PAUL FINDLEY They Dare to Speak Out 1

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Rescue and Involvement
"How did A congressman from the corn-hog heartland of America get entangled in Middle East politics?" people ask. Like most rural con­gressmen, I had no ethnic constituencies who lobbied me on their for­eign interests. As expected, I joined the Agriculture Committee and worked mainly on issues such as farming, budget, and welfare reform.
Newly appointed in 1972 to the subcommittee on Europe and the Middle East, I had represented the Springfield, Illinois, area for twelve years without attracting much attention at home or abroad.
Eight short years later, my involvement in Middle East politics would bring me infamy among many U.S. Jews, notoriety in Israel, and applause throughout the Arab world. By 1980, in urban centers of pro-Israel activism—far from the local Jews in central Illinois who knew and trusted me—I found myself in the most expensive congressional cam­paign in state history. Thanks to a flow of hostile dollars from both coasts and nearby Chicago, I became "the number one enemy of Israel" and my re-election campaign the principal target of Israel's lobby.
Prodded by a professor at Illinois College when I first joined the subcommittee, I had already begun to doubt the wisdom of U.S. policy
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in the Middle East. In the early years, I kept these doubts private, but not because I feared the political consequences. In fact, I naively assumed I could question our policy anywhere without getting into trou­ble. I did not realize how deeply the roots of Israeli interests penetrated U.S. institutions.
In matters pertaining to Middle East policy, members of Congress generally paid attention only to what Israel wanted. Arab American lob­bies, fledgling forces even today, were nonexistent. Muslim organiza­tions were in their infancy. Arab embassies showed little interest in lobbying. Even if a congressman wanted to hear the Arab viewpoint, he would have had difficulty finding a spokesman to explain it.
My personal involvement with Middle East politics started with a situation that had no direct connection to the Arab-Israeli conflict. It began in the spring of 1973 when a letter arrived from Mrs. Evans Franklin, a constituent who wrote neighborhood news for a weekly newspaper I had once edited. In this letter, she pleaded for my help in securing the release of her son, Ed, from a faraway prison. He had been convicted of espionage and sentenced to five years' solitary imprison­ment in Aden, the capital of the Marxist People's Democratic Republic of [South] Yemen. After reading her plea, I had to consult a map. I knew only that Aden had once been a major British base.
Had it not been for a series of canceled airline flights, his mother told me, Franklin would never have set foot in Aden. Returning from Ethiopia to his teaching post in Kuwait, he was rerouted through Aden and then delayed there by the cancelation of his departing flight. His luck worsened. Unaware of local restrictions, he photographed a pro­hibited area. The Adenese were still nervous about blonde-haired visitors, remembering the commando raid the British had conducted shortly after they left Aden six years earlier. When Franklin snapped the pictures, he was immediately arrested. After being kept in an interrogation center for months, he was finally brought to trial, where he was convicted and sen­tenced. My efforts to secure his release proceeded for the most part with­out aid from the State Department. Our government had had no relations, diplomatic or otherwise, with Aden since a 1969 coup moved the country's regime dramatically to the left. This meant that the State Department could do nothing directly. I asked a friend in the Egyptian embassy in Washington, D.C., to help. Franklins parents, people of
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modest means living in a rural crossroads village, sent a request to Salim Rubyai Ali, South Yemen's president, seeking executive clemency. I sent a similar request. Our government asked Britain to intervene through its embassy in Aden. There was no response to any of these initiatives.
In December 1973 I visited Abdallah Ashtal, Aden's ambassador to the United Nations in New York, to ask if I could go personally to Aden and make a plea for Franklin's release. Ashtal, a short, handsome, youth­ful diplomat who was taking evening graduate courses at New York Uni­versity, promised a prompt answer. A message came back two weeks later that I would be welcome.
If I decided to go, I would have to travel alone. I would be the first congressman—in either the House or the Senate—to visit Aden since the republic was established in 1967, and the first U.S. official to visit there since diplomatic relations were severed in the wake of the coup two years later. Although this was an exciting prospect, it caused me some fore­boding. Moreover, I had no authority as an envoy. South Yemen, some­times called "the Cuba of the Arab world," was regarded by our State Department as the most radical of the Arab states. A State Department friend did nothing to relieve my concern when he told me that Aden's foreign minister got his job "because he killed more opponents than any other candidate."
Troubling questions came to mind. How would I be received? I dis­cussed the trip with Alfred L. Atherton, Jr., assistant secretary of state for Near East and South Asia affairs. I asked him, "If they lock me up, what will you do first?" He smiled and said, "Look for another con­gressman to come get you out!"
Still, I was probably the only person able to help. Franklin's mother told me, "I doubt if Ed can survive five years in a Yemen jail." My wife, Lucille, expressed deep concern over the prospects of the trip but agreed that I had little choice but to go.
I also thought the trip might be an opportunity to open the door to better relations with a vital but little-known part of the world. With the imminent reopening of the Suez Canal, better relations with Aden could be important to U.S. interests in the Indian Ocean. After all, Aden, along with French-held Djibouti, was a guardian of a world-famous and vitally important strait, the gateway to the Suez Canal. If the Soviets, already present with aid missions and military advisers, succeeded in
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dominating the Aden government, they could effectively control the canal from the south. It was obvious that, Franklin's potential release aside, the United States needed good relations with Aden.
I decided that I must go. The trip was set for late March 1974.
From Middle East scholars, I learned that Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, who was soon to begin shuttle negotiations between Israel and Egypt, was held in high esteem in Aden. I asked him for a letter that I could take with me which would be as explicit as possible about United States-Aden relations. A personal letter arrived three days before I left. In it, Kissinger said he welcomed my "humanitarian mission" to Aden and added, "Should the occasion arise, you may wish to inform those officials whom you meet of our continuing commitment to work for an equitable and lasting Middle East peace and of our desire to strengthen our ties with the Arab world."
The letter was addressed to me, not to the Aden government. It was a diplomatic "feeler." I hoped it would convince any officials I met that the United States wanted to establish normal relations with Aden.
A good traveler always brings gifts. At the suggestion of an Egypt­ian friend, I secured scholarships from three colleges in Illinois to pres­ent to South Yemeni students. I also located and had specially bound two Arabic language translations of The Prairie Years, Carl Sandburg's biog­raphy of Abraham Lincoln. In addition, I carried two small busts of Lin­coln—my state's most celebrated leader—hoping he would be known even in Aden.
I left Washington, D.C., early enough to visit Syria before heading south to Aden. Syria had not had normal diplomatic relations with the United States since the 1967 war with Israel, and despite its growing importance, no member of the House of Representatives had visited there for five years. To my surprise, President Hafez Assad of Syria agreed to receive me without advance appointment. Perhaps he was intrigued by the presence of a U.S. congressman who said he had an open mind about Middle East issues.
Assad received me in the spacious second-floor reception room of his offices. A tall, thickset man with a prominent forehead and a warm, quiet manner, Assad made his points forcefully but without a hint of hostility. While sipping small cups of rich Syrian coffee, he voiced his pain over the United States' support of Israel's actions: "We are bitter
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about the guns and ammunition you provide to Israel, and why not? But bitterness is not hostility. In fact, we have very warm feelings about the American people. Despite the war, the Syrian people like Americans and have for years."
While sympathizing, I took the initiative, urging him to restore full diplomatic relations and to take a page from the public relations book of the Israelis. I suggested that he come to the United States and take his case directly to the American people via television.
Assad responded, "Perhaps we have made some mistakes. We should have better public relations. I agree with what you say and recommend, but I don't know when I can come to the United States."
As I rose to leave, Assad said, "You have my mandate to invite mem­bers of your Congress to visit Syria as soon as possible. They will be most welcome. We want those who are critical as well as those who are friends to come."
While I later personally extended Assad's invitation to many of my colleagues and then, in a detailed official report, to all of them, few accepted. The first congressional group did not arrive until 1978, four years later.
After my interview with Assad, I was driven late at night from Dam­ascus to Beirut for the flight to Aden. As our car approached the Syria-Lebanon border, I could hear the sound of Israel's shelling of Leb­anon's Mt. Hermon. It was a sobering reminder that, seven years after the 1967 war, the fighting still continued.
In 1974 Beirut was still the "Paris of the Middle East," a western­like city with a lively nightlife and bustling commerce. A new Holiday Inn had just opened near the harbor. Every street seemed to boast two international banks, at least three bookstores, and a dozen restaurants. A year later the Holiday Inn became a battleground between Phalangist militia, backed by Israel, and the Lebanese left coalition, including Pales­tinians, which were helped by various Arab governments and by Moscow. Its walls were ripped open by shells, its rooftop pavilion littered with the bodies of fallen snipers. The vicious civil war, which began in 1975, had turned Beirut into a city of rubble.
But even in 1974, the Palestinians in the refugee camps did not share the prosperity of the city. I passed the hovels of Sabra and Shatila, where, nine years later, the massacre of hundreds of Palestinian civilians would
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shock the world. My embassy escort said, "These miserable camps haven't improved in twenty years."
I also passed the Tel Zaatar refugee camp, whose wretched inhabi­tants would soon suffer a fate even more cruel. A year later, it was under seige for forty-five days by rightist "Christian" militias, armed and advised by Israel's Labor government. Fifteen thousand Palestinians were killed, many of them after the camp surrendered. Virtually every adult male survivor was executed. That slaughter was barely noted by the world press. Today hardly anyone, save the Palestinians, remembers it.
At that time, the spring of 1974, however, I had no premonition of the tragedies to come. I boarded the Aden-bound plane at Beirut with just one person's tragedy on my mind—that of Ed Franklin.
Mission in Aden
In Aden, to my surprise and pleasure, I was met by a delegation of five youthful officials, three of them cabinet ministers. Mine was the only gray hair in sight that night. The group had stayed up until 2:00 a.m. to meet the plane. "Welcome. We have your quarters ready," said the gov­ernment's chief of protocol. Good news! This meant, I felt, that I would not be stuck off in a hotel room. My quarters turned out to be a ram­bling old building which, in imperial days, was the residence of the Brit­ish air commander. A tree-shaded terrace—a rarity in Aden—looked over the great harbor, a strategic prize ever since white men first rounded the Cape of Good Hope in the sixteenth century. Blackbirds chattered overhead.
I received permission to visit Franklin at 7:15 that first night. I found him under guard in an apartment on the second floor of a small mod­ern building. When I entered, he was standing by a couch in the living room. We had never seen each other before.
"I presume you are Congressman Findley," he said.
Despite the emotion of the occasion, I smiled, sensing how Dr. Liv­ingston must have felt years before in Africa.
After sixteen months of confinement, Franklin was thin, almost gaunt. His trousers were several sizes too big, but his blonde hair was neatly combed, his face was cleanly shaved, and he was surprisingly well tanned. He looked much older than his thirty-four years.
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We were able to talk alone. I said, "You're thin, but you look well." He answered, "I'm very glad you came, and I feel pretty well. Much bet­ter now that you're here. A few days ago when I used a mirror for the first time in months, I was shocked at how I look." He said he developed the tan from daily exercise in the prison yard, adding that he had been trans­ferred to the flat two days before, obviously because authorities did not want me to see the prison.
"Here is a box of food items your family asked me to deliver." When I said that, his face, which until then had displayed no emotion, fell. "I guess this means I am not going home with you."
I said, "I don't know."
Franklin changed the subject. "I had to leave my Bible at the prison. I hated to, because I like to read it every day."
I said, "Many people have been praying for you."
He responded, "Yes, I knew at once, even before I got word in let­ters from home. I could feel it."
