Ally

by Michael B. Oren

  But more than the Palestinian economy, Jerusalem road signs, and taxes on whiskey, the major issue on the Hill remained the settlement freeze. It dominated my first encounter with the Jewish members of Congress. There were thirty of them, all but one of them—Eric Cantor, absent that day—Democrats. They had impressive voting records on Israel and, after a summer of coolness toward the Jewish State, I was looking forward to a warmhearted embrace. Instead, I stumbled into a blizzard.

  “President Obama has asked Israel to freeze settlements,” Florida’s burly representative Robert Wexler began, “and Netanyahu ignores him.” I reminded the members that a construction halt had never before been a condition for talks. Netanyahu had nevertheless pledged to refrain from building new settlements, I explained, and to confine construction to existing ones, thereby preserving the “peace map.” Yet my remarks generated little sympathy. Others accused Netanyahu of showing ingratitude toward the United States and of fanning anti-Obama sentiment in Israel. Clearly, the congressmen were upset about a recent Jerusalem Post poll that showed that, after his Cairo speech, the president’s popularity among Israelis had plunged to an unprecedented 4 percent. Israelis were less disappointed with Obama than they were frightened by his revolutionary outreach to the Muslim world. That anxiety was communicated to some American Jews who subsequently complained to Jewish legislators. They, in turn, dealt me what would remain my most troubling experience on the Hill.

  In time, my odysseys up and down Pennsylvania Avenue became an almost daily routine, and frequently concluded back at the embassy. There, resubmerged in the Aquarium, I analyzed the day’s discussions. One of the overriding challenges of Israel’s ambassador is to cull information from multitudinous sources—not just the State Department, the White House, and the Hill, but press commentators, public intellectuals, foreign diplomats—and identify coherent themes. Those conclusions are then conveyed to Jerusalem, along with recommendations on how Israel should best proceed. That process requires time and clear-sightedness and a gravitas born of the realization that the ambassador’s words might impact the lives of millions. Quiet is also essential to thinking cogently. But silence, I learned, was the rarest ambassadorial luxury. Invariably, while I sifted mentally through the chaff of data for vital kernels of truth, my phone started ringing. It rang—shrilly, I imagined—on July 13, with the news of Obama’s first meeting with the leaders of American Jewry.

  —

  Such meetings had become standard in formulating U.S. policy toward the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The assumption was that American Jewish leaders, though often divided on domestic and ritual issues, were united in their support for Israel and served as a natural bridge between the White House and Jerusalem. For Obama, though, the briefings were less a means of garnering support than of muting opposition. Indeed, what many American Jewish leaders saw as the placing of undue pressure on Israel, the president regarded as displays of restraint. “He felt he had pulled his punches with Netanyahu,” David Axelrod later wrote, “to avoid antagonizing elements of the American Jewish community.”

  Crowding into the Roosevelt Room, representatives of fourteen Jewish organizations heard Obama reaffirm his “unbreakable” and “unshakable” commitment to Israel and its security. He promised to be more evenhanded in asking all parties, not just Israelis, to make sacrifices for peace. Yet the meeting would be remembered as a turning point in the administration’s approach toward the Jewish State.

  The shift was apparent from the guest list. Included for the first time with the mainstream Jewish leaders were the heads of Americans for Peace Now and the newly founded J Street, both organizations stridently critical of Israel and its traditional American supporters. Their presence rattled the other participants, many of whom had been personally slighted by these parvenus.

  More jarring was Obama’s exchange with Malcolm Hoenlein, the perennial executive of the Conference of Presidents of Major American Jewish Organizations. Hoenlein insisted that Israelis took risks only when they were convinced that the United States stood with them. Obama, though, disagreed, recalling the eight years when Bush backed Israel unequivocally but never produced peace. The president’s response disappointed many of those present. Bush’s support for Israel had, in fact, emboldened Olmert to propose establishing a viable Palestinian state—an offer ignored by Mahmoud Abbas. Nevertheless, the president concluded, “When there is no daylight, Israel just sits on the sidelines and that erodes our credibility with the Arabs.”

