Ally

by Michael B. Oren

  Passover brought no freedom from U.S.-Israel tensions, though. Ronald Lauder, philanthropist and president of the World Jewish Congress, published a full-page letter in The Wall Street Journal questioning whether Obama’s friction with Israel represented an attempt to appease the Muslim world and squeeze the Jewish State into indefensible borders. New York’s cantankerous former mayor Ed Koch, an outspoken Obama supporter in the 2008 elections, now accused the president of “making Israel into a pariah” and of “throwing Israel under the bus in order to please Muslim nations.” Even Elie Wiesel, whom Obama described as his personal friend and moral advisor, publicly assailed the White House for pressuring Israel on Jerusalem, “the world’s Jewish spiritual capital.”

  Rumors meanwhile circulated of administration attempts to topple Netanyahu and of White House insinuations that the prime minister was secretly scheming with Republicans. Veteran White House correspondent Helen Thomas, the eighty-nine-year-old role model of women journalists and staple of the Washington press corps, called for the expulsion of Jewish Israelis. “Tell them to get the hell out of Palestine,” the sour-faced Thomas, born to Arab parents, hissed. “Go home [to] Poland, Germany, America, and everywhere else.”

  The atmosphere, it seemed, could not have grown more noxious. Until, suddenly in late April, the venom turned to nectar. Obama convened the first-ever meeting between a president and the Jewish members of Congress, telling his thirty-seven guests of “the unbreakable bond of friendship” with Israel, America’s “key strategic ally in the Middle East.” General Jones, after opening with a joke that many in his mostly Jewish audience found vaguely anti-Semitic, recovered by praising America’s alliance and “special relationship” with Israel and “the shared values, deep and interwoven connections, and mutual interests,” binding the two countries. Secretary of State Clinton similarly cited her “deep personal commitment to…promoting Israel’s future.” And for the first time, she invited me for a private meeting at the State Department, where she inquired about—and I confirmed—Netanyahu’s commitment to peace.

  The “love offensive,” as the press dubbed it, continued. After addressing the crowd at the embassy’s celebration of Israel’s Independence Day, David Axelrod assured me that, as the son of a lifelong Hadassah member, he would never work for anyone not devoted to Israel. And while interviewing with Charlie Rose, Rahm Emanuel described Obama and Netanyahu as “friends” who enjoyed a “very good, totally honest,” and “very constructive” relationship. I gasped so audibly on hearing these words that I barely noticed him describing the U.S.-Israel ties as “unbreakable and unshakable.”

  Several theories circulated explaining the love offensive’s objectives. The proximity talks with the Palestinians had started, some observers said, and the administration sought Israeli goodwill. Others cited polls that showed the growing unease with the Democrats among pro-Israeli voters. Factions within the White House, meanwhile, accused one another of picking the fight with Israel and of adopting a “never waste a good crisis” approach to the Biden visit spat. Clinton later wrote that Rahm Emanuel argued for a tough stance “right out of the gate” against Netanyahu, who would “otherwise walk all over us.” I cared less about the reasons for the turnaround or those responsible for it. I merely appreciated the respite.

  Taking advantage of that lull, I delivered the 2010 commencement speech at Brandeis University. Founded as America’s elite Jewish university and named for the chief justice whose blending of American patriotism with Zionism so influenced my own, Brandeis’s invitation indeed moved me. Though 150 students, among them several J Street activists, protested against my appearance, five thousand others signed a petition supporting it. Now I sat alongside fellow honorees Dennis Ross and Paul Simon on a sweltering dais, sweat streaming under my robe.

  “I wasn’t much of an athlete or even a student,” I told the audience, recalling my early childhood challenges. “I was a three-letterman, but the three letters were A-D-D.” But then I went on to talk about overcoming obstacles, not the least of which was getting through paratrooper training. Even then, I admitted, I still had to be shoved out of the plane. “Be courageous,” I concluded. “Be strong. And though you may just once in a while need the littlest push, jump.”