Franklin told me he had not been physically abused but said the food was terrible and some of the rules bothered him. "I am not allowed to have a pen and paper. I like to write. I once wrote poetry on a sack, but then my pencil was discovered and taken from me. Still, I like the Arab world. Maybe someday when the American embassy is reopened, I could even get a job here."
I assured him: "I'll do my very best to secure your release, or at least shorten your term. That's why I'm here, and I'll try to see you again before I leave. I'll also try to get approval for you to have a pencil and paper."
On the way back to my quarters, I passed on Franklin's request for writing materials to my escort officer, who answered simply, "I will report your request." I spent Friday, a Muslim day of worship, touring the nearby desolate countryside. The main tourist attraction was an ancient, massive stone that was used to store the area's scarce rainfall. That evening the British consul, a compassionate man who had occa­sionally delivered reading material to Franklin, joined me for dinner. The British had long ago understood the importance of maintaining diplomatic relations even with hostile regimes and, shortly after their stormy departure from Aden, they established an embassy there.
On Saturday morning Foreign Minister M. J. Motie came to my quarters for a long discussion of United States-Yemen relations. The
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plight of the Palestinians under Israeli occupation was at the top of his agenda, Franklin at the top of mine. He complained, "The United States is helping Saudi Arabia foment subversion along Yemen's borders." I told him I was troubled by this charge, was unaware of such activity, and hoped to help improve relations. Motie responded, "While the past is not good, the present looks better, but we need a substantial sign of friend­ship. For example, we need aid in buying wheat."
After the discussion, I spent a long and fruitless afternoon trying to fill a shopping list my family had sent with me. The bazaar had little but cheap Japanese radios and a few trinkets. It had even fewer shoppers. I returned to the guest house empty-handed, only to find an assortment of gifts, each neatly wrapped. Among them was zjambia, the traditional curved Yemeni dagger, and a large ceremonial pipe. The gifts were accompanied by a card bearing the words: "With the compliments of the president."
Were these gifts merely sweeteners to take the place of Franklin on my homeward journey? Or were they a harbinger of success? I dared not believe the latter. I had received no hint that the government would even shorten Franklin's sentence. At least it had acceded to his request for paper and pencil.
My second visit with Franklin was more relaxed than the first. He accepted the pencils and paper I brought him with the comment, "I hope I won't need them except for tonight." I responded that I had no reason to hope he would be able to leave with me, but that, strictly on my own hunch, I felt that he would be released soon.
I met with President Ali the night before my scheduled departure inside the heavily guarded compound where the president both lived and had his offices. I was ushered into a long reception hall adorned with blue flowered carpeting and gold drapes that covered three walls. The fourth side opened into a large courtyard. Two rows of ceiling fans whirred overhead. In the center of this large hall was a lonely group of gold upholstered sofas and chairs.
By the time I reached the circle of furniture, President Ali, the for­eign minister of Aden, and an interpreter were walking through the same door I had entered. The president needed no introduction. I had seen Ali's picture in many places around Aden, but frankly it did him little justice. He was a tall, well-built man of forty. His black hair had a touch
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of gray. His skin was dark, his bearing dignified. He was soft-spoken, and two gold teeth glistened when he smiled. After we exchanged greet­ings, I thanked him for his hospitality and for the gifts. Then I launched into my own presentation of gifts: first the book and bust, then the scholarships.
What he was waiting for, of course, was the letter from Kissinger, which would indicate the weight the United States gave my mission. When I handed it to him, I tried to broaden its importance.
"Perhaps Your Excellency will permit me to explain," I said. This letter formally presents the desire of the United States to reestablish diplomatic relations. This is important. Our government needs these relations in order to understand Aden's policies and problems. The pres­ident of the United States and the secretary of state are limited in for­eign policy. They can do only whatever the Congress will support, so it is also important for congressmen to gain a better understanding of Aden's situation and of the Arab world in general."
Ali responded: "Aden is the shining example of the republic. Other areas of our country are quite different. The people are much poorer." I gulped. I had seen only Aden, Ali's "shining example," which struck me as very poor, so I could only guess at conditions elsewhere.
While I took notes, Ali told me that the antipoverty efforts of his government were handicapped by "subversion" from neighboring states. He said, bluntly, "The belief is held by the people of our country that all suffering, all damage caused by subversives, is really the work of the United States government. All military equipment we capture is United States equipment." Some of it, he said, was outside this building, placed there for me to examine.
I interjected that this information was not known in the United States, and I underscored the need for diplomatic relations so this sort of injury would stop. He nodded. "I favor relations with the United States, but they must relate to grievances now seen by my people." He added, "Aden does not wish to be isolated from the United States."
Ali thanked me for the gifts, indicating the interview was over. I sensed this was my long-awaited opportunity, my chance to launch into an appeal for Franklin.
It was not needed. Ali interrupted by saying simply, "Regarding the prisoner, as soon as I heard of your interest in him, I saw to it that he
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received preferential treatment. I have carefully considered your request and your desire that he be released. I have decided to grant your request. When you want him, you may have him."
I could scarcely believe what I had heard. "When you want him, you may have him." I was so overcome with joy I half-stumbled leaving the room. Franklin was free. In fact, he was waiting at my quarters when I returned. We were on the plane at 6:00 the next morning, headed for Beirut, and then to New York and finally St. Louis, where a joyous fam­ily welcomed Franklin home.
I am convinced that the main reason for Franklins release was the decision by our government to probe ever so cautiously for better rela­tions with Yemen. Caution was necessary, because there were those in both nations who did not wish to see relations improved. Ali was the least Marxist of a three-man ruling junta. In the State Department, even some "Arabists," still resentful over Yemen's expulsion of the United States presence years before, rejected Aden as nothing but a "training ground for PLO terrorists." Others, such as Kissinger, felt differently. Ed Frank­lin had provided the opportunity to begin the probing.
But the U.S. government fiddled, hedged, and stalled for three years. Jimmy Carter replaced Gerald Ford in the White House, and Cyrus Vance became secretary of state. Our government turned down Aden's request to buy wheat on credit, then refused to consider a bid to buy three used airliners. The United States kept putting off even prelimi­nary talks. At a second meeting with me in September 1977—this time in New York, where he addressed the United Nations—Ali restated his desire for renewed relations with the United States and suggested that I report our discussion to Secretary of State Vance. I did so, and after my report, Vance and Foreign Minister Motie of South Yemen agreed to exploratory talks. To me, this appeared like a momentous breakthrough. The talks were to begin in Aden in just a few weeks, shortly after New Year's Day. Sadly, procrastination took over.
No precise date for the meetings had been set when I returned to the Middle East with a number of other congressmen in January 1978. I altered my own itinerary to include a side trip to Aden. Before I left the group, we met with Secretary of State Vance, whose travels happened to cross ours, and with Saudi Arabia's Crown Prince Fahd, a large, impres­sive man who spoke eloquent English and who would soon become the
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Saudi monarch. Fahd spoke approvingly of my efforts in Aden and asked me to tell officials there that Saudi Arabia was ready to resume sending them economic aid.
"It's a Good Omen"
As I saw when I arrived, the scene in Aden had improved. South Yemen had already exchanged ambassadors with former enemy Saudi Arabia, even though the two nations still had disputes over territory. Aden had also just agreed to diplomatic relations with Jordan. The local radio sta­tion no longer harangued American and Saudi "imperialists." This time my wife, Lucille, accompanied me. We were assigned to the same guest house I had used before, where the principal change was the presence of a well-stocked refrigerator.
President Ali received us, this time with an honor guard, in the same spacious hall we had used before. Although he avoided comment on Saudi Arabia's offer of aid, Ali spoke of Crown Prince Fahd with great warmth.
Then he added, "We are looking forward to the expected arrival of the diplomatic delegation from the United States before the end of the month." I am sure my face fell. I knew the delegation was not coming that month. In fact, the mission had been delayed indefinitely. A few days before, Vance had told me the bad news but had not explained why. When I expressed the hope that Ali had been notified of the delay, Vance had replied, "We will take care of it." Unfortunately, no one had.
Ali was left waiting, day by day, for a group that would not arrive. I did not feel free to tell him of the change, so I listened and tried to look hopeful. I knew the delay would strengthen his local critics, who opposed reconciliation with the United States.
I changed the subject. "Some of our strategists say you have let the Soviets establish a naval base here. Do you have a comment?"
He strongly protested. "That is not true. We do not allow the Sovi­ets, or any foreign nation, to have a military base in our territory. But we do cooperate with the Soviets because they help us." Ali concluded our discussion by giving me a message to Washington:
Please extend my warm greetings to President Carter. Kindly inform him that we are eager to maintain smooth and friendly relations between
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Democratic Yemen and the United States. We recognize that President Carter is concerned about maintaining friendly relations with all coun­tries. We feel that is a positive policy. We believe our relations should be further strengthened.
As we parted, I gave Ali a pottery vase our daughter Diane had made for him. He said, "That's very nice. Please thank your daughter. I admire it." Then he stepped to the door to admire something else—rain, which is a rarity in Aden.
"Its a good omen," he said.
I left Aden more convinced than ever that diplomatic relations would help the United States and our friends in the region. The United States and Saudi Arabia had a common interest in minimizing the Soviet pres­ence in South Yemen. We needed a diplomatic mission there. Back in Washington, I missed no opportunity to press this recommendation on Secretary Vance and the White House staff.
At the White House a month later, I was able to make a personal appeal to President Jimmy Carter. Carter said he was "surprised and pleased" by Ali s message: "His words are surprisingly warm. We've been hoping to improve our situation there." I urged that there be no further delays. "Another cancellation would be baffling to President Ali, to say the least," I cautioned. Carter thanked me and assured me that he would "take care of the matter."
Carter was true to his word. Five months after my last meeting with Ali, a team of State Department officials arranged to visit Aden on June 26, 1978, for "exploratory talks" to discuss, "in a noncommittal way," the resumption of diplomatic negotiations. Ali was to meet them on the day of their arrival.
It was too late. Aden's Marxist hard-liners had decided to act. Con­cerned by Ali's initiatives for improved relations with the United States and Saudi Arabia, radicals seized fighter planes, strafed the presidential quarters, took control of the government, and, on the day the U.S. del­egation was scheduled to arrive, arrested Ali. He was executed by a fir­ing squad. Ambassador Ashtal called from New York to tell me the delegation would still be welcome, but that the U.S. mission was scrubbed. After traveling as far as Sana'a, the capital of North Yemen, the State Department officials returned to Washington.
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Distressed over the execution of Ali, I asked Ashtal for an explana­tion. He replied, "Its an internal matter of no concern to the outside world." Still, Alis fate troubled me. It still does. I have often wondered whether my goodwill visit and Ali s decision to release Franklin con­tributed to the president s downfall and death.
My journeys to Aden had broad personal implications. After years on Capitol Hill, I heard for the first time the Arab perspective, particularly the plight of the Palestinians. I began to read about the Middle East, talk with experts, and try to understand the region. Arabs emerged as human beings.
Reports of my experiences made the rounds, and soon my office became a stopping place for people going to and from the Middle East— scholars, business people, clerics, government officials. It was unusual for anyone in Congress to visit Arab countries and take an interest in their problems. I began to speak out in Congress. I argued from what I considered to be a U.S. viewpoint—neither pro-Israel nor pro-Arab. I declared that our unwillingness to talk directly to the political leaders of the Palestinians, like our reluctance to talk to President Ali in Yemen, handicapped our search for peace. Diplomatic communication with other parties, however alien, however small, is a convenience to our gov­ernment. It does not need to be viewed as an endorsement. Thus, I asked, why not talk directly to PLO Chairman Yasser Arafat, the acknowledged political voice of the Palestinians? One reason, I discovered, was that Henry Kissinger, who had provided help on my road to Aden, had agreed to an Israeli request, under which the U.S. government would not communicate formally with the PLO until the organization recognized the right of Israel to exist. It was a tough demand, especially in light of Israels flat refusal to accept a Palestinian state as its neighbor, but Kissinger had agreed to it.
To help break the ice, I decided to communicate with Arafat myself, not to negotiate anything but to serve, as best I could, as a bridge of information between the U.S. government and an important Arab com­munity. I met the PLO leader for the first time in January 1978 in Dam­ascus, just before meeting with Ali in Aden for what would be the last time. Before the meeting with Arafat, I had the same misgivings that I felt before going to Aden four years earlier. Meeting Arafat crossed the line that Kissinger, at Israels demand, had drawn.
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"I Stand Behind the Words"
To my surprise I discovered that Arafat, who received us in a heavily guarded second-floor apartment, was not a wild-eyed, gun-waving fanatic. Welcoming our small group, which included Mrs. Findley and several other members of Congress, he spoke softly and listened atten­tively. He was bareheaded and nearly bald. This took us by surprise, because in public he was always attired in the Palestinian headdress or military cap. To questions about PLO terrorism, he repeated his usual litany, but coming directly from his lips the words had added force: "I am a freedom fighter. We are fighting for justice for our people, the four million Palestinians dispossessed and scattered by three decades of war."
Later that year, I had a second and more productive meeting with the PLO leader, again in Damascus. This time I was alone. With Arafat were Abu Hassan, his security leader who was soon to die in a car bomb­ing in Beirut, and Mahmoud Labadi, his public affairs officer, who later deserted Arafat and joined Syrian-supported hard-liners. Such was the ferment in the Palestinian community. I wanted Arafat to clarify the terms under which the PLO would live at peace with Israel. Was he ready to recognize Israel? In a four-hour discussion that stretched late into the night, he provided the answer. Working carefully word by word, and phrase by phrase, he fashioned a statement and authorized me to report it to Carter—and to the public.
The PLO will accept an independent Palestinian state consisting of the West Bank and Gaza, with a connecting corridor, and in that circumstance will renounce any and all violent means to enlarge the territory of that state. I would reserve the right of course to use non-violent, that is to say diplomatic and democratic means, to bring about the eventual unification of all of Pales­tine. We will give de facto recognition to the State of Israel. We would live at peace with all our neighbors. —Damascus, November 30, 1978.
I wrote the words on a legal sheet and read them back several times so he could ponder their full meaning. I asked Arafat if he would sign his name on the paper bearing the words. He answered, "No, I prefer not to sign my name, but I stand behind the words. You may quote me."
I was elated, perhaps too much so. Arafat s pledge contrasted sharply with the harsh rhetoric of earlier Palestinian public statements which
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called, in effect, for the elimination of the State of Israel. It was not, of course, everything Israel or the United States would want, but it was an encouraging start, and it belied the image of the fanatic who believed only in violence. During the long interview we covered many points, and, determined to protect my credibility, I asked Arafat to identify statements he did not wish to make public. The carefully drafted pledge was not one of these. He wanted the world to know what he pledged, and, clearly, he expected a positive response from President Carter. To use one of the PLO leader s favorite expressions, he had "played a card" in authorizing me to transmit this statement. It was a step beyond any­thing his organization had officially proclaimed before.
Tragically, it brought no reaction from the U.S. government. I later learned that Secretary of State Vance privately recommended that the administration "take note" of it, but his suggestion was rejected. In a subsequent interview on NBC's Meet the Press, Arafat—always a nimble actor—sidestepped questions about the pledge. Carter's newly appointed special ambassador to the Middle East, Robert Strauss, a prominent Democrat who had previously served as chairman of the Democratic National Committee, was intrigued by my communication with Arafat and became a frequent visitor to my office.
I often thought that bringing Arafat and Strauss together would be important to the peace process. The fact that Strauss is Jewish would have helped thousands of Jews in Israel put aside their government s hard line. But Strauss, despite his unique intimate relationship with Carter and his demonstrated ability to negotiate complicated problems on both the international and domestic scene, never received full presidential backing on the Middle East. Late in his diplomatic mission, just before he was shifted to the chairmanship of Carter s ill-fated campaign for re­election, Strauss told me, "If I had had my way, I would have been talk­ing directly to Arafat months ago."
I found myself being drawn deeper into Middle East politics. Early one Sunday, Assistant Secretary of State Harold Saunders called for help. At Arafat's behest, Kuwait was demanding consideration of a United Nations resolution that was sympathetic to the Palestinians. The United States, because of Israels objections, would not support it, but did not want to go on record against it. The vote was scheduled for the following Tuesday. Saunders hoped that, given more time, he could find
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a formula that would satisfy both the Arab states and the United States. Mindful of Carter's rule against even informal talks with the PLO, Saunders carefully avoided directly asking that I call Arafat. Neverthe­less, I knew Saunders well enough to grasp the real purpose of his call to me. I told him I would try to persuade Arafat to postpone the sched­uled vote.
My call to Arafat's office went through instantly, which was unusual for the chaotic Beirut exchange. I urged Arafat to postpone the UN vote, arguing that the delay would cost him nothing and would earn him U.S. gratitude. Two hours later Kuwait postponed the vote. That same week­end, Carter's ambassador to the UN, Andrew Young, had acted less cau­tiously than Saunders. He'd met to discuss the same issue with Zuhdi Labib Terzi, the PLO observer at the UN. So firm was Carter's edict against talking with the PLO that this incident led to Young's resignation.
I was soon on the phone again with the State Department. This time my help, through Arafat, was needed in getting the U.S. hostages out of our embassy in Tehran. In our 1978 meeting, Arafat had told me of his close relationship with the revolutionaries in Iran. I saw this crisis as an opportunity for Arafat to help in a humanitarian cause and, perhaps, to open the door for peaceful discussions on a broader scale. This time Arafat was away from headquarters, but I had a long talk with his deputy, Mahmoud Labadi, whom I had met during my second interview with Arafat.
Labadi reminded me that Arafat had taken my advice on the UN confrontation but, in Labadi's words, "got nothing in return." He was right. Labadi told me he disagreed with me regarding the situation in Iran but would carefully report my recommendation to his leader. Once more, Arafat cooperated. He sent an envoy to Khomeini, and, accord­ing to Saunders, that envoy successfully arranged the release of the first eleven hostages.
For this, the Carter administration thanked Arafat privately—very privately. Publicly, the Carter spokesmen did nothing to discourage the unfounded speculation that the PLO had actually conspired with Iran to seize the hostages. The reverse was true. Just before he left office, Vance told me that he was in "almost daily" communication with Arafat and his staff, enlisting PLO help during the protracted Iranian hostage ordeal, but he never said so publicly.
Rescue and Involvement 5
On several occasions during off-the-record meetings at the White House, I urged Carter to publicly acknowledge Arafat's moderate coop­erative course. I was warned that failure to do so would strengthen more radical forces. I later learned that Vice President Walter Mondale, more than any other personality in the administration, had argued persua­sively against making any public statements that acknowledged PLO cooperation.
Labadi never forgave Arafat for this cooperation. He later deserted the PLO leader and joined the rebels who were laying siege to Arafat at Tripoli.
Turmoil in the Middle West
While I was organizing my one-man peace initiative, my critics were organizing to throw me out of office. Partisans back home, who had watched my re-election margins grow to 70 percent in 1978, correctly surmised that my unusual activities in foreign policy would provide them the money to attack me in the upcoming elections. In the spring of 1979, an aggressive former state legislator, David Robinson, strongly encour­aged by pro-Israel activists, began campaigning full-time for the Dem­ocratic nomination for the congressional seat I had held for nineteen years. Three months before the March 1980 primary, David Nuessen, the popular Republican mayor of Quincy, Illinois, challenged my renom-ination in a professionally managed campaign that was supported mainly by pro-Israel political action committees and individuals. Their contri­butions financed a relentless pummeling that bruised me more than I realized. I squeaked through the primary with only 55 percent of the vote.
It was a year of surprises, the greatest being the reaction to my can­didacy of Dr. Arthur Burns, former chairman of the Federal Reserve Board and, in 1980, the U.S. ambassador to the Federal Republic of Germany. Just after the primary election, I explained my campaign chal­lenge in a telephone conversation with him. Burns responded generously, "We simply cannot afford to lose you. Your re-election is very important to the entire nation." Gratified, I made a modest request: "If you will put those sentiments in a letter I can use in the campaign, that would be a great help."
5 They Dare to Speak Out
His endorsement was not a high priority objective. In fact, I did not even think to ask for it until he praised my record, but I expected Burns to agree without hesitation, as we had been friends throughout my career. Our views on fiscal and economic policies were identical.
His answer was the deepest wound in a traumatic year: "Oh, I couldn't do that. Its your views on the PLO. I'm sorry." I was stupefied. I am used to surprises—and disappointments—but his refusal left me speechless. No event, before or since, disclosed to me so forcefully the leverage of the pro-Israel lobby on the U.S. political scene. This great, kind, generous Jewish elder statesman, a personal friend, could not ignore the lobby and say a public good word for my candidacy. I report this episode for this reason: If an otherwise stalwart man like Burns felt intim­idated, lesser men and women who do speak out are truly courageous.
Meanwhile, Democrat Robinson solicited campaign contributions by advertising in Jewish newspapers throughout the country, where he called me a "practicing anti-Semite, who is one of the worst enemies that Jews and Israel have ever faced in the history of the U.S. Congress." He drew funds from each of the fifty states. Robinson and I raised about $600,000 each. It was the most expensive congressional campaign in Illinois history. College students from both coasts and in between came to central Illinois on Robinson's behalf, manning phone banks and can­vassing door-to-door.
Midway through my speech to the Chicago Council on Foreign Relations, a man burst into the hall and shouted, "We've received a call. There's a bomb in the room." The crowd of five hundred made a fast exit. The police later found a pipe loaded with bubble gum in the grand piano on the stage. Later, Robinson activists converged on Detroit, Michigan, where I was a delegate to the Republican convention, to picket and amuse onlookers with the chant, "Paul, Paul, he must go. He sup­ports the PLO."
Trapped on a Bos with Percy
At first, my plight escaped the attention of the Ronald Reagan presi­dential campaign. In fact, when Reagan's scheduling office learned that I was having a fundraising luncheon in Springfield, his manager asked if Reagan could stop by, as he would be nearby that day. That unsolicited
Rescue and Involvement 5
warmth quickly chilled. New York City organizers warned Reagan's man­agers: "Appear friendly with Findley and you lose New York." This led them to take unusual measures to keep their candidate a safe distance from me.
Springfield, located in the heart of my district, posed a problem, because it was the home of the first Republican president, Abraham Lin­coln, and therefore a "must visit" for the party's presidential candidates. During a day in Illinois, a candidate simply could not pass by Springfield. The Reagan team was concerned about how to make the expected pil­grimage and still keep me out of camera range.
Greg Newell, chief of scheduling, first planned to finesse the prob­lem by having Reagan deliver a major address from the steps of the Lin­coln home at the very moment he knew I would be attending my major fundraiser of the year halfway across town. Just for insurance, Newell moved Reagan's Springfield appearance to the Lincoln Tomb, all the way across town. He also scrubbed Reagan's speech, a move designed to min­imize press interest in the Springfield stop.
I realized, however, that most of my supporters would also want to see Reagan when he came to town. To accommodate them (and to assure good attendance at my own function), I rescheduled my fundraiser early enough so those attending—myself included—could also attend the Reagan appearance at the tomb.
Reagan's manager passed on an order quietly, or so they thought, that read: "Under no circumstance is Findley to get near Reagan," even though elsewhere in Illinois, congressional candidates were to appear on speaking platforms with him. Learning of the order, Don Norton, my campaign manager, vented his outrage to Reagan's headquarters. The Reagan team shifted gears again. This time they declared that all con­gressmen were to be treated alike during the day in Illinois: none was to share a platform with Reagan. Representative Ed Madigan, who later became Reagan's secretary of agriculture, was irritated to learn that he would have to either speak before Reagan's arrival in Bloomington that day or wait until Reagan had left the platform. Madigan opted to make no speech at all.
At Springfield, Reagan campaign staffer Paul Russo had only one assignment, but it was an important one. He was to keep me out of cam­era range when Reagan was nearby. Unaware at the time of the panic of
5 They Dare to Speak Out
Reagan's crew, I was literally corralled behind a rope fifty feet away while Reagan was photographed in the ceremonial "rubbing Lincoln's nose" on a statue at the tomb entrance.
At the next stop, a coal mine near Springfield, Russo's team tried to keep me on a bus and in the process trapped my friend, Senator Charles H. Percy, too. Their goal was to keep only me away from Reagan during his remarks to the crowd. But Percy had the misfortune to be on the bus with me, so he too was detained. Together we managed to force the door open, but only after Reagan had concluded his remarks and left the area.
Bob Hope Backs Bot
The Reagan team's panic even spread to Hollywood. Bob Hope, who never wavered under enemy fire on war fronts in World War II and who withstood heavy criticism for his support of President Nixon's Vietnam policies, encountered a new and more devastating line of fire when he agreed to appear at a fundraising event for me in Springfield.
Two years earlier I had organized a seventy-fifth birthday party for Hope in the House of Representatives in Washington. It was the most fun-filled moment in the chamber that I can remember. Hope and his wife sat in the gallery as one congressman after another voiced praise of the great entertainer. The tributes filled fourteen pages of the Congres­sional Record. Gratefully recalling the unique party, Hope agreed to help with my 1980 campaign. His manager, Ward Grant, knowing from the start I was being opposed by pro-Israel activists because of my work on Middle East policy, declared, "We need men in Congress who speak their mind." Coast-to-coast pressure quickly brought a change. Don Norton recalled receiving an urgent telephone message from Hope's manager:
Grant told me that Hope was getting tremendous pressure from Jews and non-Jews all over the country. He said it's gotten to the point where Hope's lawyer of thirty-five years, who is Jewish, has threatened to quit. The pres­sure was beyond belief, like nothing they had ever experienced before, and Hope just couldn't come.
Stunned, Norton pleaded that the event was widely publicized, all arrangements were made, tickets were sold, and enthusiasm was high. His plea was to no avail. When Norron told me of the crisis, I tried to
Rescue and Involvement 5
get a call through to Hope himself, hoping to persuade him to reconsider. Failing to get a call through, I wrote a confidential letter, giving Hope details of my unpublicized endeavors the year before to promote under­standing between PLO leader Arafat and Robert Strauss, President Carter's special emissary to the Middle East. I sent him copies of mes­sages I had transmitted at the request of the two leaders. I asked Hope to keep the information confidential, because the U.S. government was maintaining a public posture of refusing to communicate with the PLO. My letter brought no response, nor were my phone calls returned.
Happily, Strauss—a prominent Democrat and a Jew—agreed to help. Encountering him one afternoon on the steps of the House of Rep­resentatives, I explained my problem and asked him to talk to Hope. By then Strauss had left his diplomatic post and was chairman of Carter's campaign for re-election. In a remarkable gesture of magnanimity to a Republican in the midst of a hotly contested election, Strauss agreed, adding, "Maybe I can help him understand the 'crazy' pressure he is get­ting." He gave me phone numbers where Hope could reach him. In a wire to Hope I said: " [Strauss] will be glad to talk with you or anyone about the value of my work and what he described as the 'crazy pressure' you have been receiving."
By then, however, the "crazy pressure" had taken its toll, and Hope never made the call. I still have a souvenir of my chat with Strauss. It bears the phone number he gave me and my record of his parting words: "I wish you the best. I hope we both make it November 4, because we need to work together on the problems that remain."
A few days later, I finally got a call through to Hope. He was not his usual bubbly self. I assured him it had never occurred to me that he would have such an avalanche of protest calls, but now that the event had been scheduled, it would hurt if he failed to come.
Hope interjected: "I read those letters you sent me. You should go public on this. Defend yourself with the facts." I responded, "I just can't do that. It is highly secret information, and releasing it might hurt the peace process Carter is trying to advance." He paused, then said, "I just don't need this problem. I've been getting all these calls. It's too much pressure. I don't want to get involved."
Hope did not come. Happily, only one ticket holder asked for a refund. The sellout crowd heard a stirring address by my friend and
5 They Dare to Speak Out
colleague, Representative Guy Vander Jagt of Michigan, who agreed to fill in at the last minute.
Lobby pressure also intervened when former President Gerald R. Ford agreed to appear in my behalf, this time in Alton, Illinois. The first sign of trouble was a call from Palm Springs, in which Ford's secretary reported that the former president had to cancel his date because his staff had mistakenly booked him to speak at a meeting of the Michigan Bar Association the same day. There was no other time that Ford could speak for me, the caller said, before election day. To determine if some accommodation could be arranged, Bob Wichser, my assistant, called the Michigan Bar Association, only to learn that there was no conflict— no event was scheduled on the day in question.
