by Elie Wiesel
How far away it all seems now. Old friends falter, others turn hostile. Like the Jewish people throughout the centuries, the Jewish state today stands alone and must continually justify its existence. Not a day goes by without its “case” being examined and tried. By the right and the left. And by professional neutrals and pacifists of every stripe. Israel is criticized for its stubbornness; its enemies are not. It is reproached for its victories, and what preceded and provoked them is forgotten. Under the pretext of anti-Zionism, young German anarchists engage in active anti-Semitism. Chinese, Russians and Algerians train and equip Arab terrorists to kill and be killed. Then come the “revolutionaries” among Western intellectuals, who create an aura of romance around air-piracy and air-killings, thereby succeeding in conducting “guerrilla” warfare by remote control. A saddening and grotesque phenomenon surpassed only by the one we witness in Poland: an anti-Semitism without Jews.
All this explains why, though I am not a citizen of Israel, I totally identify with its destiny. In its solitude, Israel represents for me not an answer but a question, and even more than that: a reappraisal. It does not help me to understand the holocaust. On the contrary: in view of Israel, I understand Auschwitz less than before.
Question mark for a world it baffles, Israel is a question also in relation to its own history. I make it mine, just as I make mine Israel’s determination to transform the hate imposed upon it into a craving for solidarity with the world. A world still dominated by hate. This is a miracle in itself, the only one perhaps.
But Israel, for me, also represents a victory over absurdity and inhumanity. And if I claim it for myself, it is because I belong to a generation which has known so few.
POSTWAR: 1967
We should have expected it. The world begrudges Israel its victory. Its lightning campaigns against four armies and some twenty nations were won too quickly and too spectacularly. To have won at all was bad enough. The world is puzzled. A victorious Israel does not conform to the image and destiny certain people want to assign to it. They would rather see it defeated, on its knees, a victim of error or injustice, whatever; and be ready to rescue it later, mourn it, cover it with wreaths and eulogies exuding charity and perhaps even love. A Jew triumphant over death? An intolerable thought, even for its so-called protectors. They love the Jew only on the cross; if he is not there yet, well, they can oblige. And venerate him afterwards.
Judging by the trend of opinion emerging clearly in certain quarters, it would appear that the world cannot forgive the Jew for having disappointed it: the promised holocaust will not take place. The lamb dares refuse the sacrifice. A distinct lack of manners on his part. And those tears ready to flow on his grave, that pity ready to be bestowed on the unfortunate survivors, they are useless now, and by his own fault. Worse: in a paroxysm of ingratitude, not content merely to have escaped the massacre, the Jew finds ways to humiliate those who prepared it. After all, he could have handled things differently. He could have defeated his enemies without humiliating them. And spared their sensibilities.
And so, the very same people who, before the unleashing of actual military operations, proclaimed Israel’s indisputable right to sovereign existence, to survival, to human and national dignity, now turn peevishly against it. They feel frustrated because Israel should have known “how far one may go too far.” Most vociferous are those who yesterday were still ready to disregard, temporarily, of course, their avowed policies, political or other loyalties, and take up its defense. Certain so-called liberal Jews, traditional defenders of oppressed peoples, threatened minorities and liberation movements, do not conceal their remorse at having let themselves raise their voices in behalf of their besieged people during the days of anguish and uncertainty. Yesterday’s impulse makes them ashamed today.
Let’s leave aside the fanatics: they made their choice a long time ago. They follow orders and repeat what they are told. That’s nothing new. Why let that bother us? If they choose to set themselves up as eternal judges of history and humanity, that’s their concern. They are what they are, and their choices should no longer surprise us. Nor that they insist on treating Israel as aggressor while ignoring the provocations and justifying the acts of war that led to war. For their dialecticians, ideology has always been more important than truth, machines more indispensable than man. To merit their approval, Israel had only to please its enemies by arming itself, if one may say so, with patience, nothing but patience, accepting thereby its role as instrument if not martyr. Israel thought of itself and its own vital interests first, rather than of strings being pulled elsewhere; it is now paying the price. That is the natural order of things. Nobody can thwart the Kremlin’s plans and still expect to please the Communists, even the most naïve among them.
The behavior of certain Christians and left-wingers, whose intellectual honesty is above suspicion, is even more painful. Motivated by misplaced humanism, they advance their own thesis: there can be no equating the inflammatory exhortations of a Nasser or a Shukeiry with Israel’s armed attack. They freely admit that the Arabs started the war—by blocking the Gulf of Aqaba—but as they see it, the Israeli victory was proof that Nasser had no intention of pursuing it to the end. They will tell you: You know the Arabs, they’re like children, they talk a lot, they get excited, one must forgive them, and above all, not take them seriously.
These men who protest their good faith seem to forget that there are words that kill, or at least recall the era of death. Yes, there are words one must no longer use; they are burdened with too many memories. When a Jewish community is threatened with “total war,” with blood baths, with extermination by fire, we cannot treat it lightly.