  Even while speaking these words, I wondered if I could take my own advice. The reprieve from U.S.-Israel tensions would end soon, I knew. The creation of a Palestinian state remained crucial for Obama, as did nuclear nonproliferation, and the outreach to Iran. Other hazards included partisanship in Washington, the fractured Jewish community, and an often-adversarial press. There were the vagaries of Israeli politics and the potential for upheaval in the Middle East.

  And then there was me. Just as rowing and marathon running had not prepared me for the unimaginable rigors of the IDF, all that I had done to ready myself for this job—the writing, the speaking, the interviewing on TV—had fallen far short of what succeeding at it required. Beyond the daunting physical demands lay the emotional and psychological strains of coping with virtually relentless tensions between the two countries I loved. How long, I asked myself, could I continue?

  The question vexed me even as Paul Simon, the sublime composer, singer, and sixties icon, received his honorary doctorate. Wizened now and looking frail, he replaced his mortarboard with a porkpie hat, took up his guitar, and sang “The Boxer.” Apart from “The Star-Spangled Banner,” what other song is so beloved by Americans of all ages? Simon’s voice, still as supple as a teenager’s, gripped the thousands of students and family members who spontaneously broke into song.

  I sang, too, all the while reminding myself why I had sought the ambassador’s job to begin with. I remembered the need to keep America and Israel—like the two halves of my identity—together in spite of their wrangles. The world needed them united, I recalled, and the two nations needed each other. I sang and remembered, and the words to Paul Simon’s song seemed to assure me. The scarred boxer, reeling with dishonor and rage, repeatedly vows to quit. “I am leaving, I am leaving,” he cries. “But the fighter still remains.”

  YEAR OF AFFLICTION

  The full moon cast a shimmering beam over the sea, just off the prow of the Mavi Marmara. The temperature on this night—May 30, 2010—was tepid and the water calm as the passenger liner plied southward at a steady 7.2 knots. At that speed, the ship would come within sight of its destination after daybreak, in another few hours. To pass the time, the hundreds of people on board chatted with one another, slept, or prayed. Until, that is, on the horizon, a host of beacons neared.

  The night exploded in a blaze of searchlights and rotors. Morena speedboats swarmed around the Mavi Marmara and Black Hawk helicopters hovered above. Passengers on deck, aroused, dropped heavy objects down at the far smaller Morenas. Shouting “Allahu Akhbar”—God is great—they slung iron balls at the choppers. The intercom buzzed on the bridge. “This is the Israeli Navy,” an IDF captain informed the liner’s skipper. “You are approaching an area that is under a naval blockade. The Israeli government supports delivery of humanitarian supplies to the civilian population in the Gaza Strip and invites you to enter the Ashdod port.” The responses, spoken in two different accents but with identical vehemence, were “Go back to Auschwitz,” and, “We’re helping the Arabs against the U.S. Don’t forget 9/11.”

  With no choice but to prepare to board the ship, the Morenas extended ladders up to the Mavi Marmara’s lowest deck. But powerful fire hoses repulsed them. The Israelis next fired stun grenades and paintballs to clear the rails, and helicopters lowered ropes. One of these lines was intercepted, but another allowed a fifteen-man team of Shayetet 13—Israeli Navy SEALS—to rappel onto the upper deck. They were instantly overwhelmed by dozens of attackers wielding knives, axes, iron bars, and at least one gun. The Israelis were beaten, stabbed, and shot; three of them, thrown over the side, fell several decks below. One suffered multiple skull fractures and the other a gaping knife wound. Both were taken prisoner and beaten
further.

  In quarters too close for either tear gas or rubber bullets, the commandos fired paintballs and bean bags against their attackers. But these nonlethal means proved useless in saving the team from imminent harm. Following procedures standard in both the IDF and the U.S. military, the Israelis asked their commander for permission to use their sidearms. They shot—first in warning, then to disable, and, finally, when still threatened, to kill.

