Remembering a 2002 visit a group of internationally known writers made to Arafat's headquarters in Ramallah, Hassan Khader delves into a discussion of the mentality behind Arafat's style of leadership, assessing and reassessing In the spring of 2002, I accompanied a coterie of foreign writers to Arafat's headquarters in Ramallah. The group, who had come to visit poet Mahmoud Darwish in solidarity with the Palestinian cause, included Nobel laureates Jose Saramago and Wole Soyinka -- Portugese and Nigerian, respectively -- and poets and novelists from France, South Africa, the United States and Italy, as well as a Chinese poet living in exile. The visit to Arafat's office was not part of their schedule, but in a small city like Ramallah it is next to impossible not to notice, and perhaps want to seek out, the Muqataa in which the president was virtually imprisoned by the Israelis. At the time the air was thick with anticipation as well: everyone felt that a major attack was imminent and war seemed to be edging closer at a frightening pace. In addressing his visitors, Arafat kept moving from one story to another, occasionally leaping mid-sentence to fetch something off his desk in the corner, and frequently interrupting the translator to repeat, in broken English, a sentence he had just finished in Arabic. Before too long the visitors by and large were charmed: one could tell by the way they brought their seats closer to the old man, and enthusiastically sat on the arm of his chair when it was time to pose for the camera. Arafat's stories did not make up a whole. He mixed childhood memories with political commentary, frequently broaching history and literature, especially, in the context of the latter, the work of pre-Islamic poets. Nor did the leader's attention slacken for a moment: when a Palestinian who was present declaimed, in English, that the poet just mentioned was the greatest versifier of the time, Arafat was quick to retort, in the same language, "NO! He was one among many great poets of that time." No one had expected Arafat to reveal himself to be a historian and literary critic, but no one was bored or sceptical; historical facts pronounced by the president went unchecked. This was, after all, someone the writers had seen and listened to repeatedly on television, sometimes as a guerrilla leader, a kind of arch terrorist, and at other times as the distinguished guest of the White House and the Nobel laureate for peace. Palestinians felt somewhat differently: Arafat's need to be in control, to have the upper hand always, even in a literary discussion, was all too evident. He was a man who never had second thoughts, and his stage presence mattered to him. Yet to describe him thus is to oversimplify, failing to take account of the intricacies of his style of leadership. Arafat was a born politician who knew how divine intervention could be improved by down-to- earth manoeuvring, a master of the art of survival. He was not over-enamoured by ideological debate. In the stormy realm of Palestinian politics he depended on behind-closed-doors tactics to far greater extent than persuasive public argument. In fact he was not one to shy away from expressing contempt for complicated intellectual formulations. Nor did he place his opponents under too much pressure: they were merely expected to recognise him as the Palestinian leader; a symbolic recognition was sufficient for them to be part of the national consensus, even when their actions contradicted the declared position of the PLO or the Palestinian Authority. One may mention, in addition, the disappearance in Arafat's life of a clear-cut distinction between the public and the private spheres, something that contributed to his popular image, which in turn influenced his modus operandi: working till the early hours of the morning, sleeping in the same place as he worked and, until 2001, travelling, almost non- stop, to different parts of the world. When we visited the president that spring evening, he had been a virtual prisoner of the compound in which he lived and worked for several months. A few hundred metres from the window of the room in which we sat, the small spot on which his helicopter usually landed had already been destroyed. Now primitive fortifications were on their way, there hung in the air the feeling that something big and life- changing was about to happen. But Arafat seemed relaxed, hiding the adrenaline in his blood vessels. The adrenaline business had always been part of Arafat's image, after all. And it was no mere embellishment: Arafat had proved himself courageous and kept his cool in moments of extreme danger. Less than a week after our visit, indeed, there was to be yet another test of fire. In the middle of the Israeli re-conquest of the West Bank in April 2002, while tanks trudged towards his compound, Arafat spoke to his people, asserting that he would never be taken prisoner and was ready to be martyred for the cause. No doubt such moments of fortitude were on the Palestinian legislator Hanan Ashrawi's mind on the day of his departure to Paris, when she described the frail, bedridden Arafat as "larger than life". Most will readily agree with Asharwi; what is surprising is that they are also likely to agree that this very trait frequently backfired and had negative consequences for the leader and his cause. Systematically obliterating the distinction between private and public not only resulted in confusion, it made it difficult to distinguish between private and public interest. Following the establishment of the Palestinian Authority, this was no doubt an effective recipe for creating a populist politics based on a personality-cult. While the Palestinian political sphere was allegedly a democracy, the autonomy given to persons or factions at the expense of others, in return for their recognition of the leadership, could lead to anarchy and political confusion. One clear example of this is how, in the current Intifada, Muslim fundamentalists have sabotaged the entire resistance movement, while paying lip service to national unity and only symbolically recognising Arafat as the leader. It is not clear what kind of wisdom lies behind this state of affairs, whose political outcome does not seem promising. Performance, appearance, body language: all remained essential aspects of Arafat's style. He was never a good speaker, his knowledge of Arabic syntax was poor, his vernacular strongly influenced by Egyptian Colloquial. And yet his inborn sense of humour, and the passion his short sentences managed to communicate could always compensate for lack of rhetorical skills. Many of his insights were coded into slogans that he kept repeating; by the power of repetition alone they became part of Palestinian political discourse. Yet Arafat's influence on Palestinian politics was not merely linguistic. Taking into account his world perspective, his understanding of his mission and his style of leadership, it is safe to say that he, to a greater extent than anyone else, single-handedly drew the course of Palestinian politics in the last 35 years. It is equally safe to say that the PLO's decision-making process, and many of its institutions and modes of engagement, were moulded to suit his temperament, work rhythm and style of leadership. Though the possibility of a power conflict remains somewhat remote at present, it is easy to assume that in any inter- Palestinian power struggle to ensue, at least one of the contending parties will claim to preserve Arafat's legacy and resume his approach. Equally likely to surface are criticisms of Arafat, though even Muslim fundamentalists are still paying lip service, denying any intention of taking over. In reality any possible takeover, one that would necessarily restructure Palestinian institutions and preserve what remains of the Palestinian Authority, depends not so much on the political modesty and clever transfer of power by the powers that be in Ramallah as on Israeli policy and plans. Will the Israelis be interested in a paralysed and incompetent Palestinian regime behind the separation wall in the West Bank or not? If the answer is negative, then they are likely to recognise Palestinians as partners and endeavour to help them see the light at the end of the tunnel. Seeing the light at the end of the tunnel was one of Arafat's favourite slogans, as it happens, though it should be evident by now how little of that light remains, and how much is fading into the darkness. That spring evening, one of the foreign visitors said to Arafat, "You were one of the heroes of my youth. Do you think you are on the right track now?" The smiling president, a gracious and entertaining host, gave only another smile for an answer. Old politicians and statesmen, those who live longer than their enemies would like and not as long as their supporters hope, are always seen under an ideological veneer. Arafat belongs to this category of politician, with his longevity in the dangerous environment of the Middle East constituting an achievement in itself, yet his legacy is far too controversial.
