When the late President Titzhak Rabin shook the hand of PLO leader Yasser Arafat at the South Lawn of the White House on Sept. 13, 1993, he made history. This single act initiated the turning point for a nation that had been utterly plagued with civil violence. After years of conflict between the Israelites and Palestinians over sensitive political and religious issues, two leaders were finally able to put aside their differences and make attempts at peaceful negotiations. Finally, it seemed, the dream of conciliating the Israelites and the Palestinians seemed a step closer to achievement.
But certainly, on that day, no one would have thought that Rabin, a man that had done so much for his people, would have his life ended by a member of the very people he stood for. Similarly, one would not have thought that Rabin, a great negotiator and peacemaker, would die in a single, violent, act of murder; a death that represented the antithesis of his peace negotiating political ideals.
But when the 25-year old Jewish activist, Yigar Amir fired two shots from just three meters away from Rabin at a peace talk this month, irony would become reality. Violence would strike down the peacemaker, and history would repeat itself once again.
Historically, this is an all too common scenario. It is a harsh truth that the men in history that have made the greatest strides towards peace have themselves been cut down violently, that those who have rallied to score the greatest victories for righteousness would themselves fall prey to the hands of dereliction. Like a ghost from the past, history comes back to haunt us once again; in Rabin's fall, we see a mirroring of the fate that has met so many in the past: Martin Luther King, Abraham Lincoln, Julias Caesar, or Egyptian President Anwar Sadat, to name a few.
But Rabin's story, though similar to other great leaders of the past, is also an especially unique one. Rabin, a man who had led Israel's army to triumph in the Six Day War, knew the evils of violence. Having witnessed the bloodshed first hand, the spilled tears over lost loved ones and the morbidity of death, his experiences had taught him the futility of violence. A soldier turned peacemaker, Rabin had an especially keen ability to negotiate, to attempt resolution not through conflict but through compromise, and to support his agenda with an eye on all parties involved, not just his own. In deed, Rabin exhibited many of the qualities of what it means to be the paragon of a great leader.
But Rabin's death does not have to be in vain. We can learn from this tragedy a lesson that has evaded so many of us in the past. The ability to put aside our differences, to peacefully argue our position, and to compromise for the good of all people involved is of profound importance in learning an important lesson in moral ethics: that violence is not a means to a greater good. The peace talks that began with Rabin must continue, and the Palestinians and Israelites must ultimately learn to help, not to hurt, each other. If we are to avenge Rabin's death, then we must promote the ideals of peace that Rabin so diligently upheld.
Ultimately, Rabin's death is as sad as it is unjust. The young assassin, Yigal Amir, like other Israelites, may have disagreed with Rabin's tactic of trading land to obtain peace with the Palestinians. But his opinions could have been voiced peacefully. He did not have to resort to murder. If young Yigal could have learned at least this much from the examples set forth by president Rabin, there would be no tragedy. But history repeats itself nevertheless.
If only we would stop succombing to violence. If only we could learn.