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Yasser Arafat, rightly or wrongly, still believes in his cause and
his leadership.AP
The first thing one notices about Yasser Arafat is not his checkered headscarf,
folded in the shape of the map of Palestine; not his surprisingly short
stature; not even his trembling lips or pale hands. What catches the eye is a
shimmering layer of lapel badges that cover his khaki tunic.
Arafat proudly looks down at the pin-cushion that is his chest, and points out
some of his favourites: a gilded menorah offered by the little Samaritan
community in Nablus; a boy scout's badge; a cross made by an Israeli and a
Palestinian flag, symbol of the Israeli peace movement; and several emblems of
pro-Palestinian friendship groups around the world.
The Palestinian ``president'' has always been an improbable leader - clown-like
in the face of repeated tragedies, yet an icon that infuriates anyone who deals
with him.
For the past 41 months, Arafat has been confined to his bombed-out headquarters
in Ramallah by Israel, whose prime minister, Ariel Sharon, has declared him to
be ``irrelevant''.
The former British police fort, known as the Muqataa, has been steadily reduced
to rubble by Israeli military assaults. But Sharon has not yet dared to kill
Arafat or tried to evict him. The Palestinian leader says his situation makes
``no difference'' to him.
``It is not my first time to face these troubles,'' says the man who lived
through at least two sieges in Lebanon, one by Israel and one by Syria.
Yet the prolonged house arrest is clearly irksome.
Egyptian mediators are trying to use Israel's plan to withdraw from Gaza as a
lever to extract Arafat from his prison, but there seems little chance of
success in the short term.
He shrugged off the planned Gaza ``disengagement'', which has caused much of the
ruling Likud Party to revolt against Sharon.
``For your information, the withdrawal from Gaza was offered to me at Camp David
[in 1977] by Sadat and Begin. We discussed it and said: `No, not Gaza alone'.''
Nevertheless, Arafat seems interested in the prospect of being able to
``liberate'' Gaza. He said: ``We are insisting it must be a withdrawal. Not
just a redeployment.'' Arriving at the Muqataa is reminiscent of Beirut at the
height of the Lebanese civil war. Under floodlights, the eviscerated buildings,
mounds of masonry and mangled cars appear in ghostly silhouettes. The main
doorway is a chicane of cement-filled drums, all covered in canvas awnings.
Inside, the air is stale with the smell of sweat, food and a whiff of urine. Not
surprisingly, Arafat's doctors have advised the Palestinian leader to install
air purifiers and an oxygen pump to make his bunker more bearable.
He tries to get some exercise by walking in circles around his office or, if
Israeli soldiers are not nearby, along a covered passage linking his main block
to an annexe. He keeps his trademark gun by his desk.
Arafat's office doubles as cabinet room and dining mess. It is part
grandfather's study and part adolescent's room.
His walls are covered in posters denouncing the killing of Western
pro-Palestinian activists, Rachel Corrie and Tom Hurndall.
Arafat has also pinned up an enlargement of a Christmas card depicting the three
wise men prevented from going to Bethlehem by Israel's new security wall in the
West Bank.
While the table is covered with trays of Palestinian delicacies for visitors,
Arafat eats a simple meal of soup, vegetables and steamed cloves of garlic. He
reaches into his plate to give each guest pieces of sweetcorn and broccoli.
The conversation is unfocused, but has constant themes - Arafat's importance in
history, his relevance to the present, the suffering of Palestinians, the
wickedness of the Israelis and their blindness to his reasonable offers to make
a ``peace of the braves''.
At no point would he accept that Palestinians, or he personally, shared any
blame for the catastrophe of the past four years of the Palestinian uprising.
He claims to control every member of the Palestinian security forces, yet is
unable to restrain the gunmen and suicide bombers without political
concessions. He says he has enforced several ceasefires, but Israel has broken
them all.
At the age of 75, Arafat seems convinced that the tide of history will once
again move in his favour. Even now, Arafat says, the Israeli prime minister
sends frequent secret envoys, including his son Omri, to talk to Palestinian
leaders. ``Why is he sending his son to me?'' asks Arafat. His smile suggested
a firm but questionable conviction that the road to peace runs through his
bunker. But like the Muqataa, Arafat's authority with his people outside is
steadily crumbling away.
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