84. Jerusalem, 2001 - Leaving

In which Eleanor says goodbye. Again.

It's harder to get out of Israel than it is to get in. 

Eleanor

The apartment echoes. The furniture and curtains remain, but everything else is packed and gone. Everything else that made it home. The carpets I designed and had made in Cairo; the other carpets I’ve collected since from the Old City, Gaza and the Negev; the paintings and pictures on the walls from South Africa, Cairo, Jerusalem, and my travels beyond; the books, and lamps, the throws and ornaments: all packed and on their way to the US.

I had filled the apartment with color. Now it’s just white walls, cool stone floors, tasteful bland furniture. As I walk through the empty rooms I see the ghosts and hear the echoes of the gang’s merriment and dinner parties, music and laughter. I hear the chink of glasses, the chatter from the kitchen, Thomas telling another roaring story in his Australian twang, Damien reciting hilarious doggerel. I see Otto’s shadow where the carpet was on the floor. I see the imprints in the beds of the procession of guests and visitors over the years. I see myself in my study, writing letters and emails to friends far and wide. I see Themba and Tlali chasing each other around the apartment, then curling up around each other, one big orange and white furry ball.

This was a home, rich and full.

Now it’s an empty shell.

Themba and Tlali have looked lost these last two days as the apartment went from full to empty. As I climb into the Range Rover now with Wissam, I check in on them in their big carrier at the back. It’s sized for a large dog. It’s ridiculously huge, but for the long flight from Tel Aviv to Frankfurt to Cape Town I want them to have space. They look woefully back at me. What am I doing to them, they plead? I reach through and give each of them a scratch. “We’re onto our next adventure,” I whisper to them.

“Can we stop by Mount Scopus before we leave, please?” I ask Wissam as we pull out of the driveway.

We drive there in silence. Wissam gets out of the Range Rover and stands quietly next to me on Mount Scopus. He remembers too. This is where he first brought me with Francois, four years ago. Now I can pick out all the familiar landmarks myself. All the places I’ve visited. Friends' homes. The roads and shops I’ve driven past everyday.

As I look out over Jerusalem’s hills my heart aches with what was promised, and what has been broken. The peace process shattered. Hope torn to shreds by tear gas, rubber bullets, helicopter gunships, burning tyres, broken glass and rocks. Rocks everywhere.

When I first arrived, fresh from a newly democratic South Africa and the headiness of the Oslo peace accords, excitement had thrilled me as I stood in this very place, looking out on these same hills. Wissam’s silence says it all. One Intifada was enough. Two has broken him.

I’m leaving, I think quietly to herself. I get to leave. I get to go to sanity and quiet and peace. I get to take a break from all of this. Make it a thing that happened to me, not a thing I live with every day. I’m lucky. But what about them?

I look at Wissam, the exhaustion etched in his face. He’s aged twenty years in the last six months. We all have.

Pretoria has sent additional people. The mission has its own administrative and consular officers now. There are two new political officers, and more on the way. An intelligence officer, and another on their way. The new Ambassador will be here in a few months. The mission has outgrown the office and is moving into a new building shortly.

We’re adding Palestinian staff in Gaza and Ramallah. Tariq is in charge of onboarding the staff in Gaza. I smile when I think of that. His puffery is all gone, but he is bursting sweetly with pride.

We did it, Francois. We did it.

But it doesn’t seem worth celebrating.

On our Sunday walks with Jerry, the “old group” has noticed how the new arrivals seem to fare better than those of us who were here before the uprising started. The new arrivals have no different reality to compare it to. The roadblocks, the closures: they didn’t know how only a few months before you could drive from Jerusalem all the way to Nazareth through the West Bank and be fine. Well, mostly fine. You still had to contend with the settlers, of course. And the random road closures and detours.

