LITMIR.BIZ

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got word Jimmy Carter was about to launch an all-out effort for peace between Egypt and Israel. A risky business, unpopular in many quarters. Warsaw Pact countries threatened military action if its former ally made peace with Israel. The Arab states fumed, terrorist groups threatened reprisals. Nevertheless, he plowed ahead. Early September, Carter whisked Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin to Camp David, intending to lock them up until a deal had been struck. I asked Fred what I could contribute and he told me to draft something about the implications for oil supply, particularly if the Arab nations moved against Egypt.

      Twelve days later the men emerged, all smiles. Israel agreed to withdraw its Army from the Sinai, evacuate some 4,500 civilian settlers and return the land to Egypt. It was guaranteed free passage through the Suez, Egypt free passage to Jordan. Diplomatic relations would be established and armed forces limited in border areas. The U.S. committed to billions for the two countries. A vague statement dealt with an autonomous Palestinian authority in the West Bank and Gaza. No agreement on Jerusalem.

      It was Carter’s finest hour, though for Sadat and Begin the consequences were more complex. Egypt was expelled from the Arab League and its headquarters were shifted to Tunis. More pragmatically the Arab states complained that Egypt failed to get anything meaningful for the Palestinians. Though most Israelis supported “Land for Peace,” the nationalists continued to oppose return of historic and holy land. Many settlers simply refused to leave their homes. Violence was widespread as the government moved ahead with evacuations and the handover. Israel had agreed to halt new settlements but Begin caved to pressure and authorized their expansion in the West Bank and Gaza.

      The two leaders would go on to share the 1979 Nobel Peace Prize. They also would run afoul of domestic hard-liners. In 1981 Sadat would be assassinated by an Islamist group. Begin, forced to resign over fallout from his 1982 invasion of Lebanon, would live out his life in isolation, dying within the year.

      One evening later in the month, I made my way to the Columbia campus. Ed Said’s magnum opus had just appeared and I was pleased to be invited to his book party. I found him in a meeting room in the Faculty Club, surrounded by well-wishers. I purchased a copy and perused as I moved ahead in the line. Finally I stood at the table.

      “Paul! So good to see you! Thank you for coming!”

      “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, though it was close – I’m off to Riyadh tonight.”

      “Ah, yes, your oil beat. Let me say your series was excellent, many favorable comments, though one colleague takes issue with you about the role of market power.”

      I nodded. Nothing new there. As he signed my book I looked at the line. “Let me catch up with you later.”

      When I finally cornered him I asked what his take was on Camp David. “Much credit to Mr. Carter, though I do fault Sadat for not doing more for the Palestinians. However if Carter’s framework proves fruitful that will be a very good thing.”

      “It seems Sadat has lost his Arab friends.”

      He pointed at the book I was holding. “That’s what my book is all about – the mistaken belief that all Arabs are the same. Sadat proves the point.”

      “Sometimes it takes a military man to make peace.”

      “A general speaking of peace is listened to, not so professors or journalists. By the way, I received a note from our mutual friend Hamid Rashid the other day. He says you and he see each other from time to time. I hope he keeps up his writing, he is quite good.”

      “He’s working on something in Arabic this time.”

      “Good for him! When I meet a young man like him it reminds me how I have been caught between two stools, as it were. Too Arab for my western friends, not Arab enough for my Arab friends.”

      “I’ll read your book on the plane. May I give you a call when I finish?”

      “By all means,” he said, turning to a young woman tugging at his elbow. “You may wish to know I have altered my opinion – I now have some hope for you. You show signs of becoming one of those rare journalists who reports knowledgeably on Arab and Moslem life. Let us visit when you return.”

      THAT SUMMER, JIMMY CARTER and his diplomats had a full plate. Camp David, of course, plus strategic arms talks with Russia and discussions on normalizing relations with China. And following a summer of mutual vituperation and violence, Khomeini’s thirteen-year exile in Iraq ended as, at the behest of the Shah, he was expelled, finding refuge in a Paris suburb. Strikes, demonstrations and riots were taking their toll on Iran. Oil production and export fell precipitously. I collaborated with our Cairo-based Mideast team, discussing the effect three million barrels lost each day was having on world supply and price. The Shah installed a military government and some production was restored, but the general in charge suffered a heart attack and events continued to spiral out of control. Charlie Stebbins commented that U.S. policy was rudderless, with no clear plan for an Iran without the Shah, in fact no plan at all.

      At one point I called Hamid to take him up on his offer of introductions. I wanted to see first-hand what was going on. “Too late,” he said, “too risky. My sources have dried up, even my father is in hiding. You don’t want to be a westerner in that country. You could always visit Khomeini in Paris.”

      “I doubt he’d be interested in talking to me.”

      “You never know, he and his crowd look more like a government-in-exile every day.”

      “How’s your new book coming?”

      “You’d better get your Arabic together – I mean to finish it by next summer. It’s a book of poetry, a modern update of traditional Persian themes.”

      Despite a hectic schedule I caught most of Peter’s Little League games and was pleasantly surprised at his athletic ability, more than I ever had. Soccer in the fall was even better. The skill level was rudimentary, and only as the season was far along did theory and execution establish any sort of connection. Peter’s other big activity was preparing for his First Holy Communion. One night I picked up his catechism expecting to visit with an old friend, but instead found a slick paperback with oversized print and colorful drawings. It had Qs & As all right, but gone was the majesty, the sternness, replaced by encouragement and support. I flipped through the book and, dismayed, put it down. Later that evening it dawned on me, maybe I’m the one out of step. These days, fear is out, love is in. Positive sentiments are what it’s about. Counsels of perfection? Apparently too burdensome for an unruly youngster but, I thought, what about the times he really needs a kick in the pants? For some reason the old Marines saying came to mind. If you’ve got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow... even, I figured, small balls and small minds.

      AFTER A SHORT ILLNESS, in August Pope Paul VI died. Two weeks later the world was startled to learn his successor – Karol Józef Wojtyła, first non-Italian since the sixteenth century and first-ever from Poland, who took the name John Paul II. I was interested to learn of his youth under the Nazis, his friendships with Jews and his efforts to protect them. As a young man he’d been a hiker, a skier, active in a theater troupe, and author of poetry and plays, continuing to write even after ordination. I looked forward to what he had up the papal sleeve, not only for the Church but his country, chafing under the Russian Bear.

      My main point of contact with the Church was our local parish. With the demands of my job I didn’t volunteer for anything, but somebody asked if I’d give a talk on my work as a reporter, part of a public affairs series. Well-received, this made me a target and I had to turn down a request to work on the new church building fund drive. Frankly, I saw nothing wrong with the old one – it had adapted well. A large table stood where the communion rail had been, serving as altar. The priest faced the people, guitars and flutes did their thing in the shadow of the disused pulpit, but this wasn’t good enough. In keeping with the new theme of sociability, seating would be in the round. A multi-year project, the goal was four million dollars. The old brick church where Diane and I were married would be razed for parking.

      I’d never considered myself old-fashioned,

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