No Room for Small Dreams

by Shimon Peres

  The next day, my trip brought me to Norway, where I was put up in a Norwegian government guesthouse. I went through the motions of my official schedule, including a dinner in my honor. As the meal wound down, I excused myself, noting that I was still quite jet-lagged from the journey, but as soon as I got back to the guesthouse I slipped away from my entourage to witness the secret signing ceremony of the Declaration of Principles. All the relevant players had relocated to Norway, given Holst’s central role in forging the agreement; here, so far from the Middle Eastern sun and sand, and so far from expectations, enemies would clasp hands. It was a beautiful—and emotional—moment.

  I was not to sign myself; the Israeli government had yet to approve the documents. Instead, negotiators from both sides were to initial the declaration, and in doing so, set us on a course toward a formal agreement. And so it went: the extraordinary and improbable work of both teams was now represented in a declaration that had the power to change the course of our history. To see all of these men together, tears in their eyes and smiles on their faces, was a reminder that, for all of our differences and despite a harrowing past, we believed a better, safer, more peaceful future was not only possible, but essential. I struggled to restrain my own emotions as I watched the moment unfold, fighting back joyful tears for the sake of appearing diplomatic.

  When the signing was over, each member of the negotiating teams spoke. Abu Ala’a said something I’ll never forget: “The future that we look for will not materialize unless we together overcome the fears of the past and learn from the past lessons for our future.” When the remarks portion was finished, Abu Ala’a came over to me to introduce himself. It was the first time I’d had a conversation with a member of the PLO directly. “I have keenly followed your declarations, statements, and writings,” he said, “which confirmed to us your desire to achieve a just, permanent, and comprehensive peace.” We retired to a separate room, just the two of us, and spent thirty minutes speaking alone in English, our common language. I impressed upon him our commitment to the agreement, and I told him he would have my help, and the help of the international community, in providing economic assistance to the blossoming Palestinian project.

  And yet I knew that this effort was still far from official. There was critical work that still had to be done. First, I would need to go to the United States to personally inform Secretary of State Warren Christopher of our breakthrough, to make sure we would have the support of the Americans. There were some among us who feared that they would be angry at not having been included in the negotiation—though they knew it was under way—or that the work of our track had undercut their own efforts. Without America’s support, I doubted we could hold the process together, or undertake the future negotiations the Declaration of Principles demanded.

  I left Israel for the United States on August 28. Christopher was vacationing in California, so we arranged to meet him at the Point Mugu Naval Air Station, just off the Pacific Coast. Dennis Ross, the head of the United States’ peace team, flew to join us there, as well. I greeted them both with excitement in my heart, and tried to convey my hopefulness in words. When I told them we had signed off on a Declaration of Principles, they were stunned, both eager to see the document. I stood there patiently as they read it, and watched their disbelief disappear before my eyes.

  “Dennis, what do you think?” asked Christopher, before giving me his own comments.

  “I think this is a great historic achievement,” Ross responded with enthusiasm.

  “Absolutely!” replied Christopher, a grand smile on his face.

  I wanted the United States to adopt the Declaration of Principles as its own initiative, and requested that we hold the signing ceremony at the White House. I also had another document to share.

  “There’s more,” I told them. “We’ve been working in parallel on the issue of mutual recognition, and I believe we will soon have a deal.”

  From the beginning of negotiations, I believed that mutual recognition was essential, that we needed to reach a point where each side could affirm the legitimacy of the other. I was well aware of the challenges that required us to overcome. The PLO would need not only to transform itself, but to reverse itself, to walk away from its founding principles and disavow the terrorism that had been its primary weapon. We, too, would have to accord the PLO and the Palestinians a respect we had not previously extended. The demands of mutual recognition struck at the very ideology that had been at the center of our conflict, and were different, in kind, than those of the Declaration of Principles. Whereas the declaration set goals and defined timetables for future negotiation, the demands of mutual recognition were—with the exception of wording—fundamentally nonnegotiable.

  By the time I showed our list of points to Christopher and Ross, we were close to an agreement on mutual recognition. Again, the Americans were stunned by how far we had come.

  “You’ve done a tremendous job,” Christopher said. “My initial response to these developments is very, very positive.” He and Ross agreed that we should move forward with a week of intensive negotiations. And they suggested that if Israel reached a point where it could recognize the PLO, the United States would likely do the same.

  For several days in September, we held firm on our list of demands. In exchange for Israel recognizing the PLO as a legitimate representative of the Palestinian people, Arafat would need to recognize Israel’s right to exist, unconditionally; deliver a full-throated renunciation of terrorism; call for an immediate halt to the intifada; and provide a firm commitment to resolve future conflicts through peaceful negotiation rather than violence.

