Rabin

Three years without Yitzhak Rabin. Cynics may say that in his death Rabin was converted from a flesh and blood politician to a martyr for peace. In fact though, he was almost always much more than a flesh and blood politician in political life, more than just a general in his military career. To many Israelis he was the image of themselves as they wished themselves to be, the essence of Israel. It is difficult to convey to others the magnitude of the loss we suffered.

His entire being was devoted to defending Israel and championing the cause of Zionism. In 1948 he was instrumental in saving Jerusalem from starvation. In 1967 he was largely responsible for the stunning victory that gave the Greater Israel movement the territories they cherish. Yet it was he who said from the first, and repeated often, that these territories were hostages for peace, and vowed that they would be returned when the time came. In 1995 it seemed he was on the verge of bringing us peace.

Rabin was first in war and first in peace. He should have been first in the hearts of his countrymen. But the Israel that Rabin was, and the Israel that Rabin had built, was slowly being eroded by the corruption of occupation and the cancer of chauvinism. Ungrateful and ignorant people, stirred up by fanatic leaders, called him traitor and insisted that he was bent on destroying Israel. They destroyed him instead, and in so doing, perhaps they destroyed Israel. When the deed was done, there was no one to claim responsibility. All of those who screamed ‘traitor,’ all the Rabbis who had pronounced the sentence of death, hid their moral nakedness behind the fig leaf of ‘national unity’ and mouthed pious hypocrisies about the sanctity of human life.

His death produced a stunned sense of unreality and awful loss. How could Israel be Israel without that man? Without that deep, hesitant and reassuring voice? Without his deep and reassuring vision? Gradually it seemed that, as after any death, life was returning to normal. The graveyards after all, are full of indispensable people. But one, it seems, really was indispensable. Only he could remind us that the mission of Zionism was national rebirth, not populating real-estate with fanatics. Only he could persuade the majority of Israelis to part with the ‘our’ land for the sake of peace. Only he would have had the decisiveness and integrity to convince the Palestinians to live up to the agreements, to say ‘security’ and mean security not real-estate. Only he could be entrusted with the security of Israel if the agreements foundered. Only he could bring peace. After Rabin was gone, the peace process lost its heart. Perhaps Israel lost its heart. Perhaps it was inevitable.

The murder of Rabin was much more than a political tragedy. It was a personal tragedy for many of us, who felt that a part of us had been killed. Mourning should have an end, but our mourning has not ended. Do we mourn the peace? Do we mourn Rabin the man? Do we mourn a spiritual father? Do we mourn ourselves? It is difficult to weigh which sorrow is the greatest.