In his final years, Menachem Begin’s life was marked by seclusion, declining health, and an increasing retreat from public life. After stepping down as Prime Minister in 1983, he more or less disappeared from public view, a dramatic and radical transformation for a man who had once dominated Israeli politics.
His resignation on September 15, 1983, was abrupt; according to the official statement delivered to Chaim Herzog, Begin simply said, “I cannot go on,” thus ending his premiership. Reports at the time emphasized concern about his physical and emotional health: he was described as pale, weak, suffering from “exhaustion,” a skin ailment that prevented him from shaving, and a general inability to function normally.
The sad underlying causes were a mixture of tribulation and trauma. The death of his wife, Aliza, in November 1982, was widely understood as a critical blow from which he never recovered. Alongside this, the deeply traumatic experience of the war in Lebanon (1982), which he had authorized, weighed heavily on him; witnesses from within his circle later said that he was haunted by the human cost of that war, and the constant stream of casualty reports seemed to drain him, each soldier’s death a fresh wound to his conscience.
According to his longtime secretary and associates, Begin then virtually vanished from public life, moved into a modest apartment (reportedly overlooking the Jerusalem Forest), and adopted a deeply private existence. He rarely left the apartment; his only outings were to visit his wife’s gravesite and recite the traditional Kaddish on the anniversary of her death. His longtime personal secretary, Yechiel Kadishai, a veteran of the underground days, controlled all requests for meetings, and attention to Begin was strictly limited to close family or few trusted friends. According to accounts, Begin passed his days reading, watching movies, consuming newspapers, listening to the BBC each morning, a lifelong habit dating to his underground days, and staying broadly aware of world affairs. Although withdrawn, he retained some influence in Likud behind the scenes.
Physical ailments also deepened. In 1990, Begin suffered a bad fall that broke his hip, requiring surgery at Shaare Zedek Medical Center and, after rehabilitation, he was released in March 1991 and moved to an apartment in the Afeka neighborhood of Tel Aviv. Observers reported that this change of environment improved his mood somewhat, and his seclusion loosened just a bit; during 1991, he granted two telephone interviews: one on the eve of Passover, for a broadcast commemorating fifty years since the death of Ze’ev Jabotinsky, and another in July 1991, his final interview.
On March 3, 1992, Begin collapsed in his Tel Aviv apartment, stricken by a severe heart attack. He was rushed to Ichilov Hospital (part of the Tel Aviv Sourasky Medical Center), placed in the intensive care unit; he was put on a respirator, and was unconscious until early on March 4, 1992 when, after about twenty hours, he regained consciousness and doctors held out hope of full recovery. On March 5, a pacemaker was implanted, but his health remained fragile; by March 7, his cardiac muscle was weakening and he was again put on a respirator. On the morning of March 9, 1992, at about 3:15 a.m., his heart deteriorated rapidly; doctors attempted resuscitation, but Begin died at 3:30 a.m. and the official announcement of his death followed roughly ninety minutes later. A hospital rabbi recited the Kaddish shortly before 6:00 a.m., after which Begin’s body was prepared for burial.
At his request, the funeral was kept simple: no wreaths, no lying in state, no official pomp. Instead of burial in the standard site for Israeli leaders, he was laid to rest on the Mount of Olives cemetery beside his beloved wife Aliza, as well as former underground comrades from the pre-state period. The ceremony was attended by an estimated 75,000 mourners; former members of the leadership of the underground organization Irgun Zvi Leumi served as pallbearers; leaders, dignitaries and foreign ambassadors were present; but eulogies were spare and minimal, in accordance with Begin’s wishes.
Thus ended a life that had encompassed the most dramatic transformations of 20th‑century Jewish history: from underground fighter and refugee, to underground movement leader, to statesman, Nobel laureate, and, sadly, to recluse.
Exhibited here is an amazing, historic, and enigmatic (as we shall discuss below) document, the last letter that Begin ever wrote. Dated February 27, 1992, only a few days before the heart attack that would soon kill him, it serves as a sort of testament before his death, in which he expresses his satisfaction with the commemoration of the heroism of the Irgun fighters. In his letter, Begin responds to the board members of the Tagar Institute for National Education – Irgun veterans – after receiving their letter dated 23 Adar I 5752 [February 27, 1992] and he praises their efforts in producing a video commemorating the heroism of the Irgun. The tone of the letter reads almost like a final testament written shortly before his passing:
Your educational initiative is a noble one. If you wish to come and present the video [“which reflects” – correction in the handwriting of Begin’s secretary] the actions of the Irgun Zvai Leumi, in which we were all members and for which we made efforts on behalf of the rebirth of Israel – I will be most pleased and deeply grateful.
