Spring Break
Meeting Arafat
Shaking his hand in Ramallah
Forum | 11/16/04
Posted online at 5:33 AM EST on 11/16/04
I was getting addicted to swashbuckling in the Middle East. With my summer concluding, I pushed my luck and safety aside by dragging two friends into the lion's den: Ramallah, on the slim chance that I could smooth-talk our way to a chat with Arafat.
As the only Jew in our group of three, thoughts of beheadings and my own CNN obituary unsettled me. My disguise: a kefiyya worn around my neck similar to aid workers, whom locals would hopefully not decapitate. My resources: people skills, knowledge of Arabic, the ability to drink a lot of Turkish coffee and a smile.
After crossing a chaotic checkpoint, we asked the Ramallah taxi driver to take us to al-Moqat'a, Arafat's compound. We drove along clean, prosperous avenues lined with comfortable houses and posters for shaheed, suicide bombers. We disembarked opposite a concrete wall studded with wires, plastic and garbage. A cluster of Palestinian soldiers sat around in cheap lawn chairs. In awkward Arabic, I announced that I was a student of the Middle East who desired to meet Chairman Arafat. No response-except open-mouthed stares.
"Where did you learn Arabic?"
"At university!" I said, radiating chutzpa.
Some respectful pleasantries fed into the often ignored Arab sense of pride. Some phone calls back and forth, and then, "Come back after five; Arafat is taking a nap." Astonished, we headed toward the town center to kill time. I felt like a foreign dignitary-untouchable.
We returned unscathed three hours later. It was getting late. The guards told us to wait another few minutes, which turned into an hour of joking, refusing cigarettes and talking about women-in broken English and Arabic. When that failed, I used German. My fair features and proficiency supported my claim to being half-German, which suggested that I was neutral and certainly not a dreaded Jew. I was out of the "possible CIA" category. We were finally allowed into the compound.
Inside, the area was littered with crushed luxury cars and various obstacles. A debris-lined walkway led to a series of connected buildings, bearing the scars of the Israeli army's 2002 assault. We were held in a small courtyard under a huge portrait of a smiling Arafat and told to wait yet again. Palestinian policemen peered around corners and waved; we were clearly a spectacle.
By now the 6:15 evening call to prayer had wafted through and night was not far behind. I was ominously told that Hamas owns the night in Ramallah.
"Maybe we should congratulate ourselves on coming this far and get out," I suggested. As we turned to leave, there was a whistle from a window above...and we were in!
A corpulent, mustached guard demanded my backpack and camera. Shockingly, that was it for a body search-no metal detector. Inside, the building was filthy; windows sandbagged, oil drums obstructing doorways and scattered weaponry components. The nerve center of the Palestinian Authority was nothing more than a decaying mansion, primed for an imminent invasion.
Our Kalashnikov-toting soldier held us in a small annex, separated from a larger room. Suddenly, the door opened and I could see a small, frail man seated in a barren room at a raised desk. He wore his trademark checkered kefiyya and an olive green military uniform. A wave of realization rushed over me, and I was dumbfounded.
"He's right there!" I silently mouthed to my friends.
I was the first to enter. Arafat removed his large glasses and stood to greet me. The first things I noticed were his white, patchy beard and watery eyes. His pale, sunken face and lips quivered from Parkinson's disease; this was not a healthy man. As we shook hands his unkempt fingernails scratched my palm, and a cold sweat ran down my back.
His grip was surprisingly iron-fisted (read metaphor), and he furiously pumped my arm while flashing a trademark toothy smile as I explained my purpose in delicate Arabic. Standing barely to my shoulders, he puffed out his chest, covered with bizarre pins and buttons, while the court photographer snapped pictures of us. I asked Arafat to sign a tapestry I had purchased in Ramallah which showed Israel replaced by a Palestinian state. On the back he penned, "Y. Arafat, August 2, 2004."
And then suddenly, without uttering more than a few words, the old "war horse" was gone and we were politely shown the door.
I asked the photographer to mail the photos to my U.S. address. They never arrived, so Ahsan Ahsan, if you are reading this, I would like my photographs please!
