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Letter to the editor

Yasser Arafat

A frenzied farewell

By SUSAN TAYLOR MARTIN
Published November 13, 2004

RAMALLAH, West Bank - In this part of the world, it's usually the Israelis who claim the hilltops. But on Friday, it was the Palestinians - and journalists - who took to the high ground.

Literally.

Hours before Yasser Arafat's body arrived by helicopter, thousands of people jockeyed and fought for the best vantage points from which to peer into the Muqata, the walled compound in which the Palestinian leader would be laid to rest in a tomb of stone and marble.

Every branch of every tree was filled with kids, like herons roosting for the night. There were so many photographers stacked on the roof of one building they formed a human pyramid. Hundreds of men clambered onto the Muqata's 10-foot walls, grabbing the barbed wire with their bare hands to hoist themselves up.

People shinnied up telephone poles, perched on car tops, scrambled over chunks of concrete. At the Ramallah Center for Human Rights, a shoving match briefly broke out between staff members and a dozen teenagers determined to make their way to the roof.

It couldn't have been a more raucous contrast to the somber funeral services earlier Friday in Cairo, where foreign dignitaries bade goodbye and where the only outward emotion was the quiet weeping of Arafat's 9-year-old daughter, Zahwa, standing beside her veiled mother, Suha.

In Ramallah, some lucky late arrivals shouldered their way into a half-finished high-rise. The 1993 Oslo accords ushered in a brief era of peace, and with it a building boom that came to an abrupt end seven years later with the start of the second Palestinian uprising.

CNN and other major networks had commandeered several floors, but a few unclaimed spots offered a prime view into the compound. What a difference two days makes.

After Israelis and Palestinians finally agreed Arafat should be buried at his Ramallah headquarters, crews quickly went to work removing mountains of rubble and dozens of junked cars. In their place appeared three painted circles - each with a big H - and a freshly dug grave topped with what appeared to be a marble slab.

According to the plan, no one except dignitaries and Palestinian police were to be allowed inside the compound until after Arafat's burial.

By 1:30 p.m., the plan had gone awry. "They couldn't stand the pressure," an Israeli cameraman said as police were swept aside by the flood of humanity pouring through the gate.

By 1:45 p.m., heat and barbed wire were taking their toll. People began to fall off the wall. Ambulance attendants hurried over with bright orange stretchers and hustled them away.

By 2 p.m., the crowd was expectantly scanning the skies to the south. Finally, they came into view - two Jordanian air force helicopters, one bearing Arafat's body.

A mighty cheer went up - briefly. Thousands began choking as the chopper blades kicked up huge whirlwinds of dust. Caps, papers, Arafat posters - everything went flying, including the tarpaulins that TV crews had so carefully arranged to block the sun.

The helicopters settled onto the circles, and were engulfed by thousands of mourners. Within seconds, the big aircraft looked like praying mantises being devoured by ants.

"I bet Suha doesn't get out," said a Jerusalem Report writer, referring to Arafat's exceedingly unpopular wife. Despite her bedside vigil in Paris, most Palestinians think Mrs. Arafat was more interested in his wealth than his health.

By 2:20 p.m., thousands more had surged into the compound, completely covering Arafat's grave and all but swamping the two ambulances. It took almost 30 minutes for overwhelmed police to clear enough space to remove Arafat's coffin, draped in the Palestinian flag, and send it bobbing toward its final resting place.

The crowds outside quickly began to melt away. Sunset comes early to the West Bank these days, and with it the promise of a big feast to break the Ramadan fast.

One tired mourner headed home in a car dressed up with a floral wreath and portrait of Arafat on the hood. But he was pushing the vehicle, not driving it.

Somewhere along the way, it had run out gas. It seemed an appropriate metaphor for Yasser Arafat's final years.

Susan Taylor Martin can be contacted at susan@sptimes.com

[Last modified November 13, 2004, 07:54:14]