Please coordinate the date of the meeting with my friend Yechiel Kadishai.
With great respect and blessings.
Born in Poland, Kadishai (1923-2013) made aliyah to Eretz Yisrael under the British Mandate, where he settled in Tel Aviv and joined Betar as a young man. During World War II, he served in the British Army where, among other duties, he helped Holocaust survivors and, after the war, he became active in the pre‑state Irgun, working in Europe to clandestinely assist Jewish survivors in making aliyah in defiance of British immigration quotas. Following the establishment of the State of Israel, he remained close to Begin; was appointed secretary of Begin’s Cherut party in the 1960s; and, after Likud’s 1977 electoral victory, he became Begin’s personal secretary and chief of staff. Even after Begin’s retirement from public life and ensuing seclusion, Kadishai remained his closest confidant and gatekeeper. His presence during Begin’s final years makes him not just an aide, but a witness and caretaker; indeed, during Begin’s final heart‑attack and hospitalization, Kadishai was among the few besides family permitted at his bedside.
At first glance, the letter appears modest, almost understated, employing a tone that is at once gracious, respectful, deferential; there is no grand political declaration, no extended philosophical reflection, no attempt to re‑enter public discourse. Instead, Begin writes simply and poignantly, that the educational initiative is “a noble one” and offers to meet with the veterans to present their commemorative video on the history and heroism of the Irgun, asking that they coordinate through “my friend” Kadishai, suggesting not only personal trust, but also a recognition of the frailty and limitations that he was already feeling.
That this letter is the last one he ever wrote adds enormous symbolic weight to it, as it captures a brief moment of connection to his past: to the underground struggle, to the comrades and comradeship of the Irgun, to the ideals and sacrifices that had shaped him, even as he approached his final days. It is almost as though he felt compelled, in a final gesture, to reaffirm solidarity with the generation of fighters and to encourage continued commemoration of their cause. The very phrasing – “in which we were all members” – underscores a collective identity as he proudly claims belonging. For a former prime minister, lauded for statecraft, a Nobel peace prize, a man of international stature, to describe himself simply as one of the group, a comrade among comrades, is a powerful statement about how he saw himself at the end: not as a statesman, but as a veteran, a pioneer of Israel’s rebirth.
Moreover, the letter reflects humility and continuity: he uses the word “rebirth of Israel,” reminding the recipients – and perhaps himself? – of the foundational struggle that preceded the state. In his last known written lines, Begin seems to return to the roots of his identity, to the idealistic origins of his life’s work, disconnected from power, politics, or status. The corrections in the secretary’s handwriting, which appear twice in the body of the letter, further emphasize a sense of urgency, a frailty, a need for help in the act of writing and lends the letter a deeply human, fragile dimension: the leader, once strong and commanding, now dependent on his aide’s hand for clarity.
Considering all this, the letter serves as a kind of epilogue to Begin’s public life, but also a spiritual coda. It is not a farewell in loud or dramatic terms, but a quiet, meaningful gesture: acknowledging comrades past, validating their memory, expressing solidarity and hope that their story and their heroism be remembered by future generations. Given his reclusive final decade marked by illness and physical deterioration, this letter perhaps represents one of the very last attempts he made to reach beyond his isolation. That it refers to the Irgun and to educational commemoration may reflect how, in his last moments, he was not concerned with contemporary politics but, rather, with legacy: preserving the memory of those who fought for Israel’s independence and passing that memory to future generations.
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The name “Tagar” literally means “challenge” or “struggle,” a resonant word for a movement deriving from militant Zionist roots. Historically, the organization most reliably associated with that name is a young‑adult/student project of the Betar movement, itself a Zionist youth movement founded in 1923 in Riga, Latvia, under the ideological leadership of Ze’ev Jabotinsky. Betar (Hebrew acronym of “Brit Yosef Trumpeldor”) was conceived in the interwar period as a youth movement that combined Zionist nationalism, commitment to Jewish self‑defense, and readiness for aliyah, often “by any means.” In the 1920s and 1930s, Betar spread across Europe, became a major force in Eastern‑European Jewish life, and established branches in Eretz Yisrael under British mandatory rule; there, its members gradually became part of the underground paramilitary resistance against the British, ultimately forming or joining the ranks of Irgun Zvai Leumi (Etzel).
