Assassination in Zion

It has been a century since the first nationalist murder of a Jew by a fellow Jew. On June 30, 1924, Jacob Israël de Haan left his evening synagogue prayers in Jerusalem. A man approached him and asked for the time. As De Haan reached for his pocket watch, the man shot him three times and escaped, never to be apprehended.

Jacob Israël de Haan.

For many years, the question “Who killed De Haan?” inspired rounds of accusations and journalistic investigations. Now, a century later, the more relevant question might be, “Who was De Haan?” Sixty years after his death, his assassin, then a Haganah operative, essentially confessed to the murder. While no new revelations about the assassination have emerged since then, fascination with De Haan’s complex personality has steadily grown.

That fascination has its own century-long history. Colonel Frederick Kisch, a decorated British-Jewish officer who chaired the Zionist Executive in Jerusalem, knew De Haan well. “I have been thinking a good deal about De Haan,” he wrote in his diary the day after the assassination.

—not about his death but about his life; really an amazing human story. Formerly regarded as one of the most brilliant poets in Holland, he spent his latter days living in dirt and squalor in a single room—little more than a cell—in an Arab courtyard at Jerusalem. He passed through an intermediate stage of intense Jewish national enthusiasm, having acclaimed the Balfour Declaration in inspiring verse, and came to Palestine as an enthusiastic Zionist. His personal ambitions, his resistance to the discipline which is indispensable in any organization, and a mania which showed itself no less in his private than in his public life, turned him against the majority of his own people. Thereafter he made of religious orthodoxy a political weapon, which he wielded relentlessly against his fellow Jews.

This “amazing human story” captivates the imagination today precisely because of the elements Kisch succinctly summarized. De Haan was an acclaimed Dutch poet and writer, a European intellectual of the first order. After arriving in Palestine in 1919, he gradually shifted from secular Zionism to ultra-religious anti-Zionism. By the “mania” of his private life, Kisch referred to De Haan’s homosexuality, evidenced in both his writings and his liaisons.

De Haan briefly taught in the British-run Government Law School, and reported on Palestine for a leading Dutch daily, filing nearly 400 feuilletons. He also served as a kind of foreign minister for the ultra-Orthodox Agudat Israel community, which opposed subordination to the Zionist institutions recognized by the British Mandate. De Haan worked diligently to dissuade British colonial officials and press barons from endorsing a Zionist monopoly on Jewish life in Palestine.

He also maintained close contact with the then-leaders of Arab nationalism: Hussein of Mecca and his sons, Abdullah and Faisal. The British governor of Jerusalem recalled how De Haan’s “gold-rimmed spectacles would peer out of a white silk kufiyya as he drove across the Jordan in full Beduin costume—now become a Nordic Arab—to visit the Amir Abdullah.” While the Zionists pressed these Arab leaders to recognize a Jewish “national home” in Palestine, De Haan told them that the Jews he represented wanted only communal autonomy in a larger Arab kingdom.

It was likely anger at De Haan’s diplomacy that precipitated his assassination. The plot against him emerged from the ranks of the Haganah, the nascent self-defense force of the socialist Yishuv. Just how high up the plot reached has been the subject of endless speculation. Did Yitzhak Ben-Zvi, later Israel’s second president, order the killing? Or perhaps David Ben-Gurion? It’s unlikely that we will ever see any new evidence to answer these questions definitively.

Retrieving De Haan

The circles that cherished the memory of De Haan were once fairly limited, primarily comprising the most anti-Zionist of the ultra-Orthodox, such as Neturei Karta, for whom De Haan was a martyr. To them, his killing proved the moral debasement of secular Zionism. As one adherent put it, “our homage is to be paid to the penitent who rose from the [Zionist] idol’s feet to spit in its face and sacrificed his life to rescue the faithful from its clutches.” These faithful would annually mark the anniversary of De Haan’s death, 29th Sivan (this year, July 5), by visiting his grave on the Mount of Olives.

Then there were gay Dutch readers who found inspiration in his homoerotic novels and poetry. A sample illuminates this body of work: “I wait for what, this evening hour— / The City stalked by sleep, / Seated by the Temple Wall: / For God or the Moroccan boy?” A line from one of his poems is etched on the Homomonument in Amsterdam.

De Haan in Arab dress.

