Introduction 



A Middle West Congressman 
Meets the Middle East 



"How did a Congressman from the corn-hog heartland of America get 
entangled in Middle East politics?" people ask. Like most rural Con- 
gressmen, I had no ethnic constituencies who lobbied me on their 
foreign interests. As expected, I joined the Agriculture Committee 
and worked mainly on issues like farming, budget and welfare reform. 

Newly appointed in 1972 to the subcommittee on Europe and the 
Middle East, I had represented the Springfield, Illinois, area for 12 
years without attracting much attention at home or abroad. 

Eight short years later, my involvement in Middle East politics 
would bring me infamy among many U.S. Jews, notoriety in Israel and 
applause throughout the Arab world. By 1980, in urban centers of pro- 
Israel activism— far from the local Jews in central Illinois who knew 
and trusted me, I found myself in the most expensive Congressional 
campaign in state history. Thanks to a flow of hostile dollars from both 
coasts and nearby Chicago, I became "the number one enemy of Is- 
rael 9 ' and my re-election campaign the principal target of Israel's lobby. 

Prodded by a professor at Illinois College, I had already begun to 
doubt the wisdom of United States policy in the Middle East when I 
first joined the subcommittee. For the most part, I kept these doubts 
private, but not because I feared the political consequences. In fact, I 
naively assumed I could question our policy anywhere without getting 
into trouble. I did not realize how deeply the roots of Israeli interests 
had penetrated U.S. institutions. 

Congressmen generally heard only the Israeli case. Arab Ameri- 
can lobbies, fledgling forces even today, were nonexistent. Arab em- 
bassies, which even today hire public relations experts only with 
reluctance, then showed little interest in lobbying. Even if a Congress- 

1 



2 They Dare to Speak Out 

man had wanted to hear the Arab viewpoint, he would have had 
difficulty finding an Arab spokesman to explain it. 

My personal involvement with Middle East politics started with a 
constituent problem that had no direct connection with the Arab-Israeli 
conflict. It began in the spring of 1973 when a letter arrived from Mrs. 
Evans Franklin, a constituent who wrote neighborhood news for a 
rural weekly newspaper I once edited. In this letter, she pleaded for my 
help in securing the release of her son, Ed, from a faraway prison. He 
had been convicted of espionage and sentenced to five years' solitary 
imprisonment in Aden, the capital of the Marxist People's Democratic 
Republic of (South) Yemen. After reading her plea, I had to consult a 
map. I knew only that Aden once had been a major British base. 

Had it not been for a series of cancelled airline flights, his mother 
told me, Franklin would never have set foot in Aden. Returning from 
Ethiopia to his teaching post in Kuwait, he was rerouted through Aden 
and then delayed again by the cancellation of his departing flight. His 
luck worsened. A camera buff and unaware of local restrictions, he 
photographed a prohibited area. The Adenese were still nervous about 
blonde-haired visitors, remembering the commando raid the British 
had conducted shortly after they left Aden six years earlier. When 
Franklin snapped the pictures, he was immediately arrested, kept in an 
interrogation center for months, and finally brought to trial, convicted 
and sentenced. My efforts to secure his release proceeded for the most 
part without aid from the State Department. Our government had had 
no relations, diplomatic or otherwise, with Aden since a 1969 coup 
moved the regime dramatically to the left. This meant the State Depart- 
ment could do nothing directly. I asked a friend in the Egyptian embassy 
in Washington to help. Franklin's parents, people of modest means 
living in a rural crossroads village, sent a request to Salim Rubyai Ali, 
South Yemen's president, seeking executive clemency. I sent a similar 
request. Our government asked the British to intervene through their 
embassy in Aden. There was no response to any of these initiatives. 

In December 1973 I visited Abdallah Ashtal, Aden's ambassador 
to the United Nations in New York, to ask if I could go personally to 
Aden and make a plea for Franklin's release. Ashtal, a short, hand- 
some, youthful diplomat who was taking evening graduate courses at 
New York University, promised a prompt answer. A message came 
back two weeks later that I would be welcome. 