When we left it was dusk. Hailing a cab, we returned in one piece, to Israeli Jerusalem like conquering heroes. Yasser, wherever you are, I think the world is better off without you, but thanks for letting me out of your place alive.
Editor's note: Alexander Suderow is a member of the class of 2005.
As the only Jew in our group of three, thoughts of beheadings and my own CNN obituary unsettled me. My disguise: a kefiyya worn around my neck similar to aid workers, whom locals would hopefully not decapitate. My resources: people skills, knowledge of Arabic, the ability to drink a lot of Turkish coffee and a smile.
After crossing a chaotic checkpoint, we asked the Ramallah taxi driver to take us to al-Moqat'a, Arafat's compound. We drove along clean, prosperous avenues lined with comfortable houses and posters for shaheed, suicide bombers. We disembarked opposite a concrete wall studded with wires, plastic and garbage. A cluster of Palestinian soldiers sat around in cheap lawn chairs. In awkward Arabic, I announced that I was a student of the Middle East who desired to meet Chairman Arafat. No response-except open-mouthed stares.
"Where did you learn Arabic?"
"At university!" I said, radiating chutzpa.
Some respectful pleasantries fed into the often ignored Arab sense of pride. Some phone calls back and forth, and then, "Come back after five; Arafat is taking a nap." Astonished, we headed toward the town center to kill time. I felt like a foreign dignitary-untouchable.
We returned unscathed three hours later. It was getting late. The guards told us to wait another few minutes, which turned into an hour of joking, refusing cigarettes and talking about women-in broken English and Arabic. When that failed, I used German. My fair features and proficiency supported my claim to being half-German, which suggested that I was neutral and certainly not a dreaded Jew. I was out of the "possible CIA" category. We were finally allowed into the compound.
Inside, the area was littered with crushed luxury cars and various obstacles. A debris-lined walkway led to a series of connected buildings, bearing the scars of the Israeli army's 2002 assault. We were held in a small courtyard under a huge portrait of a smiling Arafat and told to wait yet again. Palestinian policemen peered around corners and waved; we were clearly a spectacle.
By now the 6:15 evening call to prayer had wafted through and night was not far behind. I was ominously told that Hamas owns the night in Ramallah.
"Maybe we should congratulate ourselves on coming this far and get out," I suggested. As we turned to leave, there was a whistle from a window above...and we were in!
A corpulent, mustached guard demanded my backpack and camera. Shockingly, that was it for a body search-no metal detector. Inside, the building was filthy; windows sandbagged, oil drums obstructing doorways and scattered weaponry components. The nerve center of the Palestinian Authority was nothing more than a decaying mansion, primed for an imminent invasion.
Our Kalashnikov-toting soldier held us in a small annex, separated from a larger room. Suddenly, the door opened and I could see a small, frail man seated in a barren room at a raised desk. He wore his trademark checkered kefiyya and an olive green military uniform. A wave of realization rushed over me, and I was dumbfounded.
"He's right there!" I silently mouthed to my friends.
I was the first to enter. Arafat removed his large glasses and stood to greet me. The first things I noticed were his white, patchy beard and watery eyes. His pale, sunken face and lips quivered from Parkinson's disease; this was not a healthy man. As we shook hands his unkempt fingernails scratched my palm, and a cold sweat ran down my back.
His grip was surprisingly iron-fisted (read metaphor), and he furiously pumped my arm while flashing a trademark toothy smile as I explained my purpose in delicate Arabic. Standing barely to my shoulders, he puffed out his chest, covered with bizarre pins and buttons, while the court photographer snapped pictures of us. I asked Arafat to sign a tapestry I had purchased in Ramallah which showed Israel replaced by a Palestinian state. On the back he penned, "Y. Arafat, August 2, 2004."
And then suddenly, without uttering more than a few words, the old "war horse" was gone and we were politely shown the door.
I asked the photographer to mail the photos to my U.S. address. They never arrived, so Ahsan Ahsan, if you are reading this, I would like my photographs please!
When we left it was dusk. Hailing a cab, we returned in one piece, to Israeli Jerusalem like conquering heroes. Yasser, wherever you are, I think the world is better off without you, but thanks for letting me out of your place alive.
Editor's note: Alexander Suderow is a member of the class of 2005.