The more recent growth of interest comes not from these circles, but from left-wing anti-Zionists, including Jews, who seek Jewish precursors for their views. For them, De Haan is the bearer of a timely political message: the path to peace lies not in continued Jewish statehood, but in the abandonment of Jewish sovereignty. A photograph of De Haan in keffiyeh and agal is sometimes deployed to pique the interest of “river-to-the-sea” critics of “settler-colonialism.”

How far this retrieval of De Haan will go seems uncertain. For one thing, his diplomacy didn’t engage Palestinian Arabs, and his dispatches sometimes disparaged their character. He instead swooned to the titled rulers of the Hashemite house, the makers of the “Arab Revolt” in their palatial desert tents across the Jordan. And much of his reportage on Jewish settlement was reasonably balanced.

For these and other reasons, De Haan hasn’t yet emerged as an inspiration for “free Palestine” activists. That would require a selective reading of his oeuvre, slanted toward the last year or so of his life. But since the great bulk of his work has never been translated into English, and there is no English-language biography, more would have to be done to make him accessible to today’s anti-Israel mainstream.

An irrational act

To mark this centenary, I’ve chosen to translate not something written by De Haan, but another text by a formidable publicist almost totally lost to memory. Moshe Beilinson was a prolific writer and journalist. This Russian-born physician and socialist relocated from Italy to Palestine in 1924. He quickly became a voice of authority in the labor movement, and played an outsized role in the Histadrut’s sick fund, which later named its flagship hospital in Petah Tikvah after him. (Beilinson Hospital is now part of the Rabin Medical Center.) If Beilinson is little remembered, it’s perhaps because he died before the birth of Israel, at the age of 47 in 1937.

The Zionist press generally responded to De Haan’s assassination much like Colonel Kisch did: “I made it clear to the police that they were not justified in taking it for granted that the crime was political, since De Haan had many private enemies.” The insinuation was that he had fallen victim to an Arab honor killing. Beilinson rightly asserted otherwise, arguing that this blatantly political murder crossed every red line. Beilinson responded to the first Zionist assassination with the first Hebrew case against it. Interestingly, he didn’t make the narrow argument that Jews must not kill Jews. Instead, he insisted that assassination itself was irresponsible, ineffective, and immoral.

It’s hard to tell how his argument was received, but it’s a fact that after De Haan’s murder, the Haganah largely forswore political assassination almost to the end of the British Mandate. This distinguished it from the rival Irgun (Etzel), which De Haan’s assassin ultimately helped to found.

Published in Kontres 9 (Tammuz 16, 5684 [July 18, 1924]): 14-15. Reprinted in Do’ar Ha-Yom, July 22, 1924.

On the Murder of De Haan

The war [of 1914-18] has taught the world to devalue human life. Political murder, which was rare and only tolerated under exceptional conditions before the war, has become commonplace, especially in the countries of Eastern and Central Europe. The use of this abhorrent method has been particularly embraced in the political struggles of those defending a crumbling world, which is somewhat understandable. But for those living under conditions of political freedom, where wars of words and writings are allowed, resorting to such means not only demonstrates a criminal attitude towards the lives of others, but also exposes their weakness and inability to fight by other means.

The murder of De Haan compels everyone in the country to rethink these questions.

De Haan’s personality is irrelevant in this context. No positive movement can derive any benefit from such a death. Even if we view De Haan’s actions as extremely harmful to the Yishuv, we must add that his personality was in no way so powerful or exceptional that his absence would change the situation today. Just as before, there will be Jewish enemies of our national interests, and it is likely that even now, as before, hidden hostility will lead them to measures which will justifiably arouse the Yishuv’s anger.

Assassinations of individuals have never and nowhere led to a change in the situation. The bullets and bombs that killed Plehve and Stolypin did not bring about the Russian Revolution, nor did the deaths of Erzberger and Rathenau ease Germany’s situation. On the contrary, if the Russian Revolution is now fading due to unnecessary destruction and if Germany still has not found peace, it is also due to political murder. That said, De Haan’s murder cannot be compared to the murder of those at the helm of governments. There, the purpose of the acts is not only to get rid of individuals but also to prepare for a revolution, which is irrelevant in this case.

