43. Ramallah, 1997 - Submit
In which Eleanor confronts power.
Naughton makes a leadership decision. Eleanor's career and dignity hang in the balance. 
Eleanor
Naughton Elliott’s bulk fills the small common area of our office in Ramallah. At over six feet tall, he looms over the room, his presence oppressive, with thinning hair, a broad, jowly face, and cheeks flushed with anger. His physical heft is as intimidating as his forceful personality. Naughton’s eyes bore into me, hard and unforgiving behind his wire rim glasses.
“Jacob Olivier will be the Deputy Representative. That’s my decision and you will accept it.” His tone is harsh. It’s crystal clear: question him once more and I’ll be put on the next plane back to Pretoria.
Heat surges up my neck. My face burns. I fight back the hot sting of incipient tears. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry. I clench my hands so hard I feel my fingernails biting into my palms. Rage bubbles, threatening to spill out of me, but that will only make things worse. The unfairness and injustice of it all infuriate me.
Jacob is intelligence; I’m political staff. By protocol, as I am the second political officer after Francois, I should be named Deputy Representative. It is what Francois had told me would happen when I arrived. But Jacob is ANC, and one of the returned exiles. I’m a young white woman. Naughton, who outranks Francois, had countermanded Francois. “He’s just trying to curry favor with the Deputy Minister, to get back into his good graces, and undermine me,” Francois had remarked bitterly on seeing Naughton’s countermanding order.
There’s an ongoing quiet war of words between the reports from the Embassy in Tel Aviv and us. The Embassy repeats Israeli talking points; Francois and I are constantly having to show the nuance and complexity the Embassy’s reporting leaves out. The Deputy Minister has made his displeasure with some of Tel Aviv’s recent reports known.
Francois had protested Naughton’s countermanding orders, and the next thing we knew the Ambassador announced he was coming to Ramallah. It’s the first time he’s come to Ramallah since I arrived three months ago. I’ve met Naughton once before, briefly, when I came to Tel Aviv from Cairo for medical treatment—but I barely remember that visit. Everything was such a blur. I do remember Sizwe’s caution about him, though.
“Naughton, we need to discuss the implications of this decision—” Francois begins when we gather, standing, in the tiny common area.
Naughton raises his hand, cutting Francois off mid-sentence. “My decision is made. And it’s my decision to make. The Director-General has given me that authority.” His tone is icy, final.
“But—” Francois tries again.
Naughton takes a step towards Francois, lowering his voice. “But nothing. Need I remind you—” Francois’s face visibly blanches. He doesn’t say anything.
But I’m not going to just roll-over like Francois. “Protocol dictates that political staff should have precedence in this role,” I interject, trying to keep a whine out of my voice.
Naughton’s gaze shifts to me, his eyes narrowing. “Protocol?” he repeats, “You’re going to lecture me and the Director-General about protocol, little miss?” His voice drips with disdain.
My heart pounds in my chest. “It’s not right—” I try again, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.
“Right?” he barks, his voice rising. “What do you know about what’s right? Jacob Olivier will be the Deputy Representative. That’s my decision, and you will accept it.”
His words sledgehammer into me. I feel like a bug being squished into nothing underneath his heel. Clearly I’m a pawn in Naughton and Francois’s power game, and I’m the expendable piece. Rage and humiliation shake my body, sting my eyes. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry. Tears will only reinforce the perception that I’m unfit for the role.
I look at Francois. His face is determinedly impassive, his gaze fixed on his shoes. The tension in the office is palpable. Wissam and Nagla, our Palestinian office manager, both keep their heads down at their desks. The office is too small for any of us to hide anywhere. Only Jacob is not here. He does his own thing anyway. He doesn’t coordinate his work with ours; nor is he required to.