If I decided to go, I would have to travel alone. I would be the first 
Congressman— House or Senate — to visit Aden since the Republic was 
established in 1967 and the first United States official to visit there 
since diplomatic relations were severed in the wake of the coup two 
years later. Although this was an exciting prospect, it also caused me 



Introduction 3 

some foreboding. Moreover, I had no authority as an envoy. South 
Yemen, sometimes called the Cuba of the Arab world, was regarded by 
our State Department as the most radical of the Arab states. A State 
Department friend did nothing to relieve my concern when he told me 
that Aden's foreign minister got his job "because he killed more oppo- 
nents than any other candidate." 

Troubling questions came to mind. How would I be received? I 
discussed the trip with Alfred L. Atherton, Jr., assistant secretary of 
state for Near East and South Asia affairs. I asked him, "If they lock 
me up, what will you do first?" He smiled and said, "Look for another 
Congressman to come get you out!" 

Still, I was probably the only person able to help. Franklin's 
mother told me, "I doubt if Ed can survive five years in a Yemen jail." 
My wife, Lucille, expressed deep concern over the prospects of the 
trip but agreed that I had little choice but to go. 

I also thought the trip might be an opportunity to open the door to 
better relations with a vital but little-known part of the world. With the 
imminent reopening of the Suez Canal, better relations with Aden 
could be important to United States interests in the Indian Ocean. 
After all, Aden, along with French-held Djibouti, was a guardian of a 
world-famous and vitally important strait, the gateway to the Suez 
Canal. If the Soviets, already present with aid missions and military 
advisers, succeeded in dominating the Aden government, they could 
effectively control the canal from the south. It was obvious that, be- 
yond the release of Franklin, the United States needed good relations. 

I decided that I must go. The trip was set for late March 1974. 

From Middle East scholars, I learned that Secretary of State 
Henry Kissinger, who was soon to begin shuttle negotiations between 
Israel and Egypt, was held in high esteem in Aden. I asked him for a 
letter that I could take with me which would be as explicit as possible 
about United States-Aden relations. A personal letter arrived three 
days before I left. In it, Kissinger said he welcomed my "humanitarian 
mission" to Aden and added: "Should the occasion arise, you may wish 
to inform those officials whom you meet of our continuing commitment 
to work for an equitable and lasting Middle East peace and of our 
desire to strengthen our ties with the Arab world." 

The letter was addressed to me, not to the Aden government. It 
was a diplomatic "feeler." I hoped it would convince any officials I met 
that the United States wanted to establish normal relations. 

A good traveler always brings gifts. At the suggestion of an Egyp- 
tian friend, I secured scholarships from three colleges in Illinois to 
present to South Yemeni students. I also located and had specially 
bound two Arabic language translations of Carl Sandburg's biography 



4 They Dare to Speak Out 

of Lincoln, The Prairie Years. In addition, I also carried two small 
busts of Lincoln — my most celebrated constituent — hoping he would 
be known even in Aden. 

I left Washington early enough to visit Syria before heading south 
to Aden. Syria had not had normal diplomatic relations with the United 
States since the 1967 war with Israel, and despite its growing impor- 
tance, no member of the House of Representatives had visited there for 
five years. To my surprise, President Hafez Assad of Syria agreed to 
receive me without advance appointment. Perhaps he was intrigued 
with the presence of a United States Congressman who said he had an 
open mind about Middle East issues. 

Assad received me in the spacious second-floor reception room of 
his offices. A tall, thickset man with a prominent forehead and a warm, 
quiet manner, Assad made his points forcefully but without a hint of 
hostility. While sipping small cups of rich Syrian coffee, he voiced his 
pain over United States support of Israel's actions: "We are bitter 
about the guns and ammunition you provide to Israel, and why not? 
But bitterness is not hostility. In fact, we have very warm feelings 
about the American people. Despite the war, the Syrian people like 
Americans and have for years." 

