The Arik Sharon I Knew

    I first met Arik Sharon in 1958, at a neighborhood reception at Moshe Dayan’s house for Israel’s legendary national soccer goal keeper, Yankele Chodorov. When my parents and I walked in the door, Dayan took us into the crowded living room to meet Chodorov. As a ten year old who had spent my entire life in America, I had no idea what soccer was or why this man was so famous. 

   Neither was I very impressed when Dayan introduced us to a smiling young couple sitting nearby saying “and these are our neighbors Arik and Margalit Sharon, and their baby son Gur. Arik is a real hero of Israel.” Again – I had no idea what he was talking about. I just wanted to go out to the back yard to play with the other kids.
   The neighborhood we lived in, Zahalla, is a bedroom suburb of Tel-Aviv, built in 1949 for senior and mid-level IDF and Security Service officers. We lived on the corner of Yoav and Avner streets. Three houses from us on Avner Street was the home of Yitzhak and Leah Rabin. Moshe and Ruth Dayan lived two houses from us on Yoav Street. Across from them lived Motti and Pnina Hod (Commander of the Israeli Air force), and two more houses up were Arik and Margalit Sharon. In those days in Zahalla, everyone knew each other, and no-one ever locked their doors.
    Sharon frequently walked in the neighborhood with Margalit and Gur. As a young Scout leader I would see him especially on Saturday afternoons when the Scout troop was active. He would come to beam with pride watching Gur and his friends doing drills or whatever the activity was. He was always ready with advice and suggestions. 
   In the early 60’s, Sharon had it all: a meteoric military career as a revered courageous and innovative (if sometimes unorthodox and undisciplined) elite combat officer, a nice house in Zahalla, a wonderful and loving wife and a son he adored and prepared for leadership. There was no question in Sharon’s mind that Gur was going to be a future IDF Chief of staff and Prime Minister of Israel. And he told everybody!
   But then tragedy struck – twice. On May 2, 1962, Margalit was killed in a car accident on the road to Jerusalem. At 33, Arik Sharon became a widower with a 6 year-old son.
   A year later he married Margalit’s sister, Lilly.  Together they had two more sons – Omri and Gilad. 
   Then, in 1967, when Gur was 11-years-old, he was playing with a friend when an antique gun that was part of a collection Sharon kept in the house went off. Sharon was at home when the shot rang out. He ran to room and found his son bleeding in critical condition. Carrying Gur he ran into the street to stop a passing car. When they arrived at the hospital, Gur had already died in his arms. According to the investigation it was impossible to know which of the boys was actually holding the flint-lock pistol when it went off, after they stuffed matches and aluminum foil down the barrel.
   Sharon was never the same. I can’t forget the sight of Arik Sharon, scruffy, disheveled, and unshaven slowly rambling around Zahalla, staring down and muttering in a low voice. Ten years ago, in a rare statement about Gur’s death, he said:  “There is no cure for that kind of pain. At first, it hits you a thousand-fold in the moment. Yes, you say to yourself, what would have happened if I had done this or that? If I had done things differently…"
   During my regular and reserves service in the IDF our paths crossed briefly several times.
   My last significant encounter with Arik Sharon was in Lebanon following the 1982 war.     
   In the winter of 1982-83 I was commander of the IDF Spokesman Unit in Lebanon. The Israeli government had rented a large villa from a Saudi princess in Beirut to house my unit as well as offices of the Mossad and General Security Services (“Shin Bet”), together with senior representatives from the ministries of Defense, Foreign Affairs and Trade. We were, for all purposes, the “Israeli Embassy” in Lebanon.
   Sharon, as Defense Minister, frequently came with one or two aides to the villa for meetings with senior Lebanese officials as well as US and French military commanders. He often stayed for a night or two. In the evenings we would all sit around, smoking cigars and sipping Napoleon Brandy (brought to us by Tunik, the princess’s servant  who came with the villa), discussing world affairs or reminiscing on past experiences and adventures. At times Sharon would sort-of phase out and just stare at the small TV or focus on a spot on the wall.  
     One evening he asked me to join him on the porch. Outside he leaned against the porch railing and looked out towards the garden. After a few moments he asked quietly: “Tell me Gil, do you remember Gur?”  “Of course” I answered, “he was in my brother’s class”. After a long pause he took a deep breath, looked at me with sad, tired eyes and said: “you know that he would have been a great prime minister”, and without waiting for a response walked back into the house, smiling and booming: “Nu, so what did I miss?”
   Sharon will be remembered and studied for years as a brilliant combat officer, defender of Israel and the Jewish people, complex and controversial character, shrewd politician and stubborn “bulldozer”.  Streets, buildings and institutions will be named after him. He will be loved and hated, revered and vilified.
   But for me, Arik Sharon will always be the doting father of Gur, whom I first met that afternoon at Dayan’s home. 
   Agree or disagree, that’s my opinion.