  Commenting on the discussion, J Street founder Jeremy Ben Ami cited Obama’s ability to connect with the Muslim world and his immense standing in America and abroad. “He was very clear that this is a moment that has to be seized and he intends to seize it.” By contrast, the other American Jewish leaders emerged from the meeting concerned about Obama’s departure from the long-standing principle of “no daylight” in U.S.-Israel relations.

  Historically, that principle applied to the alliance as a whole, without differentiating between its diplomatic and defense aspects. Counterintuitive as it sounded, daylight was bad and darkness—that is, the absence of open disagreements on policy—optimal. Obama, though, clearly drew a distinction. The dimmer the light separating the United States and Israel on security issues, the administration held, the brighter it could be on peace.

  —

  From its outset in office, the administration adopted the mantra “security ties between the United States and Israel have never been closer.” This was true, and I had no difficulty reaffirming it. Every Israeli general and intelligence chief I spoke with attested to the intimacy of relations with their American counterparts under Obama. In areas as diverse as weapons development, joint training, intelligence sharing, and educational exchanges, the cooperation was superb. When Obama said, “Israel is the most powerful country in this region,” he could justifiably claim part of the credit.

  Obama’s commitment to Israel’s security was genuine and fulfilled a fundamental American interest, but it also helped realize his vision. By highlighting its contributions to Israel’s defense, the administration could justify pressuring Israeli leaders on peace. This dual approach eased the anxieties of the president’s pro-Israel supporters while presumably placing our enemies on notice that, diplomatic differences notwithstanding, the allies remained militarily bound. On Iran, too, the White House sought to distinguish between security closeness and political distance. American contributions to the IDF’s missile defense, for example, diminished Israel’s case for striking Iranian nuclear plants preemptively, and generated more time for talks. Israelis referred to this approach sardonically as a “hug”—in Hebrew, chibbuk—intended to keep us close.

  The problem with the “no daylight on security but daylight on diplomacy” tactic was that, in the Middle East, it did not work. Unlike in the West, where security is measured in tanks, jets, and guns, security in this part of the world is largely a product of impressions. A friend who stands by his friends on some issues but not on others is, in Middle Eastern eyes, not really a friend. In a region infamous for its unforgiving sun, any daylight is searing.

  By illuminating the gaps in their political positions, the administration cast shadows over Israel’s deterrence power. Foes such as Hamas and Syria were liable to perceive policy differences as indicating a lack of unity on defense. Iran could conclude that the chibbuk was a bear hug that tied Israel’s hands while the ayatollahs raced forward on their nuclear program and transferred advanced missiles to Hezbollah. In the Middle East, when the White House pressured Israel on peace, the enemies of peace could conclude that America might not stand beside Israel in war.

  Other actions of the Obama administration, especially arms sales to the Arabs, impacted Israel’s ability to defend itself, but few as substantively as its insistence on daylight on issues unrelated to security. For that reason, I felt compelled to deny that distance in all my media interviews, op-ed articles, and public speeches. As ambassador, the only responsible me
ssage had to be: “Yes, we may sometimes disagree on tactics, but our goals remain the same.” And, “Friends always tell one another the truth as they see it, even when it’s hard. That is the definition of ally.”

  After a career of striving to write the truth about history, bending it in the interests of security did not come easily to me. The seventeenth-century English author Henry Wotton observed, “An ambassador is a man of virtue sent abroad to lie for his country.” But Wotton underestimated the dilemma. An ambassador sometimes lies for two countries.

  This, more than any other aspect of my new role, took a toll on me emotionally and even physically. Two months after starting the job, I emerged from my first medical checkup to be told by the doctor that my body was deficient in vitamin D. “You need to get out more into the sun,” he recommended. I was grateful for his prescription, but nevertheless demurred. “No thanks,” I replied. “I’ve already seen enough daylight.”

