TIME: Almanac 1995

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<text id=93TT0278> <link 93XV0070> <link 93XP0216> <link 93XP0037> <title> Sep. 27, 1993: History In A Handshake </title> <history> TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1993 Sep. 27, 1993 Attack Of The Video Games </history> <article> <source>Time Magazine</source> <hdr> MIDDLE EAST, Page 26 History In A Handshake </hdr><body> The world felt the weight of the moment as two enemies joined in a profound statement of hope By HUGH SIDEY/WASHINGTON A jubilant but strange pledge of peace. No large armies lying smashed and smoking in the far deserts. No victors, no vanquished. This was a search for peace in quieted minds and hearts, though no less perilous for that. Yet it was a profound statement of hope, this singular coming together of Yitzhak Rabin and Yasser Arafat on the broad green South Lawn of the White House, with chrysanthemums in bloom and robins calling. History was sealed less with paper and pens than with a brief handshake that was caught in the click of hundreds of cameras, a scene beamed to millions of people in a world nurtured for 45 years on a diet of hate and death in the arid lands of Israelis and Arabs. This, more than the Declaration of Principles, was the affirmation of a new era that watchers could believe. The parchment signed out on the lawn was a framework for interim Palestinian self-government, and it was for the archives, a document meant to bind Israel and the Palestine Liberation Organization to further constructive deliberation. It was the handshake between the Israeli Prime Minister and the chairman of the P.L.O. that mattered. Men, not papers, make peace. Bill Clinton felt the weight of the moment. He went to bed at 10 the night before, but woke at 3 a.m. to roam the White House corridors as so many of his predecessors had done -- Johnson, Nixon, Bush. They had paced away the dark hours contemplating war, the enduring curse of Middle East policymaking. Clinton read the Book of Joshua, hearing in his mind the trumpet blasts that rent the walls of Jericho, wanting to be sure to make the point in the ceremony that this time the trumpets "herald not the destruction of that city but its new beginning." He wandered into the kitchen "to see the morning light," and was worried it might rain. At 6:30 someone made him fresh coffee. "I just couldn't sleep," recalled Clinton. "My mind was so full of the day." Nobody was sure the touch of hands would happen. No formal request had been sent through diplomatic channels. Arafat wanted desperately to come; Rabin didn't. Arafat wanted to show up on the lawn with his holster holding his faithful Smith & Wesson and, with a great flourish, to unstrap the gun and hand it to Clinton. That was vetoed: too much theater even on that day. One hour before the ceremony, the Israelis and the Palestinians both threatened to boycott over trifles: then Rabin swallowed his objections to Arafat's uniform and agreed the P.L.O. could be named in the accord. Arafat and Rabin avoided each other at the reception before the ceremony, but Clinton recalled that as the three of them left the Blue Room, "they looked at each other, really clearly in the eye, for the first time, and the Prime Minister said, `You know we are going to have to work very hard to make this work.' And Arafat said, `I know, and I am prepared to do my part.' " From the moment he appeared silhouetted against the White House, in sharp-pressed khakis and trademark kaffiyeh, Arafat couldn't stop smiling. This was the arrival on the world stage he had always dreamed of. Rabin was plainly of a different mind, uncomfortable and stiff. His body language throughout the ceremony -- the tics, the cocking of his head, the eyes cast toward the sky, the ground, anywhere but Arafat -- gave away just how uneasy he was. Time for a handshake was worked into the 26-page script meticulously crafted by the White House and the State Department. The President rehearsed with aides in the Oval Office minutes before he was to step onto the sunny lawn, where 3,000 of the old warriors and the new trustees of peace had been summoned. For four days the diagram of the proceedings had been drawn and redrawn, the seven chief figures moved like chessmen on their tiny stage, chairs put in the blueprint, then withdrawn, until finally it was agreed they all would stand to talk, sit to sign, stand again. Clinton was to act as stage manager. He would reach for the hand of Rabin at the crucial moment, turn next to shake the hand of Arafat, then step back half a pace and enfold the two in a wide and gentle extension of his arms with the expectation that the weight of history would bring their two hands together. It did. First Arafat reached out, then after what seemed like endless minutes, Rabin responded. Simple, shattering. Oded Ben-Ami, a spokesman for Rabin, watched it in wonder. "It was a handshake with someone who just a moment ago was the devil in person," he said, "and from now on is your partner in negotiation." The Lebanese daily L'Orient-Le Jour made a cooler but no less momentous assessment: "A prodigious moment this handshake, soberly, none too warmly exchanged between Rabin and Arafat, as if they were crushed by the terrible responsibility that their historic gesture condemned them to share." This is the stuff of modern diplomatic power. It is impulsive and ephemeral and can vanish with the morning mist, but it plants in the minds of millions of people a solemn promise, making it harder for leaders to go on defying logic and decency. The young people invited were suitably impressed, but for the old it was something truly special. Clark Clifford, 86, still recovering from heart surgery, glanced at the Oval Office and thought of the day in 1948 when at the last minute word came that "the Jewish State" would be called "Israel" and the documents for recognition had to be altered by pen before Harry Truman could sit down and firmly stroke his name. Present at the creation -- and now at what Clifford thought could be a renewal for the entire Middle East. Henry Kissinger, Secretary of State for both Richard Nixon and Gerald Ford and so often a player in the Middle East game, seemed subdued, even misty-eyed. He walked slowly, graying head bent. "A stunning moment," he murmured. James Baker, Secretary of State for George Bush, thought time had done its work as he watched the tableau of peace. He had convened meetings, pushing the old adversaries together at Madrid 23 months ago. Clinton knew how much that legwork had counted. He reached through three rows of people to make sure Arafat and Rabin shook hands with Baker. It was a triumphant but curious time for Bill Clinton. He deserved credit not for what he had done but for what he had not done. This agreement was the work of others over decades. Clinton stayed out of the way in the last act and let it happen naturally. He did not posture or seek personal acclaim, but paid tribute to those who had long carried the heavy burden. Such acts are far too rare in the presidency, but they are just as much a measure of honor. Bill Clinton enhanced himself as well as those who had braved the road to the South Lawn by the courage of his restraint. </body></article> </text>