On Happiness

There once was a certain king who fell gravely ill and was very unhappy. So he said to his servants: I will give half my kingdom to whomever can cure me. Whereupon all the realm’s wise men gathered and conferred on how to cure the king. But none knew what to do. Until one of them, the wisest of the wise, came up with an idea: they had to search for the happiest man and, having found him, ask him to take off his shirt so the king could put it on. Thus they would cure the king and make him happy again.

The king took the wise man’s advice and sent his servants all over the realm to look for a happy man and bring him to the palace. However, the task proved anything but easy; wherever the servants went, all they found was unhappiness. Wealthy people were sick. Healthy people were poor. The few who were both rich and healthy had wives who made their lives a misery. And those who had good wives found that something was wrong with their offspring who either had accidents or disobeyed their parents. Not one man who was happy with his lot.

Enter the king’s eldest son. One evening he went for a walk and passed the shack of a poor peasant. “Thank God,” he heard a voice say. “Today I had useful work to do. Now I can go to bed with a full belly. That’s all one needs to be happy, isn’t it?”

The king’s son listened and rejoiced. Next he told his servants to knock on the door, pay the peasant anything he might ask for, and get hold of the shirt. The servants hastened to carry out the prince’s order. Only to discover that the peasant did not have a shirt.

(Following Leo Tolstoy).

Konseptsia

As you may have guessed, konseptsia (plural, konseptsiot) is a Hebrew word we Israelis often use. It means, roughly, a system of interlocking ideas (sometimes known, in English, as “parameters”) that, taken together, form a framework for thought. Rather than try to provide a closer definition, I will provide you with three examples of past konseptsiot that have paid a critically important role in the Israel’s history and are helping shape world history right down to the present day.

Konseptsia No. 1. To say that Israel has long history of fighting many of its Arab neighbors would be an understatement. The Arab Revolt of 1936-39, the 1948 War of Independence, the 1956 Suez Campaign, and countless smaller incidents followed each other in an almost unbroken chain. Still, as of the winter of 1966-67 there seemed to be no sign of an immediate threat. At the General Staff, the Intelligence Division was inclined to attribute this to the fact that Egyptian President Gamal Abdel Nasser had sent some of his best troops to Yemen to assist rebels against the government there. As a result, it was thought, he was in no position to wage war against Israel until further notice.

So far so good. But then, all of a sudden, things began to happen. Rather than allowing events in Yemen to give up any plans for a war with Israel, Nasser, perhaps because he worried lest Israel would soon be in possession of its first nuclear warheads, decided to use the prevailing tension between Israel and Syria to withdraw his troops from Yemen. Next, on 14 May 1967, he sent 110,000 of them into the Sinai Peninsula. Not content with this, on 18 May Nasser demanded that the UN withdraw its troops which had been stationed there since 1956-7 and were meant to separate the two sides. Granted his wish, on 22 May he closed the Red Sea to Israeli shipping, thereby undoing the fruit of the 1956 Suez Campaign and effectively cutting Israel’s maritime communications with the Far East. On 30 May King Hussein of Jordan arrived in Cairo where he signed a mutual defense pact with Egypt; a few days later Iraq too joined the alliance. As Israel watched the konseptsia, which said that another war any time soon was highly unlikely, collapsed, triggering a crisis in the government and near panic among the population. In the end it was only by means of a full-scale Israeli offensive against its neighbors that the situation was saved.

Konseptsia No. 2. Following its spectacular victory of June 1967, Israel was left in possession of the Sinai Peninsula (taken from Egypt), the Golan Heights (taken from Syria) and the West Bank (taken from Jordan). Six years later, in spite of the so-called War of Attrition waged by Israel and Egypt along the Suez Canal in in 1968-70, this situation still prevailed. Central to the confidence Israel exuded during those years was the belief, firmly held by the General Staff, that neither Egypt nor Syria would dare go to war without making sure they had air superiority first. Since this kind of superiority was deemed to be beyond those countries’ reach, Israeli Intelligence considered war to be highly unlikely.