While sympathizing, I took the initiative, urging him to restore full 
diplomatic relations and to take a page from the public relations book 
of the Israelis. I suggested that he come to the United States and take 
his case directly to the American people over television. 

Assad responded, "Perhaps we have made some mistakes. We 
should have better public relations. I agree with what you say and 
recommend, but I don't know when I can come to the United States." 

As I rose to leave, Assad said, "You have my mandate to invite 
members of your Congress to visit Syria as soon as possible. They will 
be most welcome. We want those who are critical as well as those who 
are friends to come." 

While I later extended Assad's invitation personally to many of 
my colleagues and, in a detailed official report, to all of them, few 
accepted. The first Congressional group did not arrive until 1978, four 
years later. 

After my interview with Assad, I was driven late at night from 
Damascus to Beirut for the flight to Aden. As our car approached the 
Syria-Lebanon border, I could hear the sound of Israel's shelling of 
Lebanon's Mt. Hermon, a sobering reminder that seven years after the 
1967 war the fighting still continued. 

In 1974, Beirut was still the "Paris of the Middle East," a western- 
like city with a lively night life and bustling commerce. A new Holiday 
Inn had just opened near the harbor. Every street seemed to boast two 



Introduction 5 

international banks, at least three bookstores and a dozen restaurants. 
A year later the Holiday Inn became a battleground between Phalangist 
militia, backed by Israel, and the Lebanese left coalition, including 
Palestinians, helped by various Arab governments and by Moscow. Its 
walls were ripped open by shells, its rooftop pavilion littered with the 
bodies of fallen snipers. The vicious civil war, which began in 1975, had 
turned Beirut into a city of rubble. 

But even in 1974, the Palestinians in the refugee camps did not 
share the prosperity of the city. I passed the hovels of Sabra and 
Shatila, where, nine years later, the massacre of hundreds of Palestin- 
ian civilians would shock the world. My embassy escort said, "These 
miserable camps haven't improved in 20 years." 

I also passed the Tel Zaatar refugee camp, whose wretched inhabi- 
tants would soon suffer a fate even more cruel. A year later that camp 
was besieged for 45 days by rightist "Christian" militias, armed and 
advised by Israel's Labor government. Fifteen thousand Palestinians 
died, many of them after the camp surrendered. Virtually every adult 
male survivor was executed. That slaughter was little noted by the 
world press. Hardly anyone, save the Palestinians, remembers it. 

At that time, the spring of 1974, I had no premonition of the 
tragedies to follow. I boarded the Aden-bound plane at Beirut with just 
one person's tragedy on my mind — that of Ed Franklin. 

Mission in Aden 

In Aden, to my surprise and pleasure, I was met by a delegation of 
five youthful officials, three of them cabinet ministers. Mine was the 
only gray hair in sight that night. The group had stayed up until 2 a.m. 
to meet the plane. "Welcome. We have your quarters ready," said the 
government's chief of protocol. Good news! This meant, I felt, that I 
would not be stuck off in a hotel room. My quarters turned out to be a 
rambling old building which years ago, in imperial days, was the resi- 
dence of the British air commander. A tree-shaded terrace — a rarity in 
Aden — looked over the great harbor, a strategic prize ever since white 
men first rounded the Cape of Good Hope in the sixteenth century. 
Blackbirds chattered overhead. 

I received permission to visit Franklin at 7:15 that first night. I 
found him under guard in an apartment on the second floor of a small 
modern building. When I entered, he was standing by a couch in the 
livingroom. We had never seen each other before. 

"I presume you are Congressman Findley." 

Despite the emotion of the occasion, I smiled, sensing how Dr. 
Livingston must have felt years before in Africa. 



6 They Dare to Speak Out 

After 16 months of confinement, Franklin was thin, almost gaunt. 
His trousers were several sizes too big, his blonde hair was neatly 
combed, his face cleanly shaved and he was surprisingly well tanned. 
He looked much older than his 34 years. 

