Keeper of the Palestinian Dream
Ghassan Charbel Al-Hayat 2004/11/12
The body is exhausted and seduced by the calm of a long night. The pulse is tired and tiptoes out. The heart is worn out and it betrays. The body drained by one lifetime; how could a man, hiding a people of ages, cascades of bullets, tribes of dreams, and pains of camps, bear over waiting? How could a body tolerate a lifetime full of the eyes of martyrs, mothers' handkerchiefs, and the cries of captive birds?
It is no secret that he was sick in his youth. His illness is malignant. He fell in love with it. It is no secret that he is an old prisoner. Palestine plagued him early; and ever since, he would marry his dream with all its illusions, dates, bombs, and bracelets.
Yasser Arafat.
Four decades ago, he sneaked into his occupied land. He saw the sand sad, the windows scared, and the streets confused. He saw the occupation stealing rooftops, