Scott Ritter: Why I No Longer Stand with Israel, and Never Will Again (2)

Read the first part of the article

Gradually, my host loosened up the controls when it came to where I could go and what I could see during my time off from planning inspections. My wife visited me in Israel for a long weekend, and I took her to the Dead Sea, Jerusalem (where we walked the Via Dolorosa in Jerusalem, Jesus’ processional route to his crucifixion on Mount Cavalry), Nazareth, the Sea of Galilee, and the Jordan River—all places taken straight from the pages of the New Testament. My wife, a devout Georgian Orthodox, was ecstatic. I, a simple historian, was deeply impressed. “Every stone you overturn with your foot tells a story”, she told me. “This land is full of history.”

We soon took to discussing the history of Israel itself, starting with the neighborhood where the Israeli imagery exploitation unit I worked with was located—Sarona, also known as the German Colony. We discussed the British Mandate while visiting the King David Hotel, in Jerusalem, the site of an infamous terrorist attack carried out by Menachem Begin, the future Nobel Prize-winning Prime Minister of Israel, who at the time of the attack, in 1946, was part of the Irgun terrorist organization. Most Israelis would bristle at the notion of Begin and Irgun being labeled in such a manner. “Look,” my host said, “he was a terrorist. He had much in common with Yassar Arafat.” It was this kind of honesty that made me like my host even more.

We discussed the formation of Israel while visiting the Ma’oz Mul ‘Aza (The Stronghold of Gaza) museum, in the Kibbutz of Kfar Aza, and compared and contrasted the Israeli narrative regarding the birth of a nation under fire (the museum was built on the site of the Saad Kibbutz, which had been destroyed by the Egyptian Army in 1948), and the Palestinian Nakba, or catastrophe, regarding the forceful eviction of Palestinian families from their homes—including in the vicinity of the Kfar Aza Kibbutz (this Kibbutz was one of the one targeted by Hamas on October 8, 2023, and tragically lost scores of residents to the violence perpetrated by the Hamas fighters.)

We discussed the words of David Ben Gurion, Israel’s first President, who stated,

“If I were an Arab leader, I would never sign an agreement with Israel. It is normal; we have taken their country. It is true, God promised it to us, but how could that interest them? Our God is not theirs. There has been anti-Semitism, the Nazis, Hitler, Auschwitz, but was that their fault? They see but one aspect: we have come, and we have stolen their country. Why would they accept that?”

Another quote by Ben Gurion drove this point home.

“Let us not ignore the truth among ourselves, politically we are the aggressors, and they defend themselves,” he said. “The country is theirs, because they inhabit it, whereas we want to come here and settle down, and in their view, we want to take away from them their country.”

“He was right,” my host said of Ben Gurion. “Israel has a very difficult history.”

The consequences of this difficult history were existential for my host, his family, and his fellow Israelis. I was often invited to his home, in a small neighborhood nestled into the hills that separate Tel Aviv from Jerusalem. There, I was treated to the kind of hospitality that one would expect from someone with whom you shared a special bond. While enjoying a barbeque and listening to the music his teenaged daughter had selected for our listening pleasure, my host pointed at the hills overlooking his neighborhood, where a village could be seen in the distance, the telltale minaret of a mosque revealing it as Arab.

“This is the Green Line,” he said, pointing to the hill. The “Green Line” represented the original border of Israel, established at its creation in 1948. After the Six Day War, in 1967, Israel took control of the territory today known as the West Bank. The Palestinians were fighting to get their land back, to return the border between Israel and Palestine to the “Green Line.”

“You’re a military man,” he said. “That’s the high ground. You understand the risk to my family and my neighbors if an enemy were to occupy that terrain, to put a mortar or sniper up there. We would,” he said in a near whisper, as if hiding his words from his wife and kids, “all die.”

“We need peace,” my host concluded. “The kind of peace that gives the Palestinians their land back and allows my family to live without fear.”

Like most military officers, my host maintained an air of disinterest when it came to domestic politics. Once, while sitting down at a local eatery near the Sarona district, my host pointed out a short, stocky man seated a few tables down. “That’s Ehud Barack,” he said. Barack had retired from the IDF in early 1995, finishing his career as the Chief of the General Staff. “He’s now entering the world of politics,” my host noted. “He now needs to learn to lie.”

While my host did not inform me of his political affiliation (nor did I ask), two aspects became very apparent to me. First, he admired Yitzhak Rabin, a former soldier turned politician. “He lies, just like all the others,” he once observed. “But he lies in the cause of peace. I can accept that.”

