No Room for Small Dreams

Shimon Peres

• Editorial: Mariner Books
• Año: 2017
• ISBN:
  9780062561466
• Categoría: History
• Categoría: Middle Eastern History

In 1934, eleven-year-old Shimon Peres emigrated to the land of Israel from his native Poland, leaving behind an extended family who would later be murdered in the Holocaust. Few back then would have predicted that this young man would eventually become one of the towering figures of the twentieth century. Peres would indeed go on to serve the new state as prime minister, president, foreign minister, and the head of several other ministries. He was central to the establishment of the Israeli Defense Forces and the defense industry that would provide the young state with a robust deterrent power. He was crucial to launching Israel's nuclear energy program and to the creation of its high-tech "Start-up Nation" revolution. His refusal to surrender to conventional wisdom and political norms helped save the Israeli economy and prompted some of the most daring military operations in history, among them the legendary Operation Entebbe. And yet, as important as his role in creating and deploying Israel's armed forces was, his stunning transition from hawk to dove—with its accompanying unwavering commitment to peace—made him one of the globe's most recognized, honored, and admired statesmen.

In this, his final work, finished only weeks before his passing, Peres offers a long-awaited examination of the crucial turning points in Israeli history through the prism of having been a decision maker and eyewitness. Told with the frankness of someone aware this would likely be his final statement, No Room for Small Dreams spans decades and events, but as much as it is about what happened, it is about why it happened. Examining pivotal moments in Israel's rise, Peres explores what makes for a great leader, how to make hard choices in a climate of uncertainty and distress, the challenges of balancing principles with policies, and the liberating nature of imagination and unpredicted innovation. In doing so, he not only charts a better path forward for his beloved country but provides deep and universal wisdom for younger generations who seek to lead—be it in politics, business, or the broader service of making our planet a safer, more peaceful, and just place.

CHAPTER 1

THE CALL TO SERVICE

I was eleven years old the first time I saw the place, tucked away and surrounded by trees. The simple house belonged to my aunt and uncle, who built it themselves after settling in the land of Israel. It was 1934, a time when the area was home to only a few hundred thousand Jews; its roads remained unpaved, the land largely unsettled.

As we got closer, I realized that the trees were not a kind I’d ever seen before; they were orange groves, planted by hand. My younger brother Gigi and I set off at once, racing up and down the perfectly placed rows, each tree bearing more than a hundred plump, bright fruits. The remaining white blossoms filled the air with an enchanting fragrance.

In my mind I was suddenly back in my small Jewish village—back in the “shtetl,” as they were called—back to the moment I’d first seen an orange, back to a place so very far away.

Our shtetl was known as Vishneva. It sat near the border between Poland and Russia, a strip of land surrounded by forest that existed in a seemingly permanent state of winter. There were often weeks on end where bitterly frigid winds would whip through the narrow birch trees, sweeping unforgivingly against the patrons in the market. Even during the summer, it felt like we rarely saw the sun. And yet despite the cold and isolation there was a warmth and magic to the shtetl, a culture of kindness and community. We had found, in each other, a place to belong.

We lived a simple life: there were only three roads, each lined with bare wooden houses. There was no running water and no electricity. But there was a train station, just three miles away, and from its travelers and its shipments we got a glimpse—and a taste—of the world beyond the forest.

I still remember that powerful moment, that first orange. My parents had taken me to the home of their friends, where a large group had already gathered. A young man had arrived, recently returned from the land of Israel, and was regaling the crowd with grand stories of a distant land. He spoke of endless sunshine and exotic culture, of patches of desert with fruit-bearing trees, of tough, tanned Jews who worked with their hands and fought with them, too. When he finished, he turned to a box behind him and lifted it for those gathered to see. There was an audible gasp in the room. There was a ceremony to his presentation, a formality that suggested this had been done many times before. One by one, each person in the room chose a package from the box, delicately undoing the parchment wrapping to reveal a ripe Jaffa orange, picked straight from the tree. When it was my turn, I was slow and deliberate, nervous that I might do something wrong. I held the orange to my nose, breathing in my first smell of citrus. It was truly extraordinary—in color, in fragrance, in taste—as otherworldly as anything a young boy could have imagined. It was so much more than a piece of fruit; it was a symbol of my hopes and aspirations.