However, reality refused to agree with theory. Instead of building up their air forces to the point where they could match the Israeli one the Egyptian and Syrians armies, lavishly supported by the Soviet Union, focused on vast arrays of anti-aircraft defenses to provide them with the cover they needed. On 6 October 1973, with some 350,000 first line troops between them, they attacked. They crossed the Suez Canal and, in the north, came very close to overrunning the Golan Heights. It took the Israelis eighteen days of ferocious fighting, as well as some 3,000 casualties (KIA only), to redress the situation. Once again, the konseptsia had failed.

Konseptsia No. 3. Though they fought outnumbered two or three to one, the October 1973 War did bring out the best in Israel’s fighting forces. Still the outcome of the war in question was much less decisive than that of its 1967 predecessor. Which explains why, starting late in that year and spilling over into 1974-75, an inquiry was held to discover the origins of the intelligence failure that had caused Israel to be taken by surprise and made possible the Arab’s early victories. The investigation appears to have been thorough, leading to the dismissal of the chief of staff and the chief of intelligence. A third high ranking casualty was the commander, Southern Front. Perhaps more important in the long run, both the intelligence-gathering process and the organization responsible for obtaining and disseminating it were reformed, albeit in ways that are not always available to the public.

Fifty years passed. By late 2023 Israel had been battling terrorism, especially but not exclusively that launched from Gaza, for ages. Assuredly it was a nuisance; but one to which the Israel Defense Forces had become accustomed and with which it had learnt to live, more or less. The border was fortified—with the aid, among other things, of a one-of-its-type heavy steel, sensor-studded, partition that surrounded the Strip and prevented the construction of underground tunnels—and equipped with lookout posts positioned so as to support each other and leave no square inch of land uncovered. Fences, searchlights, killing zones, and any number of other devices combined to make crossing the border without being detected almost impossible. For months prior to 7 October intelligence, some of it electronic, some obtained with the aid of drones, and some originating in the (mostly female, incidentally) lookouts in their lightly fortified positions, showed signs that something was afoot. Including, in particular, exercises mounted by Hamas by way of rehearsing an attack. Repeatedly, warnings went up the chain of command. As repeatedly, they were pushed aside. With Hamas’s past performance in mind, neither the Intelligence Division nor Southern Command could bring themselves to think that Hamas was capable of much more than mounting a company-size raid.

*

Came 7 October, a Jewish holiday. In a replay of 1973, several key commanders were with their families, enjoying a well-deserved break from duty. Presumably that was one reason why the Israelis were slow to react, requiring hours and hours before its armored forces and air force took up the fight. What happened next has been told many times and will surely continue to be told many times in the future. Instead of coming up with a company sized attack or two, Hamas sent in the equivalent of a brigade. In its wake came a mob of less disciplined marauders who, it turns out, were responsible for many if not most the atrocities committed by Hamas on that day. Instead of operating by stealth while trying to infiltrate the defenses, they brought bulldozers to tear them down. Instead of trying to avoid the lookouts, they attacked them head-on in their bunker-like, but still all too light, fortifications. Having crossed the frontier they spread out westward. Blocking Israeli roads, shooting up Israeli traffic, overrunning some nearby Israeli settlements, disrupting a music festival held nearby, and inflicting over a thousand casualties in dead alone—the largest number, as has been pointed out, of Jews killed in a single day since the end of the Holocaust. As these lines were being written over two months later Israel, its society and its armed forces were still fighting to deal with the consequences of the attack.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not saying that those who did not see the writing on the wall were idiots. Or that they neglected their duty, “falling asleep while on guard,” as the Hebrew phrase goes. Or that the technology deployed along the frontier was not good enough. Far from that being the case, it was some of the best and most advanced ever seen. What I am saying is something far more profound and much more important: namely that, much as people blame the konseptsia as the factor that guided and misguided Israel’s political-military thought, without some kind of konseptsia thought itself is impossible. Sticking with it may mean disaster; dismantling it risks leaving behind a jumble of incoherent, often vague and conflicting and misleading, ideas. When Clausewitz famously wrote about war, waged by fallible human beings under the most intense kind of pressure, being the province of confusion and misunderstanding he knew what he was talking about.