We were able to talk alone. I said, "You're thin, but you look 
well." He answered, "I'm very glad you came, and I feel pretty well. 
Much better now that you're here. A few days ago when I used a 
mirror for the first time in months, I was shocked at how I look." He 
said he had got the tan from daily exercise in the prison yard, adding 
that he had been transferred to the flat two days before, obviously 
because authorities did not want me to see the prison. 

"Here is a box of food items your family asked me to deliver." 
When I said that, his face, which until then had displayed no emotion, 
fell. "I guess this means I am not going home with you." 

I said, "I don't know." 

Franklin changed the subject. "I had to leave my Bible at the 
prison. I hated to, because I like to read it every day." 

I said, "Many people have been praying for you." 

He responded, "Yes, I knew at once, even before I got word in 
letters from home. I could feel it." 

Franklin told me he had not been physically abused but said the 
food was terrible and some of the rules bothered him. "I am not al- 
lowed to have a pen and paper. I like to write. I once wrote poetry on a 
sack, but then my pencil was discovered and taken from me. I don't 
know why." Still, he seemed to hold no grudge against his captors. "I 
like the Arab world. Maybe someday when the American embassy is 
reopened, I could even get a job here." 

I assured him: "I'll do my very best to secure your release, or at 
least shorten your term. That's why I'm here, and I'll try to see you 
again before I leave. I'll also try to get approval for you to have pencil 
and paper." 

On the way back to my quarters, I passed on Franklin's request for 
writing materials to my escort officer, who answered simply, "I will 
report your request." I spent Friday, a Moslem day of worship, touring 
the nearby desolate countryside. The main tourist attraction is an an- 
cient, massive stone well built to store the area's scarce rainfall. That 
evening the British consul, a compassionate man who had occasionally 
delivered reading material to Franklin, joined me for dinner. The Brit- 
ish long ago understood the importance of maintaining diplomatic rela- 
tions even with hostile regimes and, shortly after their stormy 
departure from Aden, they had established an embassy there. 

Saturday morning Foreign Minister M. J. Motie came to my quar- 
ters for a long discussion of United States-Yemen relations. The plight 



Introduction 7 

of the Palestinians under Israeli occupation was at the top of his 
agenda, Franklin at the top of mine. He charged, "The United States is 
helping Saudi Arabia foment subversion along Yemen's borders." I told 
him I was troubled by this charge, was unaware of such activity and I 
hoped to help improve relations. Motie responded, "While the past is 
not good, the present looks better, but we need a substantial sign of 
friendship. For example, we need aid in buying wheat." 

After the discussion, I spent a long and fruitless afternoon trying 
to fill a shopping list my family had sent with me. The bazaar had little 
but cheap Japanese radios and a few trinkets. It had even fewer shop- 
pers. I returned to the guest house, finding, to my astonishment, an 
assortment of gifts, each neatly wrapped — among them a jambia, the 
traditional curved Yemeni dagger, and a large ceremonial pipe. The 
gifts were accompanied by a card: "With the compliments of the presi- 
dent." 

Were these gifts merely sweeteners to take the place of Franklin on 
my homeward journey? Or were they a harbinger of success? I dared 
not believe the latter. I had received no hint that the government would 
even shorten Franklin's sentence, but, at least, it acceded to his re- 
quest for paper and pencil. 

My second visit with Franklin was more relaxed than the first. He 
accepted the pencils and paper I brought him with the comment, "I 
hope I won't need them except for tonight." I responded that I had no 
reason to hope he would be able to leave with me, but, strictly on my 
own hunch, felt that he would be released soon. 

I met with President Ali the night before my scheduled departure 
inside the heavily guarded compound where the president both lived 
and had his offices. I was ushered into a long reception hall adorned 
with blue flowered carpeting and gold drapes down three sides. The 
fourth side opened into a large courtyard. Two rows of ceiling fans 
whirred overhead. In the center of this large hall was a lonely group of 
gold-upholstered sofas and chairs. 