I was puzzled. I had worked closely with Ford during the sixteen years he was Republican leader of the House, noting with admiration that he had never let disagreement on a policy issue keep him from cam­paigning for Republican congressmen seeking re-election. When I finally reached Ford by phone, he said, "Paul, I've got to be up-front with you. I've got to be candid. If I come out and support you, at every press con­ference I will be badgered and dogged with the question of how I could campaign for Reagan and then go and support Findley with his views on the PLO."
Despite these setbacks and the nationwide campaign against me, I won in 1980 with 56 percent of the vote. I assumed the worst was over. What more could the pro-Israeli activists do? Accordingly, I continued my endeavors for Middle East peace and did not anticipate the severe new challenges related to the Arab-Israeli dispute that were yet to come. In late 1981a federal court, responding to shifts in population, ordered boundary changes in my district that removed Jacksonville, my old hometown, and added, Decatur, the city with the nation's highest unem­ployment. Marginally Democratic before the border changes, the new district was now substantially so. In addition, local industry was in a deep depression and farmers were restless.
I was unopposed in the 1982 primary, but a strong Democratic opponent, Richard Durbin, emerged in the general election. Experienced and popular, he quickly picked up the resources that Robinson had amassed, including Robinson's list of. nationwide contributors. The Asso­ciated Press reported: "Israel's American supporters again are pouring
Rescue and Involvement 5
money into an emotional drive to unseat Central Illinois Representative Paul Findley." On the plus side, Reagan's lieutenants were helping me this time. Vice President George H. W. Bush, my former House colleague, brushed aside pro-Israeli complaints from Texas and appeared at an event on my behalf in Springfield.
This time, re-election was not to be. I lost by 1,407 votes, less than 1 percent of the total cast. In a vote that close, almost any negative devel­opment could account for the difference. The attack by pro-Israel activ­ists was only one of several factors. Nevertheless, the American Israel Public Affairs Committee (AIPAC), Washington's principal pro-Israel lobby, claimed credit for my defeat. In a report to a Jewish gathering in Austin, Texas, a few days after election day, Thomas A. Dine, the orga­nization's executive director, said his forces brought 150 students from the University of Illinois to my district to "pound the pavements and knock on doors." He concluded, "This is a case where the Jewish lobby made a difference. We beat the odds and defeated Findley." He later esti­mated that $685,000 of the $750,000 raised by Durbin came from Jews. With my supporters raising almost exactly the same sum, the contest once again set a new state recording for total campaign spending.
No Ready Answers
The campaign to remove me from Congress started early in 1979 and spanned most of the next four years. It attracted the attention and finan­cial resources of pro-Israel people in every state in the Union. Reports from friends suggested its national scope. Senator Bob Dole of Kansas, my seatmate on the House Agriculture Committee for six years, told me he heard pro-Israel leaders in Kansas speak with great emotional inten­sity about my candidacy both before and after election day. Clarence Palmby, the former undersecretary of agriculture, learned that my defeat was the principal 1982 political objective of the partners in a large New York City law firm.
After twenty-two years in Congress, losing was, of course, a disap­pointment. But my main reaction was wonderment. I was puzzled by the behavior of the pro-Israel activists. Why did they go to such trouble to eliminate me from Congress? WJvy did people from all over the coun­try, who did not know me personally and very likely knew little of my
5 They Dare to Speak Out
record, dig so deeply into their own pockets, many of them contribut­ing $1,000 to my opponents? What sustained this commitment for a four-year period?
Israeli activists could find few flaws in my voting record. Over the years I voted consistently for aid to Israel. Sometimes I was critical of Egypt and other Arab states. Even when, in an effort to force Israel to halt its attacks on Lebanon, I tried to get President Carter to suspend aid, I voted for all measures that authorized future military and economic aid to Israel. Interestingly, many Israelis and U.S. Jews shared my views about the Arab-Israeli dispute. Beyond Middle East policy, I supported causes that most Jews applauded: civil rights, community action pro­grams, equal rights for women, a freeze on nuclear weapons, and nor­malization of relations with China.
Moreover, I was but one of 435 members of the House of Repre­sentatives. While senior among Republicans, I was just one of nine on the Foreign Affairs Subcommittee dealing with the Middle East. When I criticized Israel, whether I spoke in committee or on the floor of the House of Representatives, I almost always stood alone. Surely the lobby for Israel realized that I posed no serious threat. Could Israel's support­ers not tolerate even one lonely voice of dissent?
Or was the lobby's goal to make an example of me in the Elizabethan tradition? According to legend, Queen Elizabeth occasionally hanged an admiral just to keep others on their toes. Was I chosen for a trip to the political gallows to discourage other congressmen from speaking out?
I could not reconcile the harsh tactics I experienced with the tradi­tional Jewish advocacy of civil liberties, a record I had admired all my life. In Congress, I worked closely with Jewish colleagues, including Allard Lowenstein and Ben Gilman. In my wonderment, I pressed Doug Bloomfield, a friend on the AIPAC staff, for an explanation. He shrugged. "You were the most visible critic of Israeli policy. That's the best answer I can give." It was hardly adequate.
The unanswered questions led to others.
Do other congressmen have similar experiences? To be sure, those who speak out are few in number, but it seemed implausible that the lobby would target me alone. I wanted the facts. What about the presi­dent and the vast array of "movers and shakers" employed in the execu­tive branch? What pressures, if any, do they experience? A lobby
Rescue and Involvement 5
formidable enough to intimidate two former presidents of the United States must have great leverage at the highest levels of government.
What of those in other occupations? The lobby had forced Bob Hope to back down. Did it have similar power over people in different professions? On campus, for example, does tenure and the tradition of academic freedom give immunity to teachers and administrators from the kind of pressure I received? Do members of the clergy escape it? How about people in business, large and small? And, vitally important in our free society, how about reporters, columnists, editorial writers, publishers, and the commentators on television and radio?
Deep questions. To me, crucial questions.
There were no ready answers, so I decided to seek them. I began my quest by calling the Capitol Hill offices of the American Israel Public Affairs Committee.
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