And so, dear readers, regardless of what technological progress, specifically including AI, may still some up with, it will remain. And not just in the military sphere either.

Disabled

As the Israeli-Palestinian fighting in the Gaza Strip drags on and on, it is time to say a word about the human cost of war. Of all war, let me quickly add, and on both sides. To my knowledge, no one has tackled this difficult topic better than Wilfred Owen did. A British officer who fought in World War I, he was killed in action just a week before the ceasefire of 11.11.1918. He left behind the following lines:

Disabled

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,

And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,

Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park

Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,

Voices of play and pleasure after day,

Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

                *        *        *        *        *

About this time Town used to swing so gay

When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees, 

And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,—

In the old times, before he threw away his knees.

Now he will never feel again how slim

Girls’ waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,

All of them touch him like some queer disease.

               *        *        *        *        *

There was an artist silly for his face,

For it was younger than his youth, last year.

Now, he is old; his back will never brace;

He’s lost his colour very far from here,

Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,

And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race 

And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

                  *        *        *        *        *

One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,

After the matches carried shoulder-high.

It was after football, when he’d drunk a peg,

He thought he’d better join. He wonders why.

Someone had said he’d look a god in kilts.

That’s why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,

Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,

He asked to join. He didn’t have to beg;

Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.

Germans he scarcely thought of, all their guilt,

And Austria’s, did not move him. And no fears

Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts

For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;

And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;

Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.

And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

                  *        *        *        *        *

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.

Only a solemn man who brought him fruits

Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.

                  *        *        *        *        *

Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,

And do what things the rules consider wise,

And take whatever pity they may dole.

Tonight he noticed how the women’s eyes

Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.

How cold and late it is! Why don’t they come

And put him into bed? Why don’t they come?

Old Man, What Next?

Maath, the Egyptian goddess of Justice

As those who read my autobiography, History and Me, know, I first discovered history in 1956 when I was ten years old. Rummaging in a sack full of books that my parents had put away in a storeroom that served all the neighbors in our building, I came across a volume entitled, Wereld Geschiedenis in een Notedop (Dutch: World History in a Nutshell). Probably published around 1932, it was meant for children about my age and was full of interesting stories as well as illustrations. To provide just two examples, there was the story of France’s Louis XIV. So conceited was he that he maintained a special claque to laugh at his jokes as he told them. And there was a black and white drawing of a monk, Berthold Schwarz, who had invented gunpowder and had his cap blown off for his pains. Almost there and then I decided I wanted to know more. In other words, become a historian; even though I had no idea of what historians actually did.

Ten or so years later I was a student at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem with history as my most important subject (the other was English, but that is a different story). Working under the supervision of teachers like Prof. Shlomo Avineri, a famous political scientist who, aged 100, left us just a few days ago. An expert on Hegel and Marx, Avineri drew our attention to the fact that there is more—much more—to history than simple stories, good or bad, entertaining or otherwise. The shift was gradual and never quite complete. Going on 78 as I do I still like stories: whether by way of illustrating an argument or simply because they are entertaining.

As time went on I came to look at the matter in a different way. History, Hegel and Marx taught, was not just a question of joining stories like beads on a string—once upon a time there was such and such a person or persons who did such and such things. It was, rather, a vast tapestry which, as it was being unrolled, brought to light, in the form of the patterns woven into it, not just events but the laws that governed them. To be sure, the laws in question were not as rigid as those governing the natural sciences. Still they were real enough. Going along with them brought success; trying to resist them, the opposite. Given hard work, lots of patience, and, on occasion, a touch of genius, they could be discovered, observed in action, understood, and, to some extent, used to look into the future. As it happened, rerum cognorscere causas—to know the causes of things—was the motto of the London School of Economics where I later wrote my dissertation.

The cardinal pillar in all this was truth. Absolute or fuzzy, to be of any use the laws that governed the course of history had to be based on truth. Veritas liberabit vos, truth will set you free (St. John). Sine ira et studio, without anger and without flattery (Tacitus) Wie es eigentlich gewesen [ist], as things really happened (Leopold von Ranke). Truthfulness was the cardinal quality by which history, here understood not as the past itself but as the record of the past, was judged. Much more important than style, or poignancy, or entertainment value, and serving as the granite foundation on which everything else was, or ought to be, built.

The theory, or perhaps it was merely an approach, served me well. Partly because I firmly believed it was the only correct one. And partly because it fitted marvelously well into my chosen field of study, i.e military history. In my experience soldiers, kept busy by their superiors, rarely have much use for military history. If they study it, then that is mainly because they are made to—at military academy, at a staff college, and at a war college. However, ignoring the warnings of commanders such as Napoleon and Moltke, and except when it comes to all kinds of odd traditions, few of them really take it to heart. To the extent that they do so they tend to focus on recent history, often the more recent the better. In a fast-changing world where new technologies and techniques succeed each other at breakneck speed, why waste time on a Caesar, or a Napoleon, or even a Pershing? By following the path I did, I made military history relevant for my students and my readers. As one of the former, an American major, wrote, my course just grew on him. The fact that I often used anecdotes to illustrate what I was saying helped.

So things remained for about four decades. Hard-working decades, decades during which I was able to learn a great deal and visit a great many people, universities, militaries and countries, opportunities for which I have always remained grateful. Still the point came when I began to have my doubts. The key development that triggered off everything else, albeit that I got to it much later than many others, was my encounter with the work of the French philosopher Jacques Derrida. To put it in a nutshell, he taught that texts—old texts, new texts, and future texts as far as the eye can see—say not just what they say but whatever the reader, on the basis of his/her interests and his/her personality and will, chooses to put into them. Truth, the one thing I had been looking for throughout my professional life, did not exist. Instead there were as many truths as there were readers. Some interesting, others not. Some well written, others not. But none superior to any of the rest.

This was the opposite of what I had always believed. To make things even worse, Derrida and his countless followers effectively obliterated the distinction between history and literature/fiction. Do not misunderstand me: I have always liked reading fiction, as I still do. It can inspire, it can entertain, it can teach. Provided it clearly defines itself and does not deliberately try to mislead and pretend to be something it isn’t, fiction is no less valuable than any other form of intellectual endeavor, including not just history but the hard sciences too. But to present things that did not happen as if they did—no.

Marching hand in hand with deconstructionism, or postmodernism, or whatever people called it, came the revolution in electronic communications. Instead of a handful of TV stations, there were suddenly hundreds if not thousands to choose from. Instead of focusing on relatively nearby events that were most likely to affect the viewer, they connected each of their users with the furthest corners on earth. To say nothing about the social media, which made it possible for anyone to spew his/her own truth, as well as computers which enabled that truth to be stored and transmitted and brought to life on some kind of screen. And altered and manipulated, of course: when Goebbels claimed that “pictures do not lie,” that itself was the greatest lie of all.

Worse still, many of these things themselves are done in the name of truth. Whether or not that was the case, truth was stifled, drowned, and overwhelmed until it expired by a thousand cuts. To the point where, among the young in particular, many simply gave up. This left me hanging between two cliffs. On one side was the kind of history I had admired, studied and done my best to write during most of my life. On the other, my belief in the factor that used to both justify and underpin this kind of history, namely truth. That belief has now been shattered. Not only because, compared to the vast number of questions that remain to be studied and answered, my efforts had been puny—of course they had been. But because truth does not exist in the first place.

Old man, what next?