. What hope can the Arab refugees have so long as the Arab countries exploit them as a weapon against us by deliberately keeping them confined in squalid camps?”

  And thus they went at it, the premier and the journalist, tit for tat until, again, Fallaci switched roles and sweet-talked Golda into letting down her guard so willingly that she began to reveal things about herself she had never revealed so fully to anybody before: