Known and Unknown (5 page)

Also troubling was the position of Illinois Senator Charles Percy, the chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. He was from the opposite end of the Republican spectrum from Goldwater and had previously been inclined to stick it out in Lebanon. But Percy was now saying withdrawal from Lebanon should take place “as soon as possible.”
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Indeed, there was a growing impression that a withdrawal might be ordered at any moment.

 

T
he way Syria operated during the Lebanon crisis provided an interesting insight into how smaller nations can manipulate a superpower. It also was a cautionary lesson for me in the future about how to deal with totalitarian regimes opposed to America's national security interests.

The Syrian dictatorship possessed in the extreme two qualities particularly dangerous in a military adversary—ruthlessness and patience. Like all dictatorships, the regime had the advantage of not needing to cater to its domestic opinion. It could do whatever it deemed expedient to achieve its goals. The Syrians had been playing a diplomatic game with us for decades: doing just enough to look accommodating or coming up just shy of being too provocative. They played the international media like skilled poker players—offering public words of support for peace efforts so as to be seen as not unreasonable. The Syrians would float friendly diplomatic overtures to give the regime deniability when negotiations went off-track, as they had intended all along. This left them free to pursue their hostile interests behind the scenes: destabilizing the Lebanese government and supporting armed militias and terrorist groups. At other points, the Syrians dropped any pretense of cooperation and became immovable. Even during negotiations, Syrians and their then allies, the Druze, directed relentless artillery and rocket fire on the civilian population of Beirut.

The Syrians were savvy about the U.S. government. A Jordanian official told me the Syrians had analyzed America's War Powers Resolution carefully. They knew that congressional support for our involvement in Beirut was fragile and vulnerable to the slightest shift of activity in the region.
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The Syrians believed correctly that they had the ability to force such a shift at their pleasure.

The obvious mixed signals the Syrians were receiving from Washington undoubtedly heightened that belief. Secretary Shultz and I observed that the Syrians were the most reasonable whenever the United States flew reconnaissance missions over their territories. They seemed sensitive to the proximity of American military power. When our flights were suspended, the Syrians became more intransigent. In mid-December 1983, the Department of Defense halted the reconnaissance flights without informing the State Department or our mission. It was done just at the moment we were trying to achieve concessions from the Syrian government. Even worse for American credibility, after assuring President Gemayel that the United States was going to continue to exert pressure on the Syrians, we heard through the grapevine that someone in the Department of State had tried to set up a separate, secret channel to make conciliatory overtures toward the Syrians. Here I was telling the Syrians there could be consequences for their actions while someone back in Washington was telling them just the opposite. Our delegation was blindsided.

None of these activities put me in a strong position when I arrived in Damascus on January 12, 1984, for my first meeting with one of the chief puppet masters behind the chaos in Lebanon, Syrian President Hafez al-Assad. In the best of worlds, Assad would be amenable to easing Syria's interference in Lebanon's political system and ending their support for terrorist groups. Neither prospect was likely, especially when America's negotiating position was weak. The best we could hope for was to have Assad believe he might pay a price if he went too far against American interests.

Known as the Sphinx of Damascus, Assad was a man of studied discipline and ruthless calculation. He once ordered the leveling of the entire Syrian town of Hama, murdering an estimated ten thousand to forty thousand of his own people in the process.

Assad received me in his villa south of Damascus, where he had been recovering from a heart ailment. In our three-and-a-half-hour meeting (not long by Assad standards), he plied me with a steady stream of coffee. I tried to point out the strength of America's position. I presented Assad with an overhead satellite photo of his capital city, including his presidential palace. In 1984, satellite photography was not as well known or accessible as it is today, with anyone able to use Google Earth. Back then overhead imagery was the exclusive purview of only a few technologically advanced governments, particularly ours. I gave Assad the photograph less to acknowledge his hospitality than to remind him that we were watching from above.

When our discussion turned to the business at hand, Assad was intractable. He was critical of our policy in Lebanon and in the Middle East generally. Assad expressed little sympathy for our concerns about terrorism in the region. He recited the trope that “one man's terrorist was another man's revolutionary.” The American revolutionaries I had grown up admiring hadn't made a practice of killing civilians or paying suicide bombers.

In the case of Lebanon, the supposedly indecipherable Sphinx of Damascus was anything but. Time was on his side, and he knew it. What's more, he knew we knew it. My meeting with Assad underscored the folly of democratic countries trying to face off with a dictator unless that country is resolved and unified, with the firm purpose to see the mission through to the end.

When I later met with our coalition partners to report on our efforts, none suggested that they had that kind of staying power. Only France, which had a longstanding relationship with Lebanon, had an interest in continuing to try to stabilize the country.

When I met with British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, she made it clear as only she could that when it came to U.S. policy on Lebanon, she was at best a reluctant team player. I had long been a fan of “the Iron Lady,” as the Soviets called her. I found that her stern reputation masked a dispassionate realism—which was certainly visible in her approach to the Middle East. In our meeting, she bore to the heart of the issue with crisp, unforgiving precision. She was skeptical of Lebanese President Gemayel's ability to expand his coalition and, in a break from the American position, equally skeptical of Israel's role in the standoff. She believed that our coalition lacked a clear mandate. She did not favor taking a tough stance with Syria because she believed that we needed them for a successful Middle East peace effort.
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She noted that even when the United States challenged Syria, some American officials behaved in a way that signaled to the Syrians that we lacked the will or cohesion to actually follow through. A mixed message was the worst kind to send to an authoritarian regime, she noted. In that, as in many things, she was absolutely correct. If anyone left our meeting with an impression other than that the Prime Minister would be happy to be done with the whole business at the soonest possible opportunity, they hadn't been listening. In her public statements Thatcher was more diplomatic, offering words of solidarity with her political soul mate, President Reagan. But she also indicated what I knew well: Our time was running out.
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By the end of January 1984, as our Congress and most of our allies were ready to pull out, all hell was breaking loose in Lebanon. Emboldened by America's mixed signals, the Syrians and the Druze stepped up their shelling of Beirut, causing increased civilian casualties. At the airport, our Marines were hunkered down behind new defensive barriers, under such restrictive rules of engagement that they were free to do little other than defend themselves. But rather than stiffening American resolve, the attacks seemed to be accelerating interest in withdrawal, at least among members of our government.

I got a taste of the mood in Congress when I went up to Capitol Hill to brief members. The Speaker of the House, the formidable Democrat Tip O'Neill, with whom I had served in Congress years before, had arranged for me to meet with the freshmen Democratic members. O'Neill understood how complex and challenging the situation was. His newly elected members were of a different sort. As I was going in to meet with this group, Tip pulled me aside. “Don't look for much help from me on this, Don,” he warned. “I'm working with some crazies here.” By now America's Lebanon policy had become simply a matter of arranging the details of an inevitable departure from the country.
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R
etreat did not come easily for Ronald Reagan. “[T]he situation in Lebanon is difficult, frustrating, and dangerous,” Reagan said in a radio address to the nation in early February 1984. “But that is no reason to turn our backs on friends and to cut and run. If we do, we'll be sending one signal to terrorists everywhere: They can gain by waging war against innocent people.”
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As the President was making his strong public statements, members of his national security team were working to move the United States in a sharply different direction. An internal National Security Council (NSC) review of the Lebanon policy called for the prompt withdrawal of most American peacekeepers. But in a show of support for Lebanon, it also called for increasing American military training and support to the Lebanese Armed Forces, which would leave about five hundred military personnel on the ground.
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Considering the alternatives, that sounded better than outright withdrawal. I believed that at least a residual presence could be helpful in sending a message that we were not going to simply depart hastily in defeat. I saw the situation in terms of flying a damaged plane: We could either crash land with a precipitous withdrawal or gradually reduce our presence in a controlled landing. I hoped that by the latter, we could salvage something, however modest, from our effort.

A couple of days after the issue appeared settled, George Shultz departed for meetings in South America and the President went to California. Meanwhile, fighting escalated in Lebanon, particularly around Beirut. On February 7, Reagan's national security officials convened an emergency meeting to discuss the Lebanon situation anew. With Reagan away, the meeting was chaired by Vice President Bush who, as I was told, with the support of Secretary of Defense Weinberger and White House Chief of Staff Jim Baker, pressed for the immediate withdrawal of all of our forces, including the trainers and advisers just agreed to, from Lebanon.
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When informed of the recommendation, the President apparently acquiesced.

I was traveling in the region when Robert (Bud) McFarlane, Reagan's new national security adviser and a former Middle East envoy, delivered the news. “[T]he situation on the Hill is becoming explosive,” he told me, in what might have been the understatement of the year. He insisted that the Congress would not agree to a residual presence of any U.S. forces at the Beirut airport, and that the administration needed “to act before the Congress confronts us with a very restrictive resolution or other problems.”
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I understood the dynamics in Washington pretty well, but I was disheartened that the American effort was ending so precipitously. It was similar to watching the American withdrawal from Saigon at the end of the Vietnam War, one of the low moments for America in recent history. At the time, I suspected that if Reagan and Shultz had been present at that NSC meeting, the decision might have come out differently.

Now it fell to me to deliver the disappointing news to President Gemayel. It was among the saddest tasks I have had to perform. After talking with McFarlane, I traveled to the presidential palace in Beirut. The palace had taken four direct hits that morning. Windows were broken and the long white drapes were blowing out in the wind. As I walked to the President's office, I stepped around a pool of blood from a palace guard who had been hit in the shelling. I was reminded again of the personal courage Gemayel displayed by remaining in Beirut.

The Lebanese leader was amazed to learn that America had arrived at this decision. Though I knew he had cause to doubt the depth of the American commitment to his country, he appeared to have not imagined that we would desert him altogether. Being involved in diplomacy on behalf of the United States, I came to appreciate the perspectives many other countries have toward us. It sometimes seems to me we are looking at each other from opposite ends of a telescope. Smaller nations seem to look at us from the small end, through which we look enormous, even omnipotent. Americans have a tendency to look at other countries from the other end, and so their concerns seem smaller to us. This has colored the impression of our country in the Middle East, and indeed in the rest of the world: The view seems to be that if the United States can put a man on the moon we ought to be able to do almost anything if we really want to. Many believe that if we don't achieve a goal they want, it is because we aren't trying hard enough. That seemed to be Gemayel's view.

Even though he was clearly down, the Lebanese leader was not ready to give up. He said he would remain in Beirut and do his best to try to pull together a workable coalition government. He explained his predicament and the serious problems he faced: trying to keep the ethnically and religiously diverse Lebanese army together; maneuvering to keep the Syrians off his back; and trying to persuade the Lebanese people to come together to save their country.

Trying to maintain his dignity, he urged that I ask President Reagan to reconsider his decision to withdraw.
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“I want to be very frank,” he said. “I am not trying to run away from my responsibility…. Now it is a matter of saving my country.”