46. Nahal Sorek, 1998 - Tirades and treasures
In which Eleanor makes some new friends.
Jerry collects "interesting people". Eleanor is gathered into his fold. 
Eleanor
“I’m rather out of place here,” I say to Nigel Shipley, as I walk next to him on the trail through the forest.
It is my first time out with Father Jerry’s “perambulating PhD” group, as he calls it. Father Jerome Murphy O’Connor, OP—but Father Jerry to everyone—is a Dominican monk and a Professor at the École Biblique. I met him at the Shipley’s last week and he invited me to join his Sunday hiking group—an invitation-only, select group of heads of mission, NGO leaders, international journalists, military attachés and the like. There’s Val—the owner of the American Colony Hotel. And Deidre from the BBC. Nigel with World Vision, of course. Josephine from the World Bank. And others whose names I haven’t got stuck in my memory yet after Jerry's quick round of introductions as we gathered at the American Colony Hotel before setting out. I’m feeling small, young, and insecure with this group of seasoned, and hardened, internationals.
“Jerry is a collector of interesting people,” Nigel says, his eyes warm and his smile, through his trim gray beard, broad. “You’re interesting people.”
I don’t see how that’s true. I’ve listened to some of Nigel’s stories. He was protesting apartheid in South Africa before I was even born. He was literally in the room drafting anti-apartheid legislation in the US, which is where he truly became aware, he told me, of the depth of the relationship between apartheid South Africa and Israel. “Israel was the apartheid government's only real ally. Militarily as well as politically,” he’d said with sadness one evening after one of his and Deana’s soirees. “Actually it was Tutu who woke me up to the need here. ‘Mandela’s going to be out of prison soon,’ he told a group of us in Cape Town. ‘If you want to continue this work, turn your eyes to the Palestinians…You are dismissed from here’. And so here Deana and I are.”
“But in comparison to everyone else here I'm nothing,” I say now as we pause to take in the view through the pine and cedar trees. We’re hiking in the Nahal Sorek Reserve—a stunningly beautiful forest west of Jerusalem, in Israel. It feels remote, even though we’re only thirty minutes from Jerusalem. “I’m the most junior person here! Jerry’s wonderful—but I don’t see how I fit here.”
Nigel chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Jerry’s been doing this for a long time. He has an eye for people. You’re intelligent, and articulate. You’re an independent thinker and you’re not afraid to question authority and so-called received wisdom.” He pauses, looking at me with a reassuring smile. “You’re a young South African serving a young democracy. You’re an Arabist. You live, rather than profess, your faith. Jerry sees what we all see: you’re a very interesting young woman.”
I blush. I get such precious little praise and appreciation from Francois, for whom it seems I can do nothing right. Nigel’s kind words are rain to my parched soul. Naughton and Francois have made it abundantly clear that in their eyes I’m a little nobody who is to do as I’m told and most definitely not think for myself.
I’m still smarting from Francois’ latest tirade. He’d tiraded all week in the lead up to Thursday’s big reception. Wissam: too slow, overcomplicating things! Nagla: doesn’t listen, doesn’t follow orders! Jacob: well, he daren’t there—Francois is hands off that one. And then at me yesterday, after we pulled off a flawless reception, for having dared to be invited to lunch by Hanan Ashrawi. “Well, aren’t you getting big for your boots,” he’d flung at me.
The unfairness of his words still rankle. Hanan had come up to me during the reception. I’d felt quite intimidated; she was, after all, one the key architects of the Oslo Accords. But she’d been easy to talk to. She had complimented me on my Arabic and asked me to come and have lunch with her the next day. She wanted to talk to me more about growing up in South Africa, and what parallels I saw between apartheid and the situation in the West Bank and Gaza. It wasn’t an invitation to be refused.
I’d thought Francois would be pleased; that he wasn’t stung. I’m trying to learn from him. He’s a seasoned, experienced diplomat and I’ve watched how he’s assiduously cultivated relationships far and wide in the Palestinian National Authority and the international community. His work, and the respect he has earned, shows. But at the office, he’s a nightmare to work for. I never know where I stand with him. Some days he’s cheery and upbeat, thanking us and telling us good job for some little inconsequential task. Other days he’s morose and gloomy—barely coming out of his office. Wissam gives us the thumbs down on those days, warning us to stay clear. And then other days he yells at anyone and everyone who crosses him or doesn't instantly read his mind and get him exactly what he wants RIGHT NOW!
I have come to disrespect Francois as a boss, even as I respect him as a diplomat.
But today I try to forget all about that. It’s a glorious day. The fresh pine scent of the forest takes me back to the farm in the Drakensberg. As we hike, Father Jerry shares fascinating gems of history, his warm, broad Irish brogue captivating me. He’s an internationally acclaimed Pauline scholar. He came to Jerusalem as a young Dominican monk at the École Biblique in 1967. He’d been here for the Six Day war. He’s seen more history in his thirty years in East Jerusalem than any of us have. His love of a good gin and tonic has, however, caught up with him in the decades since, and he has been ordered by his doctor to decrease his intake and increase his exercise—or else. Hence his Sunday walks.
Jerry’s as imposing in his figure as Naughton. But where Naughton’s geniality is menacing, Jerry’s is warm and inviting. At six foot three and a girth to match, he shatters the stereotype I have of who a Catholic monk is supposed to be and what he’s supposed to look like. He seems more worldly than spiritual. He’d beamed at me when I arrived at the American Colony this morning—his full white beard tickling me as he’d given me a bear hug.
The bright blue sky, the fresh air, the friendly company, a rocky trail and a good hike—this is exactly what I need. The Judean hills are nothing like my beloved Drakensberg. But out here, surrounded by towering pines, a rich tapestry of vegetation, and views around every corner, I’m captivated. Jerusalem sits atop a great divide: drop down west and one is in the richly vegetated Judean hills; drop down east and one is in the dry, rugged Judean desert. The sheer variation in terrain and climate here excites me to explore further. And it’s heavenly to be hiking again. I hadn’t realized quite how much I’d missed that in Cairo.
Later that evening, as I curl up with Themba and Tlali, I feel happier than I have in a long time. The hole in my heart feels a little less big. I feel like I am finally starting to find my feet. Nigel, Jerry and the other walkers’ warm inclusivity has bolstered me for whatever mood Francois might be in tomorrow.
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