Under the leadership of younger cadres trained in Betar’s military‑style hachshara preparatory training, the ideological and organizational transformation from youth movement to underground fighter network took shape. The existence of a “Training School for Betar Instructors,” established already in 1928 in Tel Aviv under Betar auspices, indicates the seriousness with which Betar approached paramilitary training; that school, under directors such as Jeremiah Halpern and instructors such as Abba Ahimeir, provided the nucleus from which militant activism, including underground resistance, self‑defense mobilization, and attacks against the British Mandate, arose.
It is in this larger ideological and organizational field that Tagar emerges in publicly accessible documentation, not as a veterans’ institute and not in Israel, but as a young‑adult/student Zionist organization, part of the global Betar network. According to the self‑description on Betar’s website, Tagar is an “umbrella project” of the worldwide Betar movement, oriented toward recruiting and developing Jewish students and young adults, roughly ages 18-35, and its stated goals are to foster Zionist identity, leadership, community engagement, and activism, particularly on campuses abroad. Tagar’s declared purposes include promoting a “Jewish‑Zionist environment” after the youth’s initial affiliation with Betar; expanding participants’ networks; fostering international diplomacy; and promoting Zionism in diasporic Jewish communities and on campuses around the world.
The documented branches of Tagar, at least according to Betar’s public web presence, are in Latin America, Europe, and elsewhere globally. The current emphasis is overwhelmingly on diaspora Jewry, young adults, student activism, leadership training, and Zionist outreach, and not on veterans of pre‑state underground organizations, nor on senior Irgun fighters. Strangely, this identification contrasts sharply with the circumstances of Begin’s last letter, which is addressed to what is described as the “executive board of the ‘Tagar Institute for National Education – Irgun veterans, Jerusalem.’”
In short, there is a definitive, verifiable historical record for Betar and Tagar, but that record describes a youth/student‑oriented Zionist movement, not a veterans’ institute. The mainstream scholarly literature on Zionist youth movements, on underground veteran associations, and on combatants’ post‑state organizations does not mention a “Tagar Institute” for Irgun veterans in Jerusalem, nor do searches among accessible English‑language academic, journalistic, and organizational‑history resources produce any trace of such an institution.
This silence is especially striking given the prominence of former Betar/Irgun leaders, such as Begin and others who often emerged into public or political life. Betar’s own institutional memory and subsequent political evolution, including the linking of many Betar alumni to the right‑wing Revisionist, Herut and later Likud currents, is well documented. Yet nowhere in this well‑mapped lineage – with the notable exception of our letter – does a Jerusalem‑based “Tagar Institute for National Education – Irgun veterans” appear. This correspondence, however, is not part of any recognized archival collection, historical registry, or publicly accessible repository of veteran‑organization records and, as such, though undoubtedly personally written by Begin, it is not an indication of an institution with formally recorded existence. But that leaves a fascinating question unanswered: what was Begin talking about?
Given this gap between the well‑documented youth‑movement Tagar and the untraceable “Institute,” several hypotheses suggest themselves, none of them mutually exclusive. First, it is possible that the “Tagar Institute” was an informal or ad‑hoc body created by a small group of Irgun veterans who borrowed the name “Tagar” (with its symbolic meaning of struggle/challenge) for their own use, but that never incorporated formally, published, or created a lasting institutional trace. Alternatively, it may have been a short‑lived initiative that dissolved soon after its founding, leaving little or no public paper trail. A third possibility is that the name was applied later during private archival or collectors’ activity, perhaps meaning something like “a veterans’ educational project,” and that the letter’s addressee reflects contemporary or retrospective labeling rather than the original institutional name. Finally, it is even conceivable that the “Institute” never existed in any structured way, and that the letter was addressed personally to a semi‑private circle using “Tagar” as a symbolic title.
Because no publicly accessible independent archival records have been found – no membership lists, minutes, public announcements, activities, or later references – the existence of the “Tagar Institute for National Education – Irgun veterans” as a formal, functioning institution remains, at best, unverified, with the sole evidence being my letter. As such, from a historiographical and archival‑methodological perspective, one must treat it as an isolated primary document, a mystery whose institutional context is opaque.
Far from diminishing the letter’s importance, all this actually enhances its value to historians. It may constitute the only surviving artifact referencing that particular attempt (if it was one) to organize Irgun veterans under the “Tagar” name for educational or commemorative purposes, which renders the letter both a tantalizing clue and a potential archival pivot point. If no further documentation emerges, such as minutes, membership lists, other correspondence, or organizational records, the final Begin letter will remain a solitary historical fragment but, even as a solitary fragment, it tells a story: of memory, of identity, of veterans who may have wished to organize, commemorate, and educate about their past in the waning years of thsaul jaye generation that fought for the founding of Israel.