Yitzhak Rabin found his unique mission and voice only late in life. Twenty years ago, he had already done everything, it would seem, that an Israeli soldier and statesman could do: He fought in all the country's wars and served as chief of staff, ambassador to the United States, cabinet member and prime minister.


I saw Rabin in two "before and after" performances. The first was in 1980, when Rabin was the guest of the week in a program at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem called "Wednesday Afternoon" -- informal talks by leading Israeli political and cultural figures. The second was in Moscow 14 years later.


Rabin's talk at the university was modestly attended, reflecting Israelis' nonchalance, bordering on disdain, toward their political leaders and other famous citizens. That Wednesday, Rabin seemed an unlikely former prime minister, the model of a nondescript figure, with his gray, synthetic turtleneck, expressionless eyes and immobile face, and a droning voice that stayed monotone even as he raised its volume to emphasize a point.


As head of the opposition while the Likud was in power, Rabin's main message, repeated that Wednesday, was to maintain the status quo on security matters -- non-recognition of the Palestinians as a separate political element and nonreturn of territories captured from Jordan and Syria but containment of Jewish settlement activity in the territories. Rabin's message, however pragmatic, inspired nobody and reminded Israelis of the rut they were in.


In April 1994, Rabin, once again prime minister, came to Russia. This was the first time an Israeli prime minister had come to Russia or the Soviet Union, and it marked a culmination in the thaw of relations between the countries. Rabin's schedule included a concert by popular Russian and Israeli performers and an Israeli army band.


Before the concert, Rabin gave a keynote address. He spoke with emotion and dignity about the close but troubled relationship between the Russian and Jewish peoples. Concerning the peace process, which at that time was moving toward Palestinian autonomy, he talked about the concessions that Israel needed to make and how painful and dangerous they would be. He argued that the Arabs had also softened and were prepared to accept Israel and that the moral cost of the occupation had grown so high that Israel absolutely had to seize this chance for peace.


Yitzhak Rabin looked and sounded different from the politician I had seen in 1980. Now his voice and carriage were dynamic and charming and, at the same time, combative. He seemed animated by a sense that, at 72 years of age, he had finally found his calling. Because he had taken the territories as chief of staff in 1967, and because of his conservative reputation, many Israelis considered him the only politician in the center or left who could be trusted to know when to give them back. To lead his people at this moment was a personal triumph, and the fact that he was cut down for playing this role is Israel's tragedy.


After the concert, Rabin chatted casually with the conductor of the band and other people who seemed to be old friends. The socializing resembled a synagogue after Sabbath prayers. This informality in Israeli public life is pleasant, but it also has a darker side that contributes to such acts as Rabin's assassination and raises a fundamental question about the Zionist precept that the Jews constitute a full-fledged nation.


Since Jewish political sovereignty was interrupted over 2,000 years ago, Jewish communities had wide internal autonomy, but were subject to outside secular rule. This, together with a tribal character typical of small nations (as well as some big nations with inferiority complexes), has always made it difficult for Jews to submit to the authority of other Jews. Rabin's assassination thus reflects a real facet of the national character. Indeed, some people have not been ashamed to condone the murder: Several impromptu memorial shrines to Rabin have been desecrated in Israel.


The question of whether the Jews are a nation or merely a tribe or religious group has been much debated in modern times. For Zionism, as for virtually all national movements, self-rule in one's own land is the ultimate manifestation of nationhood. And by any definition, self-government means obedience to the decisions of one's lawfully elected or appointed officials within the area of their authority. Consequently, an official's decision cannot be avoided merely by replacing him.


Will Israel honor the commitments that it made in the peace process under Rabin's leadership and that were ratified by the Knesset? This question is one of the most critical challenges ever to the idea of Jewish nationhood. Some Jews, both in Israel and abroad, will try to exploit Rabin's absence as an opportunity to renege on those commitments. They will claim to act in the name of Zionism and the national interest. Now, however, it is no longer simply a question of territory in exchange for peace but of the integrity of Jewish self-governance itself. If the circumstances do not change substantially, those who put territory above all else will further the assassin's work and prove themselves traitors to Jewish nationhood. And true patriots who disagreed with these decisions when they were made will now stand by them.


For ages, Jewish identity was defined in part by persecution and suffering, which was also strengthening. Thus, the Holocaust was instrumental to the creation of a Jewish state. Rabin's murder is not the first self-inflicted wound to Jewish nationhood, but it is one that threatens its very survival. I can only hope, and indeed believe, that the continued tradition of self-examination will lead the Jewish people to be strengthened by the challenge that is Rabin's legacy.





Daniel J. Rothstein, a lawyer living in Moscow, has studied and worked in Israel for five years. He contributed this comment to The Moscow Times.