That verbal threats can be dangerous and must be taken seriously, I myself have known for years; I know it even better now that I have seen the planes and tanks in the Sinai, the cannons and rockets, and the soldiers getting ready to use them according to plans—which I have also seen—drawn up by their general staffs. The immediate objective? To drive the Jews back into the sea. Their leaders have said it and written it, and you will never convince me they did not mean it. You see, I belong to a generation sensitized to the extreme, trained to attach more significance to threats than to promises. It is a fact that in times of danger, our friends and protectors, when in power, suddenly discover in themselves a hypocritical tendency to be cautious and wise. An attitude which emphasizes our solitude. What was true in the past is still true today. During the Six-Day War we witnessed a repetition in history. Only the setting had changed, the mechanism had remained the same. The shadow of Auschwitz finally enveloped Jerusalem. The threatened Jewish state could not count on a single government to help loosen the vise. The policies of de Gaulle in 1967 were worthy of Roosevelt’s in 1942: for practical reasons and for the sake of convenience, Jewish destiny was not a decisive factor for either leader.
Why deny it? For us the General’s turn-about was deeply shocking and painful. More than anything, it was an emotional disappointment. Israel will manage without French arms shipments: or order arms elsewhere. Suppliers of military equipment abound on both sides of the Atlantic. It is on the human level that France’s official defection hurts most. Many of us had continued to see in the hero of June 18, 1940, not just “a friend and ally” on whose word one could depend, but also a conscience. So much for that: we should not have been so naïve.
Again on the human level, stands taken by other public figures have saddened us. I refer to an illustrious writer who, assuming the role of arbiter, sees Israel’s victory as a breach in the sacred nature of its mission. The uneasiness Israel provokes in him is theological. By winning its battles, he seems to think, Israel must be negating its covenant with God.
Does he really believe that the Jews “have chased God out of their land,” which is also His land? Does he seriously think that the Holy Land has lost its holiness since the Jews have taken root again? Does he truly feel that a temporal Israel and a spiritual Israel are incompatible?
I saw Israel at war; I can therefore testify in its behalf. In the Old City of Jerusalem, barely reconquered, I saw hardened paratroopers pray and weep for the first time in their lives; I saw them, in the thick of battle, gripped by an ancient collective fervor, kiss the stones of the Wall and commune in a silence as elusive as it was pure; I saw them, as in a dream, jump two thousand years into the past, renewing their bond with legend, memory and the mysterious tradition of Israel. Do not tell me they were moved by a will for power or material superiority. Their will sprang from spirituality and the harrowing immediacy of their past. Their experience was of a mystical nature. Even the non-believers felt transcended by their own acts and by the tales they told about them afterwards. The words on their lips sounded strangely fiery and distant.
It is as if they had all started to believe in miracles, or just—believe. Their moving humility in the face of a victory still unreal in their eyes and mine makes me as proud of them as of their victory.
A curious victory in other ways too. No celebration to mark it, no ceremony. The transition went almost unnoticed. No military parades, no public rejoicing. The conquerors of Sinai and the liberators of Jerusalem, the very same who had held the world in suspense, I saw them return to their homes and resume their work as if nothing had happened. Their alleged desire to dominate seemed aimed only at their own pride; which they did dominate, though they had every right to it. Humanity has never known victors less arrogant, heroes more sober and eager for peace and purity.
That their victory should give rise to envy I can understand. But it is wrong to reproach them for it. They needed it to survive. So did we.
MOTTA GUR
Colonel Mordecai Gur—known to his friends as Motta—turns his shrewd, questioning gaze on me.
“No, I’m not religious … Of course not. Why should I be? And why do you ask?”
“No special reason.”
His face is tense and deeply lined, but his eyes sparkle with mischief. My answer does not satisfy him. He repeats: “But why do you want to know?”
“I heard you on Kol Israel.”
… The fighting barely over, several unit commanders had gone on the air to comment on its various phases and implications. The radio broadcast of Motta Gur, liberator of the Old City of Jerusalem, was so successful, it had to be repeated several times.
“Your tale,” I tell him, “had a certain dimension—forgive me if I insist—a religious dimension.”
He stares at me in mock exasperation. What was I trying to prove? Now it’s his turn to question me: “Did I speak of God?”
“No.”
“Of the Bible?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Did I discuss problems other than those relating directly to the fighting? Did I preach faith? Did I quote the Torah?”
“No.”
“So you see! Your question is absurd. Ask anyone you want, but not me. All I did was tell a story. Mine.”
True. But what a story! There is prophecy in it, and the more I listen to it, the more I like what I hear. Feverish preparations, mounting tension, orders and counterorders, terse telephone conversations, errands, details, muffled voices and hurried steps in the night: the final stage before the first attack. Gripped by a boundless fervor, disobeying orders, heedless of danger, every paratrooper in the battalion wanted to fight in the front line, at the very eye of the storm. The colonel led the way. His driver, a giant named Ben-Tzur, kept jamming the accelerator to the floor, yet Motta Gur was shouting: “Faster, Ben-Tzur, faster!”
