More than half a century ago, at the Israeli Air Force Academy, I received my wings from General Yitzhak Rabin, then Chief of Staff of the IDF. Soon after, he became the hero of the Six Day War, then Ambassador to the United States, Prime Minister, and then Defense Minister under the National Unity Government. I watched him from afar, being busy with my own military career.
In 1992, after Rabin returned to the Prime Minister’s office, he appointed me Director of the Government Press Office. Thanks to this surprise, I was privileged not only to be privy to history in the making but also to work for a leader who was a statesman — not a politician.
A leader who was a statesman — not a politician.
What is the difference between the two? The statesman thinks about his country’s future, while the politician thinks only about the coming elections.
A case in point was Rabin’s decision to embark on the Oslo process. In 1993, like the rest of the aides around Rabin, I was parroting the party line: we would neither speak with the PLO nor accept a Palestinian state. When the news about Oslo broke, we were first stunned, then puzzled: Had Rabin the hawk turned into a dove?
He had. On September 13, 1993, on the South Lawn at the White House, I watched Rabin say, “We who have fought against you, the Palestinians, we say to you today in a loud and clear voice: Enough of blood and tears. Enough.” Millions of Israelis, watching this with awe on their television screens, knew perfectly well that this wasn’t only rhetoric: Rabin, the soldier, who had sent the Israelis to die on battlefields, expressed a quest for peace. At the same time, the way Rabin halfheartedly shook Arafat’s hand conveyed to Israelis a parallel message: I’m willing, reluctantly, to give part of the Land of Israel and agree to a two-state solution because I don’t have a better option. I simply don’t want to turn Israel into a bi-national state, where we have to choose between our Jewish character and our democracy.
By pursuing Oslo, by doing what was right and not what was popular, Rabin distinguished himself as a statesman rather than a politician. Unknowingly, he was following the dictum of Kemal Atatürk, the founder of modern Turkey: “I don’t care about what the people want, I know what they need” — with the Rabin caveat, of course, that “If they disapprove, let them kick me out on Election Day.”
What a far cry from our situation today, when Israel is facing the worst crisis in decades — COVID-19. Prime Minister Netanyahu has refused to hand over the management of the pandemic to the only body capable of doing it — the Ministry of Defense — because it might benefit Netanyahu’s rival Naftali Bennett, who was Defense Minister at the start of the pandemic. Netanyahu has also caved to the pressures of the Ultra-Orthodox by not treating their coronavirus-infected communities with differential lockdowns, thus exacerbating the pandemic. This is the work of a politician, not a statesman. Not a Rabin.
In 2000, I wrote Rabin an imaginary letter. “My daughter called. She received an invitation to the ceremony marking the fifth anniversary of your assassination, and she’s very proud. She is one of those kids whose life had changed overnight on November 5, 1995. From a carefree student, she became an involved, caring citizen, who believes in understanding and tolerance among Israelis. Hardly a week passes by without us talking about you. However, she can’t make it to the ceremony because she is due to give birth to our first grandchild, probably on the same day. Life goes on in Israel.”
My granddaughter Maya is twenty now, finishing her army service soon. Her Israel seems to have lost direction, is confused, and is lacking leadership. I keep returning to the closing words of my letter to Rabin. “We miss you, Yitzhak. More than ever.”
Uri Dromi was the spokesman of the Rabin and Peres governments, 1992-1996.