Seething but defeated, I wrap my cloak of humiliation and indignation around myself. I force out a nod and walk the few steps back to my office. I feel completely alone, isolated from all support. Imaad is a phone call away. But I’m not going to go running to him. Thinking of Imaad brings me close to…No. Shut that door, Eleanor. Madness that way lies. I harness my rage instead, redirecting myself from the abyss. You’ll trip over your own big feet eventually, I console myself, imagining Naughton’s eventual exposure for who he is: a sexist bully who plays hard and dirty with people's lives and careers.
Finally, satisfied that all opposition has been crushed, Naughton puts his genial uncle face back on and turns to Wissam. “So,” he smiles, “how’s the Rover handling the West Bank roads?”
Francois
As he hears the door close behind Eleanor as she leaves for the day, Francois allows himself to slump in his chair, the leather creaking under him.
Finally he is alone. A heavy sigh escapes him.
His body feels heavy and lethargic, the weight of the past two years pressing down on him. Every decision, every report, every strategic maneuver, the relentless tide of responsibilities and expectations—it had all nearly come undone today. He rubs his temples, trying to dispel the dull ache that now engulfs him.
"Need I remind you..." The very ambiguity of Naughton’s words had unnerved him. Remind him of what? Naughton couldn’t possibly know. There’re only two people in the world who know. His discipline and self-control have been relentless and unwavering. His hands tremble slightly as he reaches for the glass of water on his desk, taking a long, slow sip. The cool liquid offers a brief respite, but the knot in his stomach remains.
For the rest of the afternoon after Naughton had left, Eleanor had stayed in her office, and he in his. Long after Naughton’s departure, the tension still hung thick in the air. Even Nagla and Wissam remained silent, staying at their desks. Wissam had made them all their usual cups of tea in the mid-afternoon, but had placed Francois’s cup silently in front of him. Francois had just nodded his thanks to Wissam.
As the afternoon wore on he could practically feel the waves of anger, confusion, hurt and betrayal emanating from Eleanor’s office. He hated himself for having gone silent, leaving her to face Naughton alone. But he had no choice. He has to play the long game, keep his cards close to his chest. There is too much at stake.
She hasn’t yet learned to play a longer and more subtle game. She’s young, fiery, and unyielding—it’s admirable at times, annoying at others, and a downright liability in situations like today. She’s a fast learner, though, he will give her that. She’s eager and willing to put in the work. He’s exposed her to more in three months than many young diplomats on their first posting get in two years. It’s a measure of the immensity of the task in front of them that she has this much scope, this quickly.
He rubs his temples again. He feels the weight of his years even more keenly. Her arrival has significantly expanded the mission’s reach. He admires her intelligence and drive, but her combination of high moral principle with impulsively speaking out nearly spelled disaster for them both today.
Francois leans back, his eyes drifting to the framed photograph on his desk. It’s a picture of his family on a serene beach, the waves gently lapping at the shore. He had taken the photo a while back on a rare vacation. A lifetime ago, it seems. As he looks at it, he draws strength from what he and his wife have created.
Francois pulls himself together. The game is far from over. Naughton’s reign in Tel Aviv has a quickly approaching expiration date: his posting will be over in another six months. Francois has to ensure he is still standing when that time comes. He glances at the clock—it’s late, but not too late. He picks up his phone and leaves a message for his wife not to wait for him, he won’t be home for supper. There are emails to send, calls to make, strategies to refine. He pulls the instructions from the Deputy Minister towards him, reading them for the tenth time. Another round of diplomatic tightrope walking, another opportunity to prove his worth. Francois squares his shoulders, taking a deep breath. The exhaustion lingers, but determination is stronger.
He begins to write, each carefully crafted sentence a small defiance against the fatigue that threatens to overwhelm him. There is too much to do, too many people relying on him.
And behind it all, the unspoken truth he carries alone.
He can’t afford to falter—not now.
February Indie Collective - Last day
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The lesson there is 'learn to read the room' before assuming the moral high ground! Difficult for an inexperienced idealist if they are not aware of certain unpublished backstory affecting the game.