My family had lived in the area for several generations. And, indeed, the area had, for hundreds of years, been a place for Jews to call home. But despite its simple beauty, neither of my parents considered Vishneva their permanent home. They saw it more as a way station, one of many stops over thousands of years along the road back to our homeland. The land of Israel was not just the dream of my parents; it was the animating purpose of so many people we knew. It seemed that at every gathering, the conversation turned to talk of going to Zion, of leaving the shtetl we loved behind, of joining the pioneers who were reclaiming our land. We spoke often of Theodor Herzl, the founder of the Zionist movement, who argued that the future of the Jewish people depended on the existence of a Jewish state, one bonded together not just by religion but by language and nationality. “Let them give us sovereignty over a piece of the earth’s surface, just sufficient for the needs of our people. Then we will do the rest.”

Herzl’s dream had become my own. I thought of my family as people living contently, yet in exile. We spoke Hebrew, we thought in Hebrew, and we eagerly read the news that came from Mandatory Palestine, the British-controlled territory (or “mandate”) that included our ancient homeland. There was a collective longing—a yearning to return—that came with a powerful grip. There were times when it made me feel as though I were in purgatory between a faraway past and an imminent future. The closer to that future we came, the more unbearable the delay felt.

Despite that desire to journey onward, my memories of childhood are endless and fond. My mother, Sara, was brilliant and loving, a librarian by training and a devotee to Russian literature. There were few things in life that brought her more joy than reading, a joy she shared with me. I grew up to become a man of books, but I started as a boy of books, reading next to my mother. There was a loving challenge to it—to try to keep up with her—if only for the discussion to follow. My father, Yitzhak (known as Getzel), was warm and generous, a lumber merchant like his father before him. He was a man full of energy and kindness, both doting and diligent. He emboldened me always, and beamed at my achievements. His love gave me confidence, and my confidence gave me the ability to fly. I felt profoundly blessed.

My parents raised me without many boundaries or limits, never telling me what to do, always trusting that my curiosity would lead me down the right path. In my youngest years, when I decided to put on shows and make speeches in front of my parents and their friends, I received nothing but encouragement. Sometimes I would offer up impressions (there were a few people around town whose voices and mannerisms I had perfected). Other times I would deliver fully formed addresses about the nature of Zionism or the relative virtues of my most favorite writers. To the adults, this made me the precocious young boy with a bright future ahead. To me, it felt like the beginning of something bigger. But to my schoolmates, it made me something of an outcast, the one so clearly unlike the others. What I was, in fact, was what I have remained: at ninety-three, I am still that curious boy, enamored of hard questions, eager to dream, and unbowed by the doubt of others.

My parents helped shape the man I became, but it was my grandfather, Rabbi Zvi Meltzer, whom I admired most deeply, and with whom I formed one of the most important bonds in my life. He was a stocky man who somehow always looked tall. Having attended the finest yeshiva in Europe, he was among the founding members of the “Tarbut” Hebrew Zionist School and a distinguished leader of the Jewish Community. In this tiny village, there were three synagogues and two libraries: one in Hebrew and one in Yiddish. If Zionism was the center of our civic lives, Judaism was the center of our moral lives. He was the authority figure from whom my family took our direction and, because of his position and his exceptional mind, the community leader to whom the entire shtetl turned for guidance and wisdom.

I felt especially lucky, not just to have such an important figure in the family, but because he gave me special attention. He was the first to teach me the history of the Jewish people, and the first to acquaint me with the Torah. I would join him each Sabbath at the synagogue, and followed intently the weekly reading. Like other Jews, I considered Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement, the highest of holidays. It had special resonance for me, though, not just for its own significance, but because I would get to hear my grandfather sing. Only on that day would he serve as our cantor, his wonderful voice booming out the hauntingly beautiful prayer of Kol Nidre. It would move me to the depths of my soul and I would hide under his prayer shawl, the only place I felt safe on such a serious day. From the darkness of my hiding place, I would ask God to forgive the transgressors and have mercy on every man, as he himself had sown the seeds of weakness.