  At Home and on the Water

  Evenings, I left the office for the seven minutes’ drive to the Residence, the home of every Israeli ambassador since 1962. If the embassy looked run-down, much of the Residence appeared dilapidated. Appropriate for the poor socialist country of fifty years ago, the building had become a mite-infested museum of aging art and ruptured plumbing. Any attempt to convince the Foreign Ministry to refurbish what was, in effect, Israel’s face in Washington, or to drag visiting ministers into the misery of its kitchen, proved useless. None of them wanted to wake up to headlines accusing them of funding diplomatic frills when working-class Israelis could barely buy groceries. The decision became clear: either devote my time to a dubious campaign for home renovation or concentrate on safeguarding an alliance. The Residence remained an eyesore.

  More propitiously, I prepared to present my credentials to the president. After receiving agrèment, ambassadors must personally convey a letter naming them as their country’s exclusive envoy. Only then can they formally do business in the White House. For convenience’s sake, numerous new ambassadors present their credentials on the same day, yet the ceremony remains festive and tradition-rich. Our three children flew in for the occasion, as did my mother and father, which ruffled some procedural feathers. The spouses and offspring of ambassadors were welcomed, the protocol officers said, but not the ambassadors’ parents. To which I replied, “But those other ambassadors are not from a Jewish state.” After the heartache I caused them by raising my family in far-off Israel, after all their worrying while I fought in wars, my parents deserved to be at the White House.

  We waited outside the Residence until the black sedan arrived, American and Israeli flags flickering from its hood, and bore us behind motorcycle escorts up Pennsylvania Avenue. This was the ultimate pinch-me moment. Sally, our children, all hugging one another and expectantly giggling, my parents silent and proud, and me glancing at the cloudless sky overhead and saying to myself in Hebrew, Todah rabah. Thank you. For just that moment—and I knew it would be the last for some time—there were no disagreements over the peace process and Iran, no friction over Turkey or quarrels in the UN. There was only the South Lawn, as dazzlingly green as the day Thomas Jefferson planted it. There were only the Marine sergeants who greeted the limousine and came to attention as I emerged.

  Entering the West Wing, the protocol officers led me into the Cabinet Room and waited, annoyed, while I took too long signing the guest book. My inscription recalled the support of previous presidents—Adams, Lincoln, Wilson, Theodore Roosevelt, Truman—for Jewish statehood, and pledged “my paramount efforts” to join Obama “in upholding the historic America-Israel alliance.” Rahm Emanuel came in to congratulate me and thump me on the chest with a hearty “Mazel tov, buddy.” We stayed schmoozing while my family was ushered into the Roosevelt Room and from there into the Oval Office, where I caught up with them chatting with Obama.

  The protocol people asked me to prepare an “elevator speech,” a four-minute statement such as I might make on the unlikely chance that the president and I were ever stuck in an elevator. I planned to talk about our common goals of making peace and preventing Iran from nuclearizing. But Obama was deep in conversation with my parents. This lasted the entire four minutes, leaving me just enough time to shake the president’s hand, pass him my credentials, and pose with him for a celebratory photo.

  That evening at the Residence, Sally and I received hundreds of guests—childhood friends, college buddies, community and congressional leaders. Their expressions of support both moved and invigorated me, but none more tenderly than those from our three children. Each was a page-turner of a book about overcoming social and educational handicaps, about unquestioning national service, roller-coaster romances, internal searches, athletic excellence, intellectual curiosity, and laughter. Especially laughter. To spend an evening with Lia, Noam, and Yoav was to risk bodily injury from kid-induced paroxysms of glee. That night was no exception, as they presented me with a fake American passport listing my sex as “uncertain” and an “ambassadorial first aid kit” containing Rescue Remedy, Vaseline, and vodka.

  Later, looking over the reception’s detritus, I asked Noam, our youngest, how he thought it went. Muscle-bound yet gentle, beautiful but shy, Noam had a preternatural ability to pick up on cues. “Fine, Abba,” he answered, “but there was something in your expression, in your jaw, that seemed to say, ‘Can I really do this?’ ”

  Noam was right. And it concerned me that my fears might be showing. An Israeli ambassador, especially one serving in such supercharged circumstances, cannot afford even a semblance of self-doubt. Yet the possibility that the job was unwinnable, as some of my predecessors deemed, harried me. And if insurmountable to them, serving in far calmer times, could I prevail?