It used to take me twenty minutes to drive to Jericho. Now it’s an hour—and there’s no guarantee I’ll get through the checkpoint. We used to come and go between Ramallah and Jerusalem multiple times a day if needed. Now we plan meetings to avoid doing that. It’s just too difficult. Bethlehem has become virtually impossible to get into.

And Gaza? I shudder. Every time I’ve gone I’ve felt like I’m driving into a dystopian prison camp: the wreckage of buildings everywhere. Apartment buildings blown out from aerial bombardment, pockmarks from artillery fire on virtually every building.

And always I know however hard it has been for us, the international community, we have it easy. We can always leave. I am leaving. We have our foreign passports, the protection of our governments and aid agencies.

Wissam stands quietly next to me as I take in the view one last time. I feel so conflicted. On the one hand, I am so thankful to be leaving. Mum and Dad’s new home in Cape Town is beckoning with its oh so seductive normality. On the other hand, Jerusalem has been my life these last four years. It truly has become home.

I rouse myself. It’s time to go.

We get back into the Range Rover and drive in companionable silence down to the airport.

“Can you stay until we get done with security, please?” I turn to Wissam when we get to Ben Gurion, putting a hand gently on his arm. He’s my last link and I’m reluctant to say goodbye just yet.

We deal with the cats first. Wissam holds Tlali, and I hold Themba, while every inch of the cat box is inspected, then swabbed, then sent through the x-ray machine. Then Tlali and Themba are themselves patted down. Later Wissam and I laugh macabrely that we’ve never heard of a cat bomber, but anything’s possible right?

And then it’s time for the interview. I’ve done it so many times, both myself and being moral support for friends. Now it’s Wissam who’s here to be my moral support. This is why I need him. This last test of patience. This last surge of fear.

First, the standard questions, as I hand over my diplomatic passport, explain what I do, where I live. Then it starts. Who’s Wissam? Why is he here? What have been my recent movements? What contacts have I had with Palestinians? Where have I been in the West Bank and Gaza? How did I get there? Diplomatic privilege only gets me so far here. Cooperate as much as I can. Be as open as I can. Absolutely never ever lie. Never ever get angry.

Then comes the pause.

The interrogating officer walks over to his superior officer, briefing her. Wissam and I stand quietly, watching. We have done this so many times. We know all the movements in the dance.

Then the superior officer comes over. She is both more polite and more cold. She asks all the same questions, just in a different way. Repeat everything I just told the first officer. Better make sure it's completely consistent or this process drags on for another hour. Or two. Or three.

Then they hand off again, and the original officer returns for a last go-round. I know I’m in the clear once I get this last hand-off. But I still can’t drop my guard.

Jacob had always said it had nothing to do with security. “If it was about security, they’d just strip search you, go through every belonging in your suitcase, and call it good. No, this is intelligence gathering. And it works. They’re damn good at it. And they get a gold mine of information.”

The interrogation still feels like a verbal strip search though.

Finally, it is done. I’m cleared to leave Israel. When I’d first experienced it, it had seemed bizarre that it was harder to leave Israel than it was to enter it. Once Jacob had explained it, though, it made sense. I still hate it, though, this final invasive indignity.

It’s time.

I turn to Wissam. Guilt, sadness, grief, relief: they’re all there as the handshake turns into the last long hug.

He stays standing in the departure hall. I turn, look back, and give him one last wave before I round the corner and am gone.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chapter One | Table of Contents

Last Book Club

Last Book Club will be Saturday, August 9, 2025 at 10am ET (3pm London/ 4pm South Africa).

This is the same day as the last chapter will be published.

Hope to see you there.

---

Special Note

On Friday, August 15 I will shut down paid subscriptions.

Between now and then is your last chance to get access to the bonus materials, the audiobook, and join the last Book Club.

If you have enjoyed reading On the Road to Jericho, please consider a 1 month subscription ($5) as a way of saying thank-you for all the work that has gone into writing On the Road to Jericho and releasing it on Substack.

For anyone who subscribes at the annual level between now and then, I will also send you a copy of the full e-book.