In his image, and from his teachings, I became strictly religious myself as a child, much more so than my parents. I came to believe that my obligation was to serve God through His commandments, and that no exception could be tolerated. My parents didn’t fully appreciate the depths of my commitment until the day my father brought a radio home, the first in Vishneva. In his excitement to show my mother how it worked, he turned it on during the Sabbath—a time of rest and contemplation during which Judaism forbids certain actions, including those required to switch on a radio. I was furious. I threw it to the ground in a fit of overzealous righteousness, breaking it irreparably as though the fate of humanity depended on my doing so. I am grateful that they were forgiving.

When I wasn’t at home or in synagogue, I would try to hitch a carriage ride to the train station; it was from here that people would begin the long journey that would take them to our ancient homeland. The whole town would gather in loud celebration, wishing farewell to their neighbors in bittersweet fashion. I watched with admiration, joining in the cheering and reverent joy, but I always returned home with a tinge of sadness, wondering if my turn would ever really come.

In time, circumstances required us to leave. By the early 1930s, my father’s business had been destroyed by anti-Semitic taxes levied against Jewish enterprises. Left with nothing, he decided it was time to depart. In 1932, he set off on his journey to Mandatory Palestine by himself, a pioneer in his own right, eager to get settled and prepare for our arrival. It was another two long years—a lifetime for an impatient child—until he sent word that he was ready to receive us. I was eleven years old when my mother came to Gigi and me and told us the time had come.

We loaded our possessions into the back of a horse-drawn cart and set off on the ride to the train station. The cart creaked as it bounced frenetically over the many rocks in the road. My mother didn’t enjoy it, but for my brother and me, every jolt was a joy—a reminder that the great adventure was already well under way. We were dressed in thick wool jackets and heavy winter shoes that we would soon no longer need.

When we arrived at the station, there were dozens of people waiting to send us off with well-wishes and prayers. My grandfather was one of them. Given his age and centrality to the community, he had chosen to stay in Vishneva. He was the only thing I knew I would miss about my hometown. I watched him say good-bye to my mother and brother on the platform, and waited for him to face me, not knowing what I’d say. His large frame loomed over me as I looked up toward his eyes through his thick, graying beard. They had tears in them. He placed a hand on my shoulder, then bent down to meet my gaze.

“Promise me one thing,” he said, with the same commanding voice I had come to know so well.

“Anything, Zaydeh.”

“Promise me you’ll always remain Jewish.”

My grandfather’s life ended in Vishneva. The Nazis marched through the forest and into the village square only a few years after I left, gathering up the Jews to meet a horrific fate. My grandfather was forced into our modest wooden synagogue along with most of his congregation, while the Nazis boarded the doors. What terror they must have experienced, I cannot comprehend—the first moment the smoke poured in through the cracks of the door; the crackling sound that would have made them realize the building had been set ablaze from outside. I am told that as the flames grew violent, as they engulfed our most cherished place of worship, my grandfather donned his prayer shawl, the same one I had hidden under during Yom Kippur, and chanted a final prayer—a last moment of stoic dignity before the fire stole his words and his breath and his life, along with all the others.

The Jews who remained were rounded up, house to house, pulled from their hiding places, snatched from their lives. They were forced to watch as the shtetl was destroyed, as though a tornado had torn through the area, but with precision and intent. They were marched to the train station, through the cruel rubble, past the fiery grave. The same tracks that had started me on the journey to my homeland would take them to the death camps instead.

I hadn’t known, when we boarded the train for Mandatory Palestine, when it lurched to a start and I waved good-bye through the window, that I would never see my grandfather again. I can still hear his voice every time a cantor chants the Kol Nidre. I can still feel his spirit every time I face a hard choice.

