59. Somewhere over Africa, 1999 - Turbulence

In which Eleanor looks out over Africa.

A Christmas visit to South Africa raises disturbing questions about Eleanor's future.

Eleanor

I look out the airplane window, and see only the dark night of Africa below. The vastness of Africa seems even more pronounced at night: there are so few lights to be seen. The emptiness below magnifies the jumble in my head. It’s been three blessed, confusing, joyous, heartbreaking weeks in South Africa. And I’m flying back to…what, exactly?

I run my fingers along the cool, smooth plastic of the window frame, feeling the vibrations of the plane. The airplane is quiet. The lights have been dimmed, and most people are already asleep or watching the movie. But I can’t sleep. Or watch. The screen in front of me flickers with something Hollywood and inane, utterly out of sync with my state of mind. I lean my head against the side of the airplane, the cold surface pressing against my temple. I close my eyes, replaying the last few weeks, still struggling to make any sense of it all. What does it mean for me and my future?

When I left Jerusalem, the US and UK had just stopped bombing Iraq¹—which started just two days after Clinton concluded his sudden visit to Israel and Palestine to try to resuscitate Wye. While it wasn’t unexpected—the US had been signaling for weeks this could happen—for Palestinians it felt as if Clinton came, spoke words of peace, then left and bombed an Arab neighbor. I see again the images of Palestinians burning the flags they had waved upon his arrival. Conspiracies were everywhere: it was all an Arab plot; it was all a Zionist plot; it was all an American plot; it was Clinton trying to distract attention from his looming impeachment trial.

What a f-ing mess. I sigh, the sound inaudible over the quiet hiss of the air. And nothing at all to pay for any of it.

Wye is still dead.

In the office, Nagla and Wissam were uncharacteristically snipping at each other, both on edge about something. And Francois casually remarked the day before I left that he was making me Tariq’s manager. Oh dearie, god help me there!

From all of that, to lying next to the pool at home in Pretoria, the tranquility disturbed only by the gentle call of the red-eyed doves. The sound that is home. Pretoria might be boring, but it is peaceful.

I went into the office for a few days to work on some things, and had the misfortune to run into Naughton. God how I detest that man. He was his usual bombastic and bullying self. He’s one of the prime reasons I would leave the Department. How someone like him can prosper under the new government beats me. He’s just a racist opportunist as far as I can see. Meanwhile, good people like André Beckham are sidelined.

I shift in my seat, my hips aching slightly—there’s never enough room to really stretch my legs out on airplanes—and return to ruminating as I feel the cold press of the window against my forehead. I had a lovely, but disheartening, dinner with André and Helen the week I was in Pretoria. Helen gave me a small portrait she had painted of Aunty Trudy saying “I thought you might appreciate this.” And I do, oh so much. I know exactly where I want to put her picture in my study in Jerusalem.

“Are you still sewing and making things?” Helen asked me as I helped her lay the table.

“A little. Not as much as I’d like to,” I replied. “I’m just too busy these days.”

Settling into the lounge for coffee after dinner, André floored me. “I’ve handed in my resignation, Elle,” he said, cradling his coffee cup in his hands. “Diplomacy is over. Us traditional, career diplomats, are being sidelined and ignored. Globalization and summitry² are in; classical diplomacy is out.”

He stared into the bottom of his cup, then, looking up at me over the top of his coffee cup, added casually, “Your intellect is too broad to stay with the Department long, Elle. You should consider what you want to do next.” I practically spat my own coffee out in surprise, my head trying to wrap itself around his compliment, while my mind was still trying to process his own pronouncement.

The day after that, I ran into Sizwe in the Union Buildings on my way to Imaad’s office. I didn’t know he was in town and was struck by how different he seemed. Even he was cynical and disillusioned by what is happening in the ANC and the government. I turn my head to look out at the blackness below, just the occasional blink of the taillight breaking the darkness. If Sizwe, ever the optimist, is disillusioned, what hope is there for the rest of us?

Sizwe and André’s comments have brought to the surface doubts that have been simmering in the background for a while now. But what would I do if not this? I have no answers, only questions.

An air steward walks down the aisle with a tray of water and some snacks. Seeing me awake, he stops at my row, and I take a water and gulp greedily, the cool soothing my dry throat, then lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. I don’t feel sleepy. My mind—and heart—are still too full, sifting, sorting, processing.

After running into Sizwe it was, oh god, the news from Imaad: Mahdi in hospital in the UK after a serious heart-attack. It was touch and go for a while, but he had finally pulled through. And next thing I know I’m just sobbing in Imaad’s office, as he quietly closes the door, gently sitting me down on the sofa, while he holds my hand and I just cry and cry and cry.

