The Prophet Motive [antikvár]

Introduction 'They can't keep all those territories. How can they administrate them?' 'Eshkol is no Ben Gurion.' 'Golda Meir is no EshkoL' 'Eban is no Dayan.' 'It's not only a question of administration. Those territories aren't theirs, don't you see?' 'What about the atrocity stories? My God, that they can even talk of atrocities committed by Jews! Do you believe them?' When there was no reply; 'Can they be true?' Shreds of conversation, overheard on the plane between Athens and Tel-Aviv. The passengers were mostly Americans, tourists and delegates to the forthcoming Zionist Congress. How different these slightly worried, subdued, half-critical questions and remarks were from the mood of my first arrival here, almost twenty years before. My fellow-passengers now were troubled by doubts; then they were overcome by enthusiasm. When we caught sight of the Land of Israel in 1949, everyone crowded to one side of the plane, nearly overturning it; now we all remained seated and threw affectionate but self-conscious glances towards the shores. Then they sang the Jewish National Anthem, now someone simply remarked: 'We're nearly there.' Then a new immigrant, a carpenter from Glasgow, kissed not only the pretty stewardess who came in to greet us but also the customs official. A few minutes before our arrival the loudspeaker in the El-Al plane began to broadcast the hora, the Jewish national dance. Two American ladies, who had spoken with a