•••

In 1934, our journey to Mandatory Palestine took us south to the Mediterranean Sea, which seemed to stretch endlessly that first time I saw it. We boarded a steamship for a several-day voyage through mostly calm waters. I was convinced that the absence of squall and rough seas was a sign from above. From the deck of the ship, enveloped in all directions by dramatic blue skies, I could feel the gentle heat of the sun unimpeded by clouds. It was as though my world had been repainted and reheated to animate my dreams.

On our final day at sea, I awoke to the sound of the ship’s air horn. The captain was alerting passing boats to our arrival and, in his way, announcing it to the passengers, as well. Gigi and I scrambled out of bed and ran up the stairs to the top deck, where we hoped to see the first glimpse of our new life. A group of passengers had gathered already, shouting and singing with delight. I made my way through the crowd until I was standing at the railing, with nothing and no one blocking my view.

Outstretched before me was the magnificent shoreline of Jaffa. The sea seemed to be composed of all shades of blue, the bright sapphire of the deep waters dancing with the iridescent turquoise in the shallows as they lapped against the perfect white sand beach. Beyond the bay I could see a hill in the distance—the heart of a grand and ancient city. The collection of stone buildings that surrounded the promontory seemed to be standing at attention and on guard. Behind them, a slender clock stretched for the sky.

I didn’t know much about Jaffa before I arrived, only that it was an ancient city that was mentioned in the Bible. Now, as it came into view, I could see a texture and vibrancy that could have been gleaned only firsthand. There were large crowds of people in red fezzes and checkered headdresses. Some had gathered together to enjoy the bright morning, playing with small children as the sea breeze moved through their loosely fitting robes. Others had boarded boats to meet us in the heart of the bay. Most of these were filled with people offering to sell passengers things we had never tasted. They offered us jars of lemonade over crushed ice, and dates harvested from the palm trees I had known only from my aunt’s pictures. Some of the boats had been chartered by Jews, who were picking up passengers right there where we anchored.

As I scanned the boats looking for my father, I noticed scores of local Jews whom I barely resembled. In perpetually gray Vishneva, every Jew I knew was incredibly pale. To be among these men who were tanned by the sun and chiseled by the hard work of cultivating the land was to be among heroes. I wanted nothing more than to join them, to become one of them.

Eventually I spotted my father standing at the front of a small Arab fishing boat, enthusiastically waving at my brother and me, so much tanner than when last I had seen him. Beside him stood the captain of the vessel, a tall Arab man dressed in wide, flowing pants with accordion creases. We leapt into the boat and greeted our father with two years of unspent love. To us he gave the same. As we made our way to shore, I could feel the sun’s warmth beating down through my thick winter jacket. I closed my eyes and imagined the soft heat was my own personal welcome, a welcome from a sun that had been biding its time until my arrival. The moment I stepped out of the boat and onto the land, I knew I had found my way home.

The land of Israel suited me well. Over time, I felt like I was sloughing off my old life, as though Vishneva had been my cocoon and now I had grown wings. I stopped wearing jackets and ties, trading them in for short sleeves instead. I watched my skin darken under the clearest blue skies, and never felt more like a true child of Israel than when I came home with a sunburn. I loved books with intense fervor and interest, but now I read them under a sycamore tree in the park or on the sands at the edge of the sea.

•••

On July 15, 2007, I was sworn in as Israel’s ninth president. I was eighty-three years old. It was the culmination of a career that spanned the life of the state itself, a final opportunity to serve the people through government. Standing on the stage, taking the oath of office, it was Vishneva that occupied my mind, a reminder of where my journey had started. I had an endless imagination as an eleven-year-old boy, but even in my most ambitious dreams, I never thought that I would find myself at such a moment.

At a celebration the evening of my swearing in, a young man I’d never met approached me, launching straight into conversation with an unabashed Israeli frankness I couldn’t help but admire.

“Mr. President, with due respect, after such a long career, why would you keep working at your age?”

“Why do I serve?” I asked. “I suppose I never considered the alternative.”

It was the truth. As long as I could recall, Zionism had been the center of my identity, and service to it a requirement for its success. In my eighties, that service led me to the presidency, after six decades in Israeli politics. But as I came of age as a young man in Mandatory Palestine, the service I imagined was not work in government; i...