The Israeli people responded to the violent onslaught the way any democracy would: They elected a leader who promised to protect them, Ariel Sharon. I first met Sharon in 1998, when Laura and I went to Israel with three fellow governors* on a trip sponsored by the Republican Jewish Coalition.
The visit was my first to the Holy Land. The most striking memory of the trip came when Ariel Sharon, then a minister in the cabinet of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, gave us a helicopter tour of the country. Sharon was a bull of a man, a seventy-year-old former tank commander who had served in all of Israel’s wars. Shortly after the chopper lifted off, he pointed to a patch of ground below. “I fought there,” he said with pride in his gruff voice. When the helicopter turned toward the West Bank, he gestured at an isolated cluster of homes. “I built that settlement,” he said. Sharon subscribed to the Greater Israel policy, which rejected territorial concessions. He knew every inch of the land, and it didn’t sound like he intended to give any of it back.
“Here our country was only nine miles wide,” Sharon said at another point, referring to the distance between the 1967 borders and the sea. “We have driveways longer than that in Texas,” I later joked. I was struck by Israel’s vulnerability in a hostile neighborhood. Ever since President Harry Truman defied his secretary of state by recognizing Israel in 1948, America had been the Jewish state’s best friend. I came away convinced that we had a responsibility to keep the relationship strong.
A little over two years later, I called Ariel Sharon from the Oval Office to congratulate him on his election as prime minister. “Maybe, after so many years and wars in which I have participated,” he said, “we will have peace in the region.”
On June 1, 2001, a suicide bomber killed twenty-one Israelis at the Dolphinarium nightclub in Tel Aviv. Other attacks struck Israeli buses, train stations, and shopping malls. Israeli Defense Forces targeted operations at Hamas strongholds, but innocent Palestinians—including five boys walking to school one day—were killed during the operations.
I was appalled by the violence and loss of life on both sides. But I refused to accept the moral equivalence between Palestinian suicide attacks on innocent civilians and Israeli military actions intended to protect their people. My views came into sharper focus after 9/11. If the United States had the right to defend itself and prevent future attacks, other democracies had those rights, too.
I spoke to Yasser Arafat three times in my first year as president. He was courteous, and I was polite in return. But I made clear we expected him to crack down on extremism. “I know these are difficult issues for you and your people,” I told him in February 2001, “but the best way to settle this and start resolving the situation is to stop the violence in the region.”
In January 2002, the Israeli navy intercepted a ship called the Karine A in the Red Sea. Aboard was an arsenal of deadly weapons. The Israelis believed the ship was headed from Iran to the Palestinian city of Gaza. Arafat sent a letter pleading his innocence. “The smuggling of arms is in total contradiction of the Palestinian Authority’s commitment to the peace process,” he wrote. But we and the Israelis had evidence that disproved the Palestinian leader’s claim. Arafat had lied to me. I never trusted him again. In fact, I never spoke to him again. By the spring of 2002, I had concluded that peace would not be possible with Arafat in power.
“When will the pig leave Ramallah?” Crown Prince Abdullah** asked me. It was April 25, 2002. Clearly the Saudi ruler was not happy with Ariel Sharon.
Ever since President Franklin Roosevelt met with Saudi Arabia’s founder, King Abdul Aziz, aboard the USS Quincy in 1945, America’s relationship with the kingdom had been one of our most critical. The Sunni Arab nation sits on a fifth of the world’s oil and has tremendous influence among Muslims as the guardian of the holy mosques at Mecca and Medina.
I had invited Crown Prince Abdullah—one of Abdul Aziz’s thirty-six sons—to our ranch in Crawford as a way to strengthen our personal relationship. In anticipation of the March 2002 Arab League summit in Beirut, the crown prince showed strong leadership by announcing a new peace plan. Under his vision, Israel would return territory to the Palestinians, who would create an independent state that rejected terror and recognized Israel’s right to exist. There were many details to negotiate, but the concept was one I could support.
The evening of the Arab League summit, a Hamas suicide bomber walked into a hotel dining room filled with people celebrating Passover in the Israeli city of Netanya. “Suddenly it was hell,” one guest said. “There was the smell of smoke and dust in my mouth and a ringing in my ears.” One of the bloodiest attacks of the Second Intifada, the bombing killed 30 Israelis and wounded 140.
In response, Prime Minister Sharon ordered a sweeping Israeli offensive into the West Bank. Israeli forces quickly picked up hundreds of suspected militants and surrounded Yasser Arafat in his Ramallah office. Sharon announced he would build a security barrier separating Israeli communities from the Palestinians in the West Bank. The fence was widely condemned. I hoped it would provide the security Israelis needed to make hard choices for peace.
I urged Sharon privately to end the offensive, which had become counterproductive. Arafat held a TV interview by candlelight and was looking like a martyr. Sharon forged ahead. I gave a Rose Garden speech publicly calling on him to begin a withdrawal. “Enough is enough,” I said. Still, Sharon wouldn’t budge.
By the time Crown Prince Abdullah arrived at our ranch, his peace plan had been shelved. He was angered by the violence, furious with Sharon, and—I soon learned—frustrated with me.
The crown prince is a gentle, modest, almost shy man. He speaks softly, doesn’t drink alcohol, and prays five times a day. In eight years, I never saw him without his traditional robes.
After a brief discussion, Abdullah asked for time alone with his foreign minister and ambassador. A few minutes later, State Department interpreter Gamal Helal came to me with a stricken look on his face. “Mr. President,” he said, “I think the Saudis are getting ready to leave.”
I was surprised. I thought the meeting had been going fine. But Gamal explained that the Saudis had expected me to persuade Sharon to withdraw from Ramallah before the crown prince arrived. Now they were insisting that I call the Israeli prime minister on the spot. I wasn’t going to conduct diplomacy that way. I sent Colin into the living room to see what was going on. He confirmed that our guests were headed for the door. America’s pivotal relationship with Saudi Arabia was about to be seriously ruptured.
I walked into the living room with Gamal and asked for a moment alone with the crown prince. I had read two interesting things about him in a background briefing. One was that he was a devout religious believer. The other was that he loved his farm.
“Your Royal Highness,” I said. “I would like to discuss religion with you.” I talked about my belief in Christianity and the role religion played in my life. I hoped he would reciprocate by talking about his faith. He wasn’t in a sharing mood.
In a last-gasp effort, I said, “Before you leave, may I show you my ranch?” He nodded. A few minutes later, the crown prince, flowing robes and all, was climbing into a Ford F-250 pickup. Then he, Gamal, and I took off for a tour of the property. I pointed out the different kinds of hardwood trees, the native prairie grasses that Laura had planted, and the grazing cattle. The crown prince sat silently. I wasn’t making much headway.