By the time I reached the circle of furniture, President Ali, the 
foreign minister of Aden and an interpreter were walking through the 
same door I had entered. I needed no introduction. I had seen Ali's 
picture many places around Aden, but frankly it did him little justice. 
He was a tall, well-built man of 40. His black hair had a touch of gray. 
His skin was dark, his bearing dignified. He was soft-spoken, and two 
gold teeth glistened when he smiled. 

After exchanging greetings, I thanked him for his hospitality and 
for the gifts. Then I launched into my own presentation of gifts: first, 
the Lincoln book and bust, then the scholarships. 

What he was waiting for, of course, was the letter from Kissinger 



8 They Dare to Speak Out 

which would indicate the weight the United States gave my mission. 
When I handed it to him, I tried to broaden its importance. 

"Perhaps your excellency will permit me to explain,'* I said. This 
letter presents formally the desire of the U.S. to re-establish diplomatic 
relations. This is important. Our government needs these relations in 
order to understand Aden's policies and problems. The president of 
the United States and the secretary of state are limited in foreign pol- 
icy. They can do only whatever the Congress will support, so it is also 
important for Congressmen to gain a better understanding of Aden's 
situation and of the Arab world in general." 

Ali responded: "Aden is the shining example of the Republic. 
Other areas of our country are quite different. The people are much 
poorer." I gulped. I had seen only Aden, Ali's "shining example" which 
struck me as very poor, so I could only guess at conditions elsewhere. 

While I took notes, Ali told me that the anti-poverty efforts of his 
government were handicapped by "subversion" from neighboring 
states. He said, bluntly, "The belief is held by the people of our country 
that all suffering, all damage caused by subversives, is really the work 
of the United States government. All military equipment we capture is 
United States equipment." Some of it, he said, was outside this build- 
ing for me to examine. 

I interjected that this information was not known in the United 
States, underscoring the need for diplomatic relations, so this sort of 
injury would stop. He nodded. "I favor relations with the United 
States, but they must relate to grievances now seen by my people." He 
added, "Aden does not wish to be isolated from the United States." 

Ali thanked me for the gifts, indicating the interview was over. I 
sensed this was my long-awaited opportunity, my chance to launch into 
an appeal for Franklin. 

It was not needed. Ali interrupted by saying simply, "Regarding 
the prisoner, as soon as I heard of your interest in him, I saw to it that 
he received preferential treatment. I have carefully considered your 
request and your desire that he be released. I have decided to grant 
your request. When you want him, you may have him." 

I could scarcely believe what I had heard. "When you want him, 
you may have him." I was so overcome with joy I half-stumbled leav- 
ing the room. Franklin was free. In fact, he was waiting at my quarters 
when I returned. We were on the plane at 6 o'clock the next morning, 
headed for Beirut, New York and then St. Louis — where a joyous 
family welcomed Franklin home. 

I am convinced the main reason for Franklin's release was the 
decision by the government to probe ever so cautiously for better 
relations with the United States. Caution was necessary, because there 



Introduction 9 

were those in both nations who did not wish to see relations improved. 
Ali was the least Marxist of a three-man ruling junta. In the State 
Department, even some "Arabists," still resentful over the Yemeni ex- 
pulsion of the United States presence years before, rejected Aden as 
nothing but a "training ground for PLO terrorists/' Others, such as 
Kissinger, felt differently. Ed Franklin had provided the opportunity to 
begin the probing. 