This act is not only irrational but also very harmful to our cause. It gives all our enemies a perfect excuse to blame our entire movement, and rightly so. Who will demand justice and fairness when they can smear and harm us? It can be predicted that this evil act will be fully used to turn Arab and English public opinion against us, amplifying the supposed “Bolshevik danger” posed by secular Jews in the Land of Israel; and to provoke opposition to us within Jewish Orthodoxy. After all the accusations and false charges leveled at us, our enemies finally have a real fact to use against us, and they will undoubtedly seize upon it. In his life, De Haan was a highly dubious figure, and even those close to his views were not always willing to defend him. In these circles, his blood will overshadow his offenses against the Jewish people. De Haan, the criminal in his actions against his people, will be overshadowed by De Haan, the victim. His dead body can cause more harm than his actions in life.

Let our movement not be stained with the blood of the innocent or the guilty; otherwise, our movement will be in dire straits. Blood always begets blood, always seeks revenge, and once you start down this path, you never know where it will lead. Irresponsibility born of excessive emotion replaces measured and rational conflict. Political murder is always linked with provocation, betrayal, espionage, slander, and suspicion. We are strong enough to let our enemies live and to look upon them with contempt if they use illegitimate means. We are not strong enough to adopt methods of warfare that could lead to moral ruin within the movement. Our movement has a clear and definite path: it is the path of labor, and only under this sign will we prevail. This does not mean that we should not defend ourselves when attacked, but our defense of our work has no connection with killing unarmed individuals.

There is another side, a purely moral one, making it the hardest to address. We, the Hebrews, were the first to establish the commandment: “Thou shalt not kill.” We, the socialists, always and everywhere demand the abolition of the death penalty. Who has the right to violate, to transgress the most sacred commandment of Judaism and civilized humanity? Who in their mind can dive into the depths of another person’s soul—even if that person is a hundred times our opponent—and find them deserving of death? The most cruel aspect of political murder is that the accused have no chance to defend themselves, making it worse than a military trial; judgment is passed without investigation and counter-evidence. They use “objective facts,” but how often are these false, and how often do they lead to the gravest errors, even in courts of law? But let’s assume De Haan was truly guilty, that he did act from impure motives. He fought us with the power of speech and writing, and we should have fought him with the power of speech and writing, exposed his schemes, and refuted his lies—we live in a land of political freedom, and our mouths are not shut. But no one has the right to take another’s life—life that is not given by man and cannot be restored once it is taken away.

Political sense, concern for the purity of our movement, and moral feeling compel us—regardless of the victim’s personality and the motives of the perpetrator—to pass a harsh verdict on the murder of De Haan.

M. Beilinson

De Haan (right) in Jericho, 1922 or 1923, Frank Scholten Collection, Leiden University Libraries.

Nation and Assassination in the Middle East

Martin Kramer, “Nation and Assassination in the Middle East,” Middle East Quartely, Summer 2004, pp. 59-64. Posted retroactively at Sandbox.

Until modern times, there existed no form of legitimacy in the Middle East outside of Islam. Rulers ruled in the name of God; assassins struck them down in the name of God. The assassinations of the early caliphs and the struggle between the Sunni rulers and the Assassins in the Middle Ages took precisely this form: each side claimed to act in accord with divine will, revealed in divine texts. Religion played a crucial role in the rationale of assassination, but it also played a crucial role in the rationale of government, law, and warfare—indeed, of everything. This invocation of God by the ruler and his assassin characterized the entire pre-modern period in the Islamic world, right up to the end of the nineteenth century.

Assassination in modern times may be divided roughly into three sequential stages, in which the rationales shift dramatically. In the first stage, rulers continued to rule in the name of God as they always had, but their assassins claimed to act in the name of the nation. In the second stage, rulers themselves claimed to rule in the name of the nation; the assassins also claimed to act on behalf of the nation in striking them down. In the third stage, the present one, rulers still claim to rule in the name of the nation, but it is now assassins who claim to act in the name of God. This essay will briefly illustrate these three stages with examples.

Ordinary Men

The break with the pre-modern pattern first occurs at around the turn of the century when the “shadows of God,” traditional Muslim rulers, for the first time faced assassins who were inspired by nationalism and who claimed to be acting on behalf of the people. The origins of national awakening and nationalist assassination can be traced to the same person: Sayyid Jamal ad-Din “al-Afghani,” the Persian activist and agitator who carried the message of national revival across the Islamic world during the 1880s and 1890s.