  By the afternoon of September 7, 1993, Arafat was ready to accept our demands. Two letters were drafted, one for Arafat, recognizing Israel’s right to exist, the other for Rabin, recognizing the PLO as the legitimate representative of the Palestinian people. Rabin and I received them by fax in Jerusalem, as Arafat received them in Tunis. Rabin received approval from the cabinet to sign the letter, while Arafat received the same approval from the PLO Executive Committee. In the early-morning hours of September 10, the Norwegian foreign minister brought the letters to the prime minister’s office, which had been filled with journalists and cameras. Holst took his seat on one side of Rabin and I sat on the other as we, and the world, watched him affix his signature to the simply stated letter. The PLO had recognized our right to exist, and in return, Israel had done the same.

  Three days later, on September 13, 1993, mutual recognition was celebrated in a poignant expression on the South Lawn of the White House, in a handshake that was watched—and remembered—the world over. Yitzhak Rabin and Yasser Arafat had never imagined they would find themselves in such a situation, but there they stood, under the bright summer sun, as President Clinton pulled them closer together. Rabin shook the hand of his sworn enemy with some reluctance. He saw the promise of peace, and the size of the momentous achievement, but he still recoiled at what was required. During the accompanying applause, he turned to me and whispered, “Now it’s your turn.”

  Moments later, in front of a crowded South Lawn, and with cameras of every international news organization imaginable, I took a seat at a wooden table, picked up a pen, and signed my name to the Declaration of Principles—on behalf of the country I always believed in, and with the hope for a brighter future.

  •••

  After several days of working sessions in Washington, D.C., I flew back to Israel with the negotiating team, arriving at the airport just after 4:00 A.M.

  “Be in my office at seven,” I told the group. “The work is only beginning.”

  They arrived for the meeting exhausted, only to find me eager to keep them going.

  “It’s time to storm Jordan!” I exclaimed. They laughed heartily, at first, assuming—or at least hoping—that I was telling a joke. But it took only a moment for them to realize I was serious, and to make the case that, this time, my dreams needed reining in. They argued that the opportunity
for peace with the kingdom was terribly unlikely, that we had seen little movement or willingness to reengage the conversation. And given that the basis for both the failed London Agreement and the disappointing Washington talks had centered on a joint solution with Jordan and the Palestinians, the team felt that Jordan would be particularly frustrated to have been left out of the peace process.

  I knew the arguments well, but I disagreed. Perhaps King Hussein would indeed be irked about the bilateral nature of our agreement with the Palestinians. But that agitation, I believed, was more likely to lead to engagement than isolation. For many years, the king had maintained relationships in Jerusalem that were important to his ultimate goals. But if our efforts succeeded—if we were to reach comprehensive peace with the Palestinians—Hussein would fear losing his influence, being replaced, in essence, by Arafat. The strategic considerations, in such a case, would likely outweigh his personal frustrations.

  “Trust me,” I told my team. “The king won’t want to be left behind.”

  I also felt that if the king were willing to engage in direct talks, we were likely to come to a favorable agreement rather quickly. When Hussein and I worked out the details of the London Agreement, it was clear that I was sitting across the table from a man who saw the power and necessity of peace. His willingness to accept my terms, despite his doubts, was surely a reflection of this view.

  My team went to work immediately, developing the framework for discussions in Jordan’s capital, Amman—everything from the planning and logistics of an initial meeting to the contours of a peace agreement we would find acceptable. In the meantime, I approached Rabin to seek his opinion—and ultimately, his approval. Like my negotiating team, Rabin was skeptical. He had spoken to King Hussein on October 19, 1993, and was immediately rebuffed when he raised the prospect of a peace treaty. Hussein suggested he consider a series of interim agreements, but comprehensive peace was out of the question. Even so, I told Rabin I believed I could make a deal, and asked for his blessing to try. Skeptical though he was, Rabin agreed.

  I spoke with the Americans as well, and was once again told that I was flying a bit too close to the sun. Even if I could make progress with Hussein, they thought Syria would be an obstacle. President Hafez al-Assad had made clear to his fellow Arab states that any discussion of peace needed to be done as a region, that separate deals between individual countries and Israel were simply unacceptable. Given the geopolitical situation, the Americans believed Assad could stop our progress in its tracks. And yet they too offered their help—including the possibility of serving as mediators—if it turned out my fantasy was closer to reality than they imagined.

  On the first day of November 1993, I donned a hat and fake mustache. Because we lacked relations with Jordan—and were technically still in a state of war—Avi Gil and I, along with Efraim Halevy, the deputy director of Mossad, would have to make our way to the royal palace in secret. I couldn’t help but laugh as I glued the mustache to my face. Nor could I help but feel the pull of the past. I thought back to the sunglasses we put on Moshe Dayan in place of his distinctive eye patch; of the wide-brimmed hat we affixed to Ben-Gurion’s head to hide his characteristically chaotic white hair. How many times in my life had we put on such silly disguises in pursuit of something that others were certain was impossible? These were some of the very best memories of my relative youth. And knowing at seventy that I was still in the fight, still battling for the future of Israel, gave the mustache a certain power. I looked like an actor in a low-budget stage show, but I felt like the tip of the spear.

