Remembering man of peace

DAVE GORDON

I remember him on the White House lawn, on Sept. 13, 1993. Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin bumbled through his speech with heavily accented English, as though he had marbles in his mouth. Still, we were awed. There were few statesmen alive who had fought for Jews and Israel as much. For that, and much more, he commanded respect.

Like many, I felt this experienced politician and war hero – though wanting for charisma and eloquence – could, through his negotiations and painful compromises, finally bring an end to a conflict that has devastated us for too long.

There were high hopes of peace in the Middle East, as though the wolf and the lamb were finally lying next to each other. Many thought that through it all – all of the sacrifices – the price was perhaps worth it. Through 2,000 years of exile, the Roman conquest, the Greek conquest, Assyrians, British Palestine, the White Paper, the Hebron massacre, five wars in five decades, Entebbe, Munich, thousands of terrorist acts ... but, at long last, Jews and one of their most antagonistic neighbors would learn war no more.

Others were uncertain, skeptical and suspicious as to whether a former terrorist extending his arm to Israel's premier statesman could change his stripes. Many felt that giving land away to a leader who was responsible for so many Jewish murders would not stop the bloodshed, but embolden and reward terrorism.

An Israeli friend of mine who moved to Canada with his family when he was a teenager reckoned that they could finally move back now, in this time of peace, without having to risk bloodshed on a bus, in a café or on the front lines as a soldier. He encouraged me to make aliyah, too, now that Jews could feel safe next to Egypt, Jordan and the Palestinian territories as newfound peacemates.

"Peace in our time" had few real assurances. Nonetheless, dialogue and veneration for communication has always been a rich part of our Jewish heritage and nothing would stop us from coming together again, continuing to seek new ways to understand one another and coming back to the negotiating table with those with whom we wished to make peace.

Rabin's assassination on Nov. 4, 1995, happened about a week before he was to speak at the Jewish Federation's annual General Assembly, as was customary for Israeli prime ministers. By coincidence, five years later, almost to the day, Rabin's wife, Leah, passed away, as Jews worldwide convened in Chicago for the General Assembly there. Now, as Toronto prepares for the 2005 GA, we are marking the 10th anniversary of Rabin's death, in these unstable times of conflict in Israel, with peace still elusive.

Two weeks before he was killed, Rabin, at another General Assembly – this time at the United Nations – delivered a speech warning world leaders about the dangers of terrorism, yet asserted hope for the future.

"The road is still long," he said. "However, we are determined to continue until we have brought peace to the region, for our children and our children's children and for all the peoples of the region. This is our mission. We will fulfil it."

Martin Lockshin, professor of Jewish studies and chair of humanities at York University in Toronto, said Rabin's most admirable trait was that he was a man who took a new course – one of peace – when the opportunity and facts merited it.

"I do believe in the ability of human beings to improve, and he proved that," said Lockshin. "You say what you would do based on that situation, based on that time, and as that situation changes. And if you're a leader, you have to be a responsible leader and try something else. That takes immense strength of character. He decided it was for the best interest of the country and he did it."

Lockshin also recalled the earlier days, when any contact Rabin made with the PLO could have had possible legal consequences.

"In private, I rolled my eyes," said Lockshin. "And then, Rabin realized that's what he had to do himself, and he did it. All of us know how difficult it is to publicly advocate the opposite position of our earlier beliefs. The current course of action was not working. I think that anybody who has come to power in Israel knows that you can't just solve everything with power. Israel definitely does have the military power, but power is not the only way of proceeding. Our side is better because we have a number of people on our side who know that it isn't the case. But how many people are there on the Arab side who realize that it isn't the case?"

In the final words of his final public speech, a call for peace was on Rabin's lips. Speaking to some 100,000 supporters at a Tel-Aviv pro-peace rally, he voiced the pursuit that, more than anything else, defined and distinguished him as Israel's leader.

"This rally must send a message to the Israeli people, to the Jewish people around the world, to the many people in the Arab world and indeed to the entire world that the Israeli people want peace, support peace," he said. "I was a military man for 27 years. I fought so long as there was no chance for peace. I believe that there is now a chance for peace."

An hour later, at that same peace rally, the man who led his country through war and peace was shot in the back. Sworn in as Rabin's replacement, Shimon Peres delivered an emotional speech in which he referred to a scrap of paper that was found in Rabin's shirt after the prime minister was shot. Written on the paper were lyrics from a song of peace that Rabin and his fellow cabinet ministers had sung at the rally.

"A bullet can tear through a piece of paper. It also can tear a body," said Peres. "But a bullet cannot destroy the ideal of peace."

Dave Gordon is a freelance writer whose work can also be found in the Forward, New York's Jewish Week, and the Toronto Sun.

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