Afghani is counted as a hero of national revival. He figures in every account of the emergence of modern, liberal interpretations of Islam, and he is hailed as a great reformer and progressive. But he was also a conspirator who plotted assassinations. To bring about national revival, he believed that the rulers of the day had to be removed, if necessary by the bullet. A disciple once found him pacing back and forth, shouting, “There is no deliverance except in killing, there is no safety except in killing.”

These were not idle words. On one occasion, Afghani proposed to a follower, the reformist thinker Muhammad Abduh, that the ruler of Egypt, the Khedive Ismail, be assassinated. As Abduh said, Afghani “proposed to me that Ismail should be assassinated some day as he passed in his carriage daily over the Kasr el Nil bridge, and I strongly approved, but it was only talk between ourselves. … It would have been the best thing that could have happened.”[1]–>

Afghani had more luck in inspiring a disciple to assassinate Nasir ad-Din Shah, ruler of Iran, in 1896. It is interesting to relate what Afghani said about that assassination:

Surely it was a good deed to kill this bloodthirsty tyrant, this Nero on the Persian throne … who nonetheless knew how to throw sand in the eyes of civilized Europe so that it did not recognize his deeds. It was well done then to kill him, for it may be a warning to others. This is the first time that a Shah has found his death not in a palace revolution but at the hand of an ordinary man, and thus for a tyrant to receive just recompense for his deeds.[2]

Afghani rightly identifies a turning point in the assassination of Nasir ad-Din Shah: the shah deserved to die not for deviating from religion, but for betraying the nation. The assassin, this “ordinary man,” had acted on behalf of all ordinary men—on the behalf of the people. The traditional rulers—the shahs of Iran and the Ottoman sultans—had built their defenses in their claim to rule by will of God. But suddenly here appeared new nationalisms that ignored this claim, creating a new rationale for assassination: sovereignty belonged to the “ordinary man,” who had the right to freedom from tyranny. Assassination by the “ordinary man” in an era of populist nationalism tended to level the moral ground, making possible the later emergence of the assassin as national hero.

Modern technology also made it possible for the “ordinary man” to reach the divine-right ruler, who once had been so remote. In 1905, a carriage packed with explosives just missed killing Sultan Abdulhamid in a major square in Istanbul. The ruler now had to fear more than the dagger and the poison of the palace plots. Another kind of plot, hatched among conspirators in secret societies or the army, and justified in the name of the nation, could claim him just as readily.

Rite of Passage

Nationalists did eventually clear the palaces, more often by revolution than by assassination. As the century unfolded, nationalist governments took power throughout the Middle East. But this did not delegitimize violent opposition because the nationalist rulers ruled in authoritarian and even in dictatorial ways. In the name of the nation, the nationalist rulers sent their opponents off to the prisons of Abu Za‘bal and Tura near Cairo, or Mezze in Damascus. And in the name of the nation, assassins plotted the murders of rulers, usually in bids to seize power. If they succeeded, the assassins then became rulers.

Consider two examples. In 1945, the twenty-seven-year-old Anwar al-Sadat and his friends decided to assassinate the on-and-off prime minister of Egypt, Nahhas Pasha. Nahhas had been one of Egypt’s most popular nationalist politicians, but the younger nationalists thought him too pro-British. Listen to Sadat describe the decision to kill him:

When we were schoolboys we had gone out twice a day to have a look at Nahhas, cheering and applauding as he rode down to work and back. He had been a mythical hero—a peerless symbol of patriotism, self-sacrifice, and devotion. But then he lost everything and we came to regard him as a traitor. His disloyalty to Egypt and her people made his removal a national duty. We therefore decided to get rid of him.[3]

This rather blunt passage demonstrates how readily nationalists may replace accolades for the hero with grenades for the traitor. The group staked out Nahhas’s motorcade; one of the members threw a grenade, but luckily for Nahhas, it missed his car. The group was quite disappointed; eager to assassinate someone, they decided to kill the finance minister, Amin Osman. This succeeded, and while Sadat was not the triggerman, he was tried as part of the conspiracy and was acquitted only after a lengthy trial.

In the isolation of Cell 54, Sadat experienced his political epiphany. But what did he say about the deed that put him there? “The assassination of Amin Osman achieved its objective,” he wrote. “We had managed to mar the image of effective colonialism, with unprecedented decisiveness, in the eyes of the people.”[4] The act was done, then, on behalf of “the people.” Sadat nowhere displays any remorse about the resort to assassination to remove a “traitor.”