Christmas we spent as a family at the farm. After Imaad’s news, I took myself off for long rambles all over the farm. I needed the time alone. The majesty of the Drakensberg worked their usual magic on me. I slowly felt myself unwinding and relaxing. It helped not to have any news at all. There’s no TV at the farm, and we don’t get the newspapers when we’re in Underberg—so it was a complete break from everything. Dad, Tig, Tig’s fiancée, Annalise, and I did a few bigger hikes too—up Garden Castle one day, and up Rhino another. It was wonderful to see Tig so relaxed and at ease. Dad said Tig had a bit of a manic bump some month’s back and he and Mum had been worried: how would Annalise react? But she took it in stride, Dad said, and was a great support to Tig.

Henry, of course, kept us on our feet as usual. There’s never a dull moment with that rapscallion. He only had one seizure the entire week we were at the farm, which apparently is an improvement. I hadn’t realized how much the doctor’s have been struggling to find the right dosage to keep the seizures down without completely zombifying Henry. My poor baby brother. For every two steps forward he progresses in one area there’s another step back elsewhere.

I take another sip of water, trying to anchor on the coolness.

From the farm it was on to Meredith and Sebastian’s wedding in Cape Town. Small world that it is, one of the other guests at the wedding was Amy, from St Anne’s and her now husband—the same guy I’d seen her with at that forgettable party at Rose’s house, after which I vowed I’d keep my distance from all things St Anne’s. Remembering Amy has me thinking, with a pang, of Natasha. I haven’t thought of Natasha for years now. I wonder where she is and what she’s doing?

My mind drifts back to Amy. She had devastating news about Rose’s father: he had been murdered. Apparently he had been hauled out of his home in Johannesburg, in front of Rose’s mother, and put in the boot of the car. Many frantic hours later the police found him dumped on the side of the road, beaten to death. I just looked at Amy. I had no words for this. “I’m sorry to tell you this at a wedding, Elle. But this is the reality of life in South Africa now,” she said with some heat. And I felt so conflicted and torn. It seems to have become the national pastime of many white South Africans to complain about how bad the new South Africa is. But Rose’s father murdered? That’s just…horrific.

For the reception, Meredith and Seb seated me with Alasdair, his wife, and some others from University. I hadn’t seen Alasdair since we graduated, it was lovely to see him again—and meet his wife. Soon, of course, we were reminiscing about the Wild Coast hike. All Alasdair had to say was “Ja, Kommandant” and we were in howls of laughter as we remembered Niel’s naked salute. But then Alasdair turned and whispered to me, “Niel’s sister was raped six months ago. And now she has HIV.”

As I continue to fly north across Africa, I’m taken back to third year sociology class, where our professor warned us: “Apartheid is ending. But the way apartheid has fractured and destabilized society—that we will be living with for decades still to come. We know what happens in such societies: violence and crime.” Paton was right: we turned to loving too late. Now we must live with the hate³. We can’t say we weren’t warned—but the reality I’ve been confronted with on this trip is still shocking.

From Palestine on the brink, to the boring, but peaceful stillness of Pretoria, to the serenity of the farm and the Drakensberg, to the ugly reality of the new South Africa, to the happiness and joy of Meredith and Sebastian’s wedding…as I sit in the stillness of an airplane over Africa, my mind is still reeling. How am I to hold all of this? Where is the hope and optimism of 1994? Where is the promise of peace and the end of occupation in Palestine? It all seems to have gone up in smoke. I’ve never felt so conflicted about South Africa before. I’m used, now, in a horrible way, to the conflict I feel in Jerusalem, but now I feel it about South Africa too.

I stare out the window, the vast darkness below reflecting back the confusion in my mind. What does this mean for my future?

But I was at a wedding. For an evening we forgot it all and we danced and danced and danced until my feet were so sore I could hardly walk. I see Meredith again now, radiant, being twirled by Sebastian. I hear the DJ playing Livin’ on a Prayer, and we were back in Durban again, jumping up and down, belting out the lyrics at the top of our lungs, breathlessly collapsing in heaps at the table afterwards. We’re all a little older and wiser now, and I wasn’t puking my guts out after too much alcohol on top of antidepressants.

There were no guns at the wedding.

But there are plenty of guns out there.

I’m used to them pointing in my face. It’s an everyday occurrence. But now they’re pointing at my heart.

I open my eyes, and they fall on the sleeping passengers around me, oblivious.

What am I to do?

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1. Operation Desert Fox, a four-day military campaign conducted by the United States and the United Kingdom from December 16 to December 19, 1998.

2. “Summitry" refers to high-level negotiations and meetings between heads of state or government leaders. The focus in “summitry” is on highly-publicized events with significant media attention and the direct, personal interaction between the most senior officials. In contrast classical diplomacy works behind the scenes with a more gradual influence on international relations. It entails more formal, routine negotiations between diplomats.

3. “I have one great fear in my heart, that one day when they are turned to loving, they will find we are turned to hating.” From Cry the Beloved Country, by Alan Paton, 1948.