Once they were forced to stop because of an overturned Jordanian motorcycle, probably mined. “Ben-Tzur, what are you waiting for? Keep moving!” There was no mine. At the entrance to the Old City, a half-open gate, perhaps a trap. “Go on, Ben-Tzur, move!” It was not a trap. Jumping out of the jeep—useless in the narrow alleyways—the colonel started running with the others, ahead of the others. A wild, insane race. Shells ripping through the waning night. Men blown to bits. The wounded among them moaning and crawling ahead on their knees. The paratroopers were running from street to street, from turret to turret, propelled by an irresistible, unrelenting force, every one of them obscurely aware of having lived for this moment, for this race. And suddenly, over the deafening clangor, Motta Gur was shouting his report to Headquarters: “The Har Habayit is ours! Do you hear me? The Temple Mount is in our hands …” And everywhere, on every front, in every home, officers and soldiers, children and old people wept and embraced. And in those tears, those explosions of feeling, there was an element of the unreal which made the event unique, and changed all those who lived through it.
“You make it sound too poetic,” says Motta Gur. “I don’t buy that.”
“In other words, for you, this was just another episode, another battle among many?”
“I wouldn’t go that far … After all, it was Jerusalem, wasn’t it? But … why are you laughing?”
“And in what way was Jerusalem different from any other military objective?”
“Jerusalem was not just a military objective. It was something else. Jerusalem is … Jerusalem.”
“And what makes Jerusalem … Jerusalem?”
“Its history, of course. It’s Jewish, isn’t it? It touches me. It concerns me.”
“Jericho too has a history linked to ours. And so does Hebron. And Gaza. And Bethlehem.”
“Your comparisons are boring. Jerusalem defies comparison.”
He has fallen into the trap. Here he is, expressing himself in mystical terms. He realizes it and falls silent. As for me, I visualize again the unforgettable: his paratroopers in front of the Wall.
“Your men were sobbing like children. And you? Did you cry?”
“No.”
“You didn’t?”
“I arrived at the Wall somewhat after my advance unit. I was busy elsewhere. The battle had to go on.” And after a silence: “And then … I don’t like ceremonies.”
“None?”
“I like simplicity, spontaneity.”
Should I now express my view that he would have liked the encounter with the Wall for precisely that reason; for its disorder and total lack of stagecraft? No need for words. He knows. Because, once more, he is on the defensive:
“Let’s change the subject, shall we?”
“No.”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“All right,” I say. “We won’t talk about the Wall. Let’s talk about something else. The Temple Mount, for example. You were the first to get there, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” he says, stiffening again.
I look him straight in the eye and ask: “Were you moved?”
“I’ll let you guess.”
“Moved … to tears?”
“I didn’t cry.”
“You didn’t?”
“Stop bothering me, will you? I don’t believe in tears. Period.”
“Just the same, try to remember: standing there, on the reconquered Mount, what did you feel? Pride? A sense of victory? Nostalgia, perhaps?”
“Let’s say: a feeling no words can express.”
“Try.”
“One must not speak of things one feels deeply.”
“Then, what should one speak of?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t agree. Whosoever survives a test, whatever it may be, must tell the story, that is his duty.”
Motta Gur reflects and acquiesces reluctantly: “Perhaps. You may be right.” His eyes half-closed, he seems to be rummaging in his memory. “You may be right, but I could not satisfy your curiosity. I could not define the feeling that swept through me at that particular moment. I only remember how deep it was. Never, in all my life, have I felt anything so powerful, so exhilarating.”
Then he lowers his voice to tell me his dream.
A dream which, after 1948, was to haunt more than one Jewish fighter: to recapture what was once the capital of the Kingdom of Israel and reunite it with Israel’s destiny.
“For twenty years, always and everywhere, I was preparing myself for that certain day, that certain battle. You see, when the Old City capitulated, I was posted in the Negev. And I promised myself one thing: the next time, at the first opportunity, I would be the one to lead the assault. One day I even said it—jokingly—to Chief Army Chaplain Shlomo Goren: ‘You stick with me and I guarantee you will see the Wall again before anyone else.’ When we met in the Temple court, in front of the Wall, he reminded me of my promise.”
“But you, had you forgotten it?”
“Forgotten it? You’ll laugh, but I never doubted I would keep my pledge. Listen: just a few days before Monday, June 5th, I suddenly decided it might be useful to take my staff on an inspection tour of Jerusalem’s outposts. When, in fact, we had no business there. According to the plans, my objective was a point behind the Egyptian lines, to the south and rather far.”
“How, then, do you explain this improvised inspection?”
“I can’t. Not even to myself. I felt like going to Jerusalem, so I went. To see. To familiarize myself with the terrain. You never know what can happen; it’s best to be prepared.”
And then all hell broke loose in the desert. Israel had been fighting for several hours, yet Motta Gur and his paratroopers, though in a state of alert, still did not know that they would be assigned the privileged task the government itself hesitated to envision seriously. It all depended on young King Hussein: would he adopt a “wait and see” policy or would he open a second front? By committing the most fatal error of his reign, the Jordanian sovereign invited Motta Gur and his troops to enter history.