Another assassin who ended as ruler was Saddam Hussein. In 1959, the twenty-two-year-old Saddam and a group of young Baathists decided to assassinate the then-ruler of Iraq, ‘Abd al-Karim Qassem, a military man who had crushed the monarchy and established himself as “Sole Leader.” Saddam and his colleagues planned to ambush Qassem’s motorcade. Saddam was not supposed to fire at Qassem, only to provide cover. But according to his semiofficial biography, “when he found himself face to face with the dictator, he was unable to restrain himself. He forgot all his instructions and immediately opened fire.”[5] However, Qassem was only wounded, and Saddam fled abroad.

After Saddam’s ascent to power, this experience as a fledgling assassin, far from being deemed a liability, became a deliberately cultivated part of the Saddam myth. In Iraq, there were television shows and even a movie on the tribulations of the heroic young assassin. He is wounded in his brave attempt; he extracts a bullet from his flesh with a knife; he gallops across the desert on a horse; he swims to freedom across the icy Tigris with a knife between his teeth. Here is the assassin as hero, as a role model of commitment and self-sacrifice.

In the cases of Sadat and Saddam, we see how conspiracy to assassinate becomes a rite of passage and valuable preparation for more complex conspiracies to come—those that will carry the plotter to power. To have been an assassin is a credential that enhances the aura of the ruler. And as such, it is inspiration for the next generation of assassins. Assassins cut down Sadat; Saddam, who was cannier, managed to escape them, despite many attempts. The nationalists, from Afghani onward, made assassination heroic; once in power, they could not stop its cyclical repetition, now directed against them.

Holy Murder

I come now very briefly to the last stage, which is the present predicament. The rulers rule on, ostensibly in the name of the nation. But since the widespread revival of Islam as an idiom of protest, it is the assassins who claim to act in the name of God. The first revival of assassination in the name of Islam may be traced in the deeds of the Muslim Brethren in Egypt, whose members assassinated Egypt’s prime minister, Nuqrashi Pasha, in 1948. There were also the actions of Iran’s Devotees of Islam, who assassinated Prime Minister Ali Razmara in 1951. Islamists were suppressed in both Egypt and Iran in the 1950s and 1960s but came back with a roar in the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. In Egypt, Islamists assassinated President Sadat in 1981, and in 1995 they came close to assassinating President Mubarak in Ethiopia with an attack on his motorcade.

In Iran, the Islamists made a revolution but failed to assassinate the shah, who managed to get away, and then died of his cancer. One might argue that the shah’s assassination has been an absent element in the heroic narrative of the revolution. Some compensation was found in the fact that the ruler who gave refuge to the shah, Egypt’s Sadat, met his death at the hands of an Islamist assassin. Iran’s official approval for this act found symbolic expression in 1982 when it issued a stamp in the assassin’s honor. The stamp showed the assassin, Khalid Islambuli, shouting defiantly from behind bars. The city of Tehran renamed a street after the assassin: it became Khalid Islambuli Avenue. The street bore that name until January 2004 when Iran decided to mend fences with Egypt and instructed the city to rename the street Intifada Avenue.

In sum, we may look back at the last century as one in which religion, as the motive force of assassination, surrendered primacy of place to nationalism. But that surrender, it seems, was only temporary. Religious assassins are now back claiming victims, who in some cases themselves have been assassins. We may also look back at this century as a continuation of that long tradition of authoritarian if not absolute rule, of the kind that has always fed assassination with legitimacy and sympathy, no matter how it is packaged.

Alas, assassination itself is unlikely to change this tradition. “Surely it was a good deed to kill this bloodthirsty tyrant,” said Afghani. Perhaps, but as this only ushers in the next tyrant, the Middle East may be said to be locked in a tragic cycle of tyranny and tyrannicide. By and large, assassination in the Middle East does not stir the same revulsion as it does in the democracies of the West, and it will not do so until its peoples have a say in who governs them.

[1] Quoted by Nikki R. Keddie, Sayyid Jamal ad-Din “al-Afghani” (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972), p. 114.
[2] Ibid., p. 412.
[3] Anwar al-Sadat, In Search of Identity: An Autobiography (New York: Harpercollins, 1978), p. 58
[4] Ibid., p. 60.
[5] Quoted in Efraim Karsh and Inari Rautsi, Saddam Hussein: A Political Biography (New York: The Free Press, 1991), p. 18.