  In Honor and in Shame

  That bloodshed represented the failure of weeks of intense diplomacy. Information reached the embassy that a large flotilla was gathering to break the Gaza blockade. Supporters of Hamas had launched similar convoys in the past only to be intercepted by the Israeli Navy and turned back without incident. But this flotilla would be different. Set to sail from Turkey, apparently with Prime Minister Erdoğan’s blessing, its size and composition were unprecedented. Its seven hundred participants—radical leftists and Islamic extremists—included several European parliamentarians. Also on board was Haneen Zoabi, the only female Arab member of the Knesset. The flotilla’s centerpiece was the four-thousand-ton Mavi Marmara, as long as a football field and too large to be stopped safely by the technical means available to either Israel or the United States. Any attempt to blow off its propeller or snarl it in a net could sink the entire ship.

  While striving to devise a way to stop the flotilla, Israeli leaders again debated the pros and cons of the Gaza blockade. This was deemed essential to prevent Iran from smuggling rockets to Hamas and to maintain pressure on the organization. The terrorists still fired dozens of rockets at Israeli towns and continued to hold Corporal Gilad Shalit, denying him Red Cross visits or communications with his family. Where Israeli officials differed was over the embargo’s extent and efficacy. Some pressed for banning all nonessential items—cilantro, for example—to fan public disaffection with Hamas. Others preferred to void only the construction materials that Hamas could use to rebuild its bunkers. Most agreed on the need to strengthen Abbas, who secretly supported the blockade as a way of weakening his Hamas archenemies.

  Publicly, though, Abbas condemned Israel’s policy as did much of international opinion. Consequently, many Israeli decision makers would have preferred to treat the flotilla as a one-time exception and let it pass unimpeded. But, unfortunately, international law determined that maritime blockades must either be abandoned or uniformly enforced—if necessary by military means.

  I saw little benefit for Israel in the “cilantro boycott” or in secretly helping Abbas while he overtly denounced us. Denying Hamas the ability to renew its military infrastructure made more sense to me, but the political costs would skyrocket if Israel came to blows with the flotilla. Obama opposed the blockade and enjoyed very friendly relations with Erdoğan, who conformed to the Cairo speech’s ideal of an authentically Muslim, democratically elected leader. By maintaining a blockade that Obama disliked and Erdoğan detested, Israel was likely once again to lock horns with the United States.

  To avert that clash, I turned to my Turkish counterpart, Namik Tan, who had previously served as Ankara’s ambassador to Israel. A warm-spirited man, he was committed to preserving his country’s connections with mine in the months before the flotilla. Namik joined me in planning events to celebrate the centuries-long friendship between Turks and Jews.

  Yet no display of goodwill in Washington could slow the decline in Turkish-Israeli relations. After years of unsuccessfully appealing for acceptance into the European Union, Turkey had turned back to its Middle Eastern and Islamic roots—a strategic pivot that precluded overly friendly ties with Israel. By 2010, Turkish television was broadcasting an action series about Turkish babies kidnapped by the Mossad. Deriding Israel as “the main threat to peace in the Middle East,” Erdoğan canceled the Turkish army’s annual joint maneuvers with the IDF. From four hundred thousand, the number of Israelis annually vacationing in Turkey plummeted to near zero.

  None of this kept Namik Tan and I from working together and hoping for a breakthrough. Those hopes dwindled, though, on May 22, when the Mavi Marmara rendezvoused with five smaller protest ships in Istanbul. Some 640 nautical miles away—ninety hours’ sailing time—Hamas officials in Gaza erected a holiday marquee to greet the triumphant flotilla.

  Two days later, while driving home from the Brandeis commencement, I received an intriguing call from Ambassador Tan. “Could the flotilla dock in Israel’s southern port of Ashdod?” he asked. “Could representatives of the Red Crescent meet it there, take control of any humanitarian cargoes, and transfer them to Gaza?” Tan needed an answer quickly—Erdoğan was flying to Iran—and I got him one. The Israeli government agreed. Some aid packages could even be delivered to our prisoner in Gaza, Gilad Shalit. Tan sounded delighted and I felt enormously relieved. But then, within forty hours, he phoned again. Erdoğan had called off the deal, the ambassador said. The flotilla would proceed as planned.