  We drove across the Allenby Bridge and into Jordanian territory, eventually arriving at the Royal Court, situated atop a hill in the old sector of Amman. We were escorted to Raghadan Palace (one of many in the king’s court), which shared the same Islamic features of the architecture one could find in east Jerusalem. We were brought to Throne Hall, its vaulted ceilings decorated with intricate art from the Arab world, where we were greeted by the king. I made sure to remove my fake mustache before the conversation began.

  It had been seven long years since Hussein and I sat together with such an important mission before us. Yet from the moment the conversation began, it felt like it had never quite ended. We treated each other as old friends, and found once again a common view of the future. Though there were central political issues that had to be discussed and overcome, I decided the best approach was to bypass them by focusing the king’s attention on a new economic vision for the Middle East.

  I spoke at great length about my dream, not just of peace in the region, but of prosperity, too, and promised the same kind of economic assistance that I had pledged the Palestinians. “Israel does not want to be an island of wealth in a sea of poverty,” I told him. “And though we have no interest in meddling in your internal affairs, we are willing—and eager—to help.” Among my suggestions was that Israel launch an initiative to invite thousands of corporate leaders from around the world to Amman to discuss investing in Jordan, one of many critical steps that could remake the Middle East over time. I described a vision of partnership and friendship across borders, one that would offer untold benefits to both of our countries. I asked him to imagine foreign investment pouring into the Middle East, creating the economic prosperity that was a prerequisite for lasting stability. Hussein was enthusiastic about the prospect, enough so that he agreed to let me step away so that we could put a framework on paper. Avi, Efraim, and I retired to a nearby room.

  “Help me with this,” I asked Efraim, who proceeded to work with me on a four-page document that defined the parameters of a future peace agreement. I asked Avi to review the terms and offer his counsel and input. When the document was completed, I sent Efraim back to the Jordanians to present what I had dictated.

  To my delight, the Jordanians offered minor changes, but accepted the terms as I had laid them out. In addition to the establishment of the economic conference, the agreement, which we termed a “nonpaper,” included the establishment of two international committees: one to deal with the issue of refugees, another to develop solutions to the political and territorial issues that would need to be overcome to reach a true peace treaty.

  On November 2, King Hussein and I shook hands and affixed our signatures to the handwritten document, setting the stage for further and deeper discussions that would carve a path to a new and necessary future. Hussein’s only request was that we keep the agreement secret. We readily agreed.

  Avi, Efraim, and I left Amman filled with hopeful momentum, deeply encouraged both by the progress we’d made and the pace at which we’d achieved it. I felt as though I were living in a dream, one of my own creation, confident for the first time in years that the dashed London Agreement had not been our only chance for a lasting peace with our neighbor. I couldn’t stop smiling as Avi and I regaled one another with the achievements of the day. I was more excited than at any time I could remember since childhood, filled with relief and hope and pride. My elation enveloped me, more perhaps than is wise. In a rare moment in a long career of absolute secrecy, it caused me to make a careless mistake.

  I had arrived at a television studio to provide a routine interview as foreign minister. “Remember November the second!” I said with delight while waiting in the “green room,” thinking back to the extraordinary day. I thought it was sufficiently cryptic, nothing more than a throwaway line. I turned out to be wrong.

  Unbeknownst to me, I had been overheard by journalists, some of whom were somehow able to interpret my remarks. They concluded that an agreement must have been reached and that I must have been in Jordan. I didn’t know I had committed an error until the peace talks were leaked to the media as an unconfirmed rumor. King Hussein was understandably furious that his request had not been honored, and was concerned about the consequences for Jordan at home. It was enough for him to call off the peace process—enough to strand our historic breakthrough.

  With our agreement suddenly in peril, it seemed clear the
re was only one way to save it: Rabin would need to take the lead on the remaining negotiations, and I would have to retreat behind the scenes. I was disappointed: in myself for having slipped, and in the result. But my sights never wavered from the goal of peace.

  By May 1994, a calmed and again optimistic Hussein was back at the negotiating table, with Rabin sitting across from him. Because Hussein and I had already negotiated the core terms of an agreement, the peace process, once restarted, moved with impressive speed. On July 25, Rabin and Hussein joined Clinton in Washington for the signing of a nonbelligerence pact, declaring the end of hostilities between our two countries and calling for a negotiation that would lead to a peace treaty. For the rest of the summer and into the fall, teams from Jordan and Israel held a number of negotiating sessions to finalize the agreement. By the end of October, a genuine peace was at hand: on a blistering hot day in the Arava Valley, not far from Eilat, on the rim of the Red Sea, at the crossing between Jordan and Israel, five thousand guests joined us for the signing of a treaty that would officially end forty-six years of war. President Clinton was there to witness the moment, and to offer a few words of inspiration.

  “This vast, bleak desert hides great signs of life,” he said. “Today we see the proof of it, for peace between Jordan and Israel is no longer a mirage. It is real. It will take root in this soil.”

  When it was Hussein’s turn to speak, he described our achievement as “peace with dignity” and “peace with commitment.”

  “This is our gift to our peoples and the generations to come,” he exclaimed to the audience.