  Fortunately, summer came and Washington emptied out, much of it to shorelines farther north. The media was fixated on the tragic death of singer Michael Jackson and the arrest of Henry Louis Gates, Jr., an African-American Harvard professor, outside his own Cambridge, Massachusetts, door. Obama denounced this as a “stupid act,” but then convened a “beer summit” between Gates and the arresting police officer at the White House.

  This momentary focus on domestic, rather than Middle East, affairs, left me time for that rarest of causes—myself. Though chronically unphotogenic, I managed to take an official ambassadorial portrait thanks to the patience and persistence of my photographer friend, Anne Mandelbaum. The photo eschewed the cheery American fashion of big smile and many teeth in favor of Israel’s tight-lipped, don’t-mess-with-me mode.

  I also acquired an ambassadorial wardrobe. “You can’t dress like that,” Ellen Stern—the same Ellen who originally urged me to apply for the ambassadorship—scolded, pointing to my rumpled professorial garb. She sent me all the way to Brooklyn, to the four-story workshop of Martin Greenfield, the dapper and undiminished Holocaust survivor who served as tailor to Bill Clinton and Colin Powell. The journey was arduous and the refittings many, but I understood the need. Israelis can be indifferent to clothing. Collar stays—for which there is no Hebrew translation—are unknown to them, and some will even wear combat boots to Congress. But Americans take their apparel seriously, and a Greenfield suit, its lapel adorned with crossed U.S. and Israeli flags, would help them to take Israel more seriously.

  Those clothes fit better when, after months with no opportunity to exercise, I joined the Potomac Boat Club. I had not rowed competitively since representing the United States in the 1977 Maccabiah Games in Israel. Long unpracticed, my sculling was at first wobbly, but eventually I regained my balance and my stroke. My security detail fretted on the banks as I found peace. While sliding across the reflection of the Washington Monument or, upstream, plying through a pristine nature reserve, I could contemplate vexing issues. My relationship with God, always personal if amorphous, also crystallized on the water, an ideal place for prayer. Each time, I returned to the Residence physically and spiritually replenished. Only then was I ready do what any newly accredited ambassador
should, namely, his homework.

  Obama 101

  Ambassadors are principally communicators, the conveyors of official messages to the media and privileged information to senior officials. A typical ambassadorial day includes interviews on television and radio, YouTube greetings, and as many as three speeches. But while their primary function may be talking, a legate’s most crucial task is, in fact, to listen. And whenever I could that summer—and throughout the years ahead—I sought out individuals worth hearing.

  The quest took me to Vernon Jordan, the African-American lawyer, civil rights activist, and advisor to Democratic presidents whose outsize reputation more than matched his monumental physique. In his office paneled with honorary doctorates, Vernon told me that Obama was not Israel’s chief problem. Rather it was America’s economic crisis, which showed scant sign of abating, and its retreat from global leadership. “The old mare ain’t what she used to be,” Vernon lamented.

  A similar sentiment was voiced by James Carville, former campaign advisor to the Clintons and the architect of Ehud Barak’s victory over Netanyahu in 1999. In a Louisiana twang I had heard only in movies about the antebellum South, the garrulous and glabrous Carville explained that Israel’s biggest problem was not Obama’s inexperience but America’s inability to pay its bills. “You all in Israel got to wake up,” he warned me. “That till is empty.”

  Every lunch, every coffee break, produced some illuminating viewpoints. They came from the contrarian Wall Street Journal columnist and future Pulitzer Prize laureate Bret Stephens, whom I first met when he was the twenty-eight-year-old editor in chief of The Jerusalem Post. Others were supplied by the endlessly engaging Donna Brazile of the Democratic National Committee and CNN, and by Elliott Abrams, the Scoop Jackson Democrat turned Republican presidential advisor, an outspoken Israel supporter, and the brains behind the Bush-Sharon letter. Though each struck distinctive chords in describing the state of U.S.-Israel relations, they sounded a common refrain: transformation. The tectonic shifts I described at the Foreign Ministry were proving to be deeper and more seismic than I had originally gauged. They threatened to become the “tectonic rifts” disleaked to the press.