  I braced for what seemed likely to be an unpleasant event—a kerfuffle, in Washington parlance. Israel did not collect intelligence on Turkey, regarding it as a friendly country. As a result, I learned only belatedly that the Mavi Marmara had been purchased and refurbished specifically for the flotilla by the IHH, a Turkish Islamic extremist group listed as a terrorist organization by Israel and the Netherlands and accused by the United States of aiding al-Qaeda. I saw—again, too late—footage of the sixty IHH members gathered on the dock and chanting, “Muhammad’s army is returning to Khaybar,” a reference to the Prophet’s massacre of Arabian Jews. Days would pass before I heard how the IHH had boarded the Mavi Marmara separately from the other passengers, without inspection, wearing gas masks and protective vests. They sequestered the upper deck, where the Israelis were expected to land.

  That landing was set for the night of May 31—America’s Memorial Day. Before going to sleep, I briefed several reporters and touched base with the NSC. Israel each day facilitated the transfer of one hundred truckloads of aid into Gaza, I emphasized, where there was no humanitarian crisis. The flotilla had one purpose: to break the blockade and facilitate the transfer of Iranian arms to Hamas, a racist organization that opposed the peace process and pledged to kill all Jews. Still, I expressed confidence that the flotilla would be turned back peacefully, without any resort to force. Before shutting off the lights, I put in a final call to Lior Weintraub and reminded him to wake me if anything unusual happened.

  At that moment—I would later learn—additional Shayetet 13 teams descended onto the Mavi Marmara’s upper deck and were similarly set upon by the IHH members. The Israelis had to defend themselves as well as locate their wounded comrades held below. An hour-long video smuggled out by one of the Western journalists aboard showed IHH casualties—all men, most of them bearded—being carried down the stairs with gunshot wounds to the knee or near the heart. Though equipped with a state-of-the-art press room, the ship appeared to have no sick bay, no infusions, respirators, or even stethoscopes. A woman is heard pleading over a loudspeaker to an Israeli cruiser nearby, “We need help. We have many injured people.” Forty minutes passed before the commandos completed Operation Sky Winds and fully secured the ship. By that time, forty-six protesters were wounded and nine—including a dual Turkish-American citizen—lay dead.

  Those were the ghastly statistics that Lior reported to me after I groped for the phone near my bed. In addition to the horrendous casualty count, my chief of staff told me of the mass demonstrations in Istanbul, where tens of thousands of protesters chanted, “Murderous Israel, you will drown in the blood you shed,” and tried to overrun the Israeli consulate. Erdoğan accused Israel of “inhumane state terrorism” and recalled his ambassador from Tel Aviv. But the rancor was hardly confined to Turkey. In Iran, President Ahmadinejad predicted that the flotilla episode heralded the “end of the existence of the heinous and fake Zionist regime.” Even West Bank leader Mahmoud Abbas, the blockade’s clandestine champion, declared a three-day mourning period for the “massacre” of innocent Tu
rks, and offered Palestinian citizenship to the flotilla’s participants.

  Listening to Lior, I recalled how Washington pundits were always asking how candidates would react to a 3 A.M. phone call. My response was curt. “Call Dan Arbell,” I instructed him. “Call my secretaries. Tell everybody to meet me in the embassy as soon as possible.”

  The previous year had taught me some basic lessons in crisis management and I immediately applied them, triaging tasks. The first was to contact the prime minister. Netanyahu was in Ottawa that morning, on a state visit to Canada, and planning to fly down to Washington. A meeting between him and Obama, I anticipated, would have capped the administration’s “love offensive” with Israel and perhaps put the alliance on firmer footing. That opportunity vanished, though, when Netanyahu informed me of his imminent return to Israel. The White House seemed less than heartbroken. Obama “expressed deep regret at the loss of life,” and stressed “the importance of learning all the facts…around this morning’s tragic events.” The president, I imagined, scarcely relished smiling at the cameras and shaking Netanyahu’s hand while blood still ran on the Mavi Marmara.