And he absolutely despised Benjamin Netanyahu. “He will be the destruction of Israel,” my host warned. “He only knows hate.”

During my many visits to Israel, the threat of terrorism was an ever-present reality. On October 19, 1994—during my first visit to Israel—a Hamas suicide bomber blew himself up on a bus located on Dizengoff Street, a busy Tel Aviv throughway, killing 22 persons. The location of the attack was within a short walking distance of my hotel. On July 24, 1995, during my third visit to Israel, another Hamas terrorist blew himself up on a bus in the Tel Aviv suburb of Ramat Gan, killing six people. During my fourth visit, on August 21, 1995, another Hamas suicide bomber attacked a bus in Ramat Eshkol, a suburb of Jerusalem, killing five people.

The impact of these attacks on the Israeli people was palpable. Tears flowed freely as they mourned the dead. I recall after the July 1995 attack being picked up by the IDF driver who was to take me to my appointment inside the Kirya, the IDF’s headquarters campus in downtown Tel Aviv. “Is our meeting cancelled?”, I asked. “No,” he replied grimly. “Life needs to go on.”

We arrived at the building where my host maintained his office. There were several female IDF soldiers working for him. They ushered me into the waiting room and offered me tea. I noticed their eyes were red, and their faces streaked with tears. “Shall I come back later?”, I asked my host when he entered the room. He called the girls back into the room. “Scott wants to know if he should come back later,” he said. “What is your response?”

“If you quit, the terrorists win,” one girl responded. “We won’t quit, ever. We hope you won’t as well.”

On November 4, 1995, my host was driving me back from the Kirya to my hotel. We passed the Kings of Israel Square, a large public place where political rallies were often scheduled. There was one scheduled for that night—a pro-peace rally put on by supporters of Yitzhak Rabin in support of the Oslo peace process. Rabin had met with PLO Chairman Yassar Arafat in Washington, DC, on September 28, 1995, where the two men signed the Oslo II Accords.

The Hamas terrorist attacks had been designed to disrupt the Oslo peace process; Yitzhak Rabin did not falter in his determination to see the process through to fruition, despite strong domestic political pushback from his chief rival, Benjamin Netanyahu.

Netanyahu had mobilized radical right-wing Jewish religious extremists to his cause, accusing Rabin of being removed from Jewish tradition and Jewish values. But Netanyahu’s posturing went beyond simple political rhetoric and veered into political violence. In March 1994, near the town of Ra’anana, north of Tel Aviv, a protest march was organized by the right-wing religious group, Kahane Chai. Netanyahu marched in front of the Kahane Chai protest; behind him, a coffin was carried inscribed with the words, “Rabin is causing the death of Zionism.” On October 5, 1995—the day the Israeli Knesset voted to support Oslo II—Netanyahu organized a 100,000-strong rally in opposition. Netanyahu urged the crowd on as they shouted, “Death to Rabin.”

“I hear you’re going out tonight with some of the guys,” my host said. I had dinner plans with two young Captains from RAD and their fiancés. “Don’t come near this place,” my host instructed, pointing at the Kings of Israel Square. “Rabin is speaking here tonight, and there is a strong likelihood of violence. He should cancel it,” my host continued. “Too many people wish him harm, and there are too many opportunities here to do him harm.”

That night, just after 9:30 PM, my two friends, their fiancés, and I had just been served our dinners, and we were getting ready to enjoy our meal, when the owner of the restaurant appeared before us. “Yitzhak Rabin has been shot,” the owner said, tears falling down her face. “He has been taken to a hospital. He needs out prayers.”

Without a word, everyone rose from their tables and left the restaurant. No bills were paid. I was dropped off at my hotel by my dinner companions, who listened to the radio and kept me informed of the breaking news.

The rally attracted 100,000 people, and Rabin gave a rousing speech.

“I always believed that most of the people want peace,” he told the admiring crowd, “and are ready to take a risk for it.”

A right-wing religious Jew, who believed he was acting on instructions from a Rabbi to kill Rabin for betraying Israel, had pulled the trigger of the pistol that took Rabin’s life.

At 11:15 PM, Yitzhak Rabin’s death was announced to the Israeli nation. From my hotel room where I watched the announcement on television, I could hear the wails of women crying from the hotel rooms next to me, and in the streets below.

November 5 was a national day of mourning. Israel buried their slain leader the next day, November 6.

