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The difference between the fiercely religious Shaftesbury and the coolly skeptical Arthur Balfour, the Tory foreign minister who would give his name to the pivotal declaration in 1917 that expressed Britain’s support for a Jewish homeland, was of style, not substance. Balfour was also “deeply infused by the Hebraism of the Bible” and believed, according to a friend, that Christian civilization “owes to Judaism an immeasurable debt, shamefully ill repaid.” But unlike Shaftesbury, Balfour was in a position to act on this conviction — one made all the easier by Britain’s commercial, diplomatic and military interests in the Middle East.
And yet Tuchman ends the story in 1918, even though her original aim, as she wrote, was to bring it as far as the “re-establishment of the State of Israel in 1948.” But as she studied the documents dealing with the British Mandate, Tuchman grew too angry to write. Or, at least, to write well. While some writers, she noted, grow more eloquent as they grow more outraged, “these emotions stunted and twisted my pen.” It was impossible to remain yoked to the plow of historical objectivity when narrating the period of the British Mandate. “I found the tone of my concluding chapter totally different from the 17 chapters that went before.” What to do? “I tore it up, discarded six months’ work and brought the book to a close in 1918.”
Not surprisingly, scholarly objectivity for Tuchman was far easier with subjects like the Black Death or the Entente Cordiale than with Israel, which held a deep and enduring claim on her. But a glance at the occasional pieces she wrote on Israel reveals that she set aside yet other and equally important responsibilities as a historian and thinker. There is, for example, her unsettling position on moral equivalence. In a preface to the 1983 edition of “Bible and Sword,” she has nothing but scorn for “cries of moral outrage abroad as if Israel had introduced something new and horrid into the relations of states and into the affairs of men.” Does this mean, as she seemed to suggest, that old but horrid is okay?
Usually so meticulous, Tuchman also failed to get her facts straight. Americans who have “virtuously denounced” Israel’s settlements in the Occupied Territories, she wrote tartly, seem to have forgotten “how Texas was settled and then annexed when no question of survival was at stake.” Not only is this bad logic, it is also bad history. Setting aside her error in thinking that the Occupied Territories have been annexed by Israel, it is difficult to say which was feebler in Mexican Texas at the time of independence: the size of the indigenous population — which numbered in the thousands — or that population’s identification with the central government.
Tuchman’s two long pieces on Israel — one for The Saturday Evening Post, the other for The Atlantic, bookend the remarkable events of 1967. Much of what she writes in the earlier piece, based on her visit to the country the previous year, is little more than an urbane travelogue. In fact, Fodor’s used it as the introduction to its guide to Israel for several years. Tuchman is clearly under the spell of a vital and flourishing nation poised to defend itself against its many enemies. In her meetings with officers and political leaders, Tuchman conveys their words and her impressions with simplicity and intelligence, revealing the gift of Einfühlung, or historical empathy, that she rightly insisted was central to the historian’s work.
Yet if she met an Israeli Arab or Palestinian, no evidence appears in more than 20 pages of text. There is but one reference to “Arab families and farmers” going about their business” near a settlement in northern Galilee. Perhaps this should not be surprising from a historian who thought that her job was to write about “captains and kings, saints and fanatics… and even occasionally heroes.” Why? Because they are “actors, not the acted upon, and are consequently that much more interesting.” But it is regrettable and leaves one with the sense that, even for this great historian, Einfühlung was not always de rigueur.