But the United States government fiddled, hedged and delayed 
three years. Jimmy Carter replaced Gerald R. Ford in the White 
House, and Cyrus Vance became secretary of state. Our government 
turned down Aden's request to buy wheat on credit, then refused to 
consider a bid to buy three used airliners. The United States kept 
putting off even preliminary talks. At a second meeting with me in 
September 1977— this time in New York where he addressed the United 
Nations — Ali restated his desire for renewed relations with the United 
States and suggested that I report our discussion to Secretary of State 
Cyrus Vance. I did so, and after my report, Vance and Foreign Minister 
Motie of South Yemen agreed to exploratory talks. To me, this ap- 
peared like a momentous breakthrough. The talks were to begin in 
Aden in just a few weeks, shortly after New Year's Day. Sadly, pro- 
crastination took over. 

No precise date for the meetings had been set when I returned to 
the Middle East with a number of other Congressmen in January 1978. 
I altered my own itinerary long enough for a side trip to Aden. Before I 
left the group, we met with Secretary of State Vance, whose travels 
happened to cross ours, and with Saudi Arabia's Crown Prince Fahd — 
a large, impressive man who spoke eloquent English and was to be- 
come the Saudi monarch. Fahd spoke approvingly of my efforts in 
Aden and asked me to tell officials in Aden that Saudi Arabia was ready 
to resume sending them economic aid. 

"It's a Good Omen" 

When I arrived, the scene in Aden had improved. South Yemen 
had already exchanged ambassadors with its former arch-enemy, Saudi 
Arabia — even though the two nations still had disputes over territory. 
Aden had also just agreed to diplomatic relations with Jordan. The 
local radio station no longer harangued American and Saudi "imperial- 
ists." This time my wife, Lucille, accompanied me. We were assigned 
to the same guest house I had used before, where the principal change 
was the presence of a well-stocked refrigerator. 

President Ali received us in the same spacious hall, along with an 
honor guard. Although he avoided comment on Saudi Arabia's offer of 
aid, Ali spoke of Crown Prince Fahd with great warmth. 



10 They Dare to Speak Out 

Then he added, "We are looking forward to the expected arrival of 
the diplomatic delegation from the United States before the end of the 
month." I am sure my face fell. I knew the delegation was not coming 
that month. In fact, the mission had been delayed indefinitely. A few 
days before, Vance had told me the bad news but had not explained why. 
When I expressed the hope that Ali had been notified of the delay, 
Vance had replied, "We will take care of it." But, unfortunately, no one 
did. 

Ali was left waiting, day by day, for a group that did not arrive. I 
did not feel free to tell him of the change, so I listened and tried to look 
hopeful. I knew the delay would strengthen his critics who opposed 
reconciliation with the United States. 

I changed the subject: "Some of our strategists say you have let 
the Soviets establish a naval base here. Do you have a comment?" 

He strongly protested: "That is not true. We do not allow the 
Soviets, or any foreign nation, to have a military base in our territory. 
But we do cooperate with the Soviets because they help us." Ali con- 
cluded our discussion by giving me a message to take to Washington: 

Please extend my warm greetings to President Carter. Kindly inform him that 
we are eager to maintain smooth and friendly relations between Democratic 
Yemen and the United States. We recognize that President Carter is concerned 
about maintaining friendly relations with all countries. We feel that is a positive 
policy. We believe our relations should be further strengthened. 

As we parted, I gave Ali a pottery vase our daughter, Diane, had 
made for him. He said, "That's very nice. Please thank your daughter. I 
admire it." Then he stepped to the door to admire something else, rain, 
which is a rarity in Aden. 

"It's a good omen," he said. 

I left Aden more convinced than ever that diplomatic relations 
would help the United States and our friends in the region. The United 
States and Saudi Arabia had a common interest in minimizing the 
Soviet presence in South Yemen. We needed a diplomatic mission 
there. Back in Washington, I missed no opportunity to press this rec- 
ommendation on Secretary Vance and on the White House staff. 

At the White House a month later I was able to make a personal 
appeal to President Jimmy Carter. Carter said he was "surprised and 
pleased" by Ali's message. 

"His words are surprisingly warm," he observed. "We've been 
hoping to improve our situation there." I urgently argued that there 
should be no further delays: "Another cancellation would be baffling to 
President Ali, to say the least." 

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