On November 7, my driver was in the lobby, and took me to the Kirya. My host and his soldiers were back at work. Two days later, on November 9, armed with intelligence that the Israelis had collected about the shipment of missile guidance and control devices from Russia to Jordan, where they were scheduled to be moved into Iraq, I crossed the Allenby Bridge separating Israel from Jordan, where I was picked up by Jordanian security officers. That evening I met with Ali Shukri, the chief of the King of Jordan’s private office, and convinced him and the head of the Jordanian intelligence service to launch a raid of a warehouse the Israelis believed the missile components were being stored. The raid was executed, and several hundred guidance and control devices that were scheduled to be shipped to Iraq the next day were seized.

The next night, as I waited in the dark to cross back into Israel, I reflected on the tenacity of my Israeli hosts. They didn’t quit, I thought.

We didn’t quit.

To show the measure of the man that was my host, I recounted a story Ali Shukri told me while we were waiting for the results of the raid to come back, about his father, a wealthy Palestinian from the city of Jaffa, next to modern day Tel Aviv. A street had been named after his father, and he asked if I could go visit it on his behalf. I told my host about the request, and without hesitation we got into his car and explored old Jaffa. The streets had all been changed to Hebrew names, but my host approached several elderly people, and asked if anyone remembered the old street names. They did, and soon we found ourselves strolling down a well-lit boulevard.

“I’d like to believe Yitzhak Rabin would have wanted Ali Shukri to be able to walk down this street himself,” my host observed. “Maybe even live in his family home.”

We kept walking down the silent street, alone in our thoughts.

On January 5, 1996, Israeli security forces assassinated Yahya Ayyash, a Hamas operative known as “The Engineer.” Ayyash was the chief bomb designer for Hamas, and his bombs were responsible for most of the terrorist actions carried out by Hamas against Israel. Israeli security was able to get a cellphone in which a minute amount of high explosive had been placed. Upon getting Ayyash to answer the phone, Israeli security set off the explosive, instantly killing the Hamas bombmaker.

While Israel is normally reticent about taking responsibility for targeted assassinations of this nature, I was provided with an informal briefing by my hosts about how they came to kill Ayyash. I guess they figured I had a need to know, given the impact his bombings had on my work in Israel.

The killing of Ayyash triggered a violent response from Hamas, who in the weeks and months that followed unleashed a campaign of terror against the Israeli people. Three terrorist bombings, including two buses in Jerusalem and one outside the Dizengoff Center in Tel Aviv, which transpired between February 25 and March 4, killing 55 persons and wounding hundreds more, shook the nation, helping contribute to the election of Benjamin Netanyahu as Prime Minister in a general election held on May 29, 1996.

The period between Netanyahu’s election and my resignation from UNSCOM, in August 1998, was one filled with turmoil and change. The success of the interception operation in Jordan paved the way for an even more in-depth relationship between UNSCOM and Israel, which was facilitated by my relationship with my Israeli host. We were able to create the equivalent of an intelligence fusion cell, blending imagery exploitation, SIGINT collection, and human intelligence to create an intelligence product that helped UNSCOM break open the issue of past Iraqi efforts to conceal the truth about their weapons of mass destruction programs, as well as uncover evidence of ongoing Iraqi activities, linked to the Office of the Presidency, which violated Security Council resolutions regarding sanctions.

My working relationship with Moshe Ya’alon, the new head on AMAN, was as strong as one could hope for, and Israel went out of its way to make sure every request for support I made was acted on. And the results were undeniable—when I started my relationship with Israeli intelligence, in 1994, Iraq topped AMAN’s list of threats to Israel. By 1998, Iraq had dropped to fifth, behind far-right domestic extremism, Iran, Hezbollah, and Hamas. This transformation had come about because of the understanding that the UNSCOM-Israeli cooperation had been able to achieve about the true capabilities of Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction programs.

In 1998, however, this relationship, so carefully nurtured by my host and I since our first meetings in October 1994, came to a sudden halt. Under pressure from the United States, Israel ended its intelligence relationship with UNSCOM. By 1998, the entire AMAN team that had made this relationship work, from Moshe Ya’alon, to Yaakov Amidror, to my host, had been replaced. The new team—Amos Malkin as the head of AMAN, Amos Gilad as the chief of RAD, and a new “host”—shut down the UNSCOM intelligence sharing operation immediately. I made one last visit to Israel, in early June 1998, where I was briefed by my counterparts on the new reality.

Two months later I resigned from UNSCOM, no longer able to carry out my mission of disarmament.

Read the third part of the article

Author: Scott Ritter, former US Marine Corps intelligence officer

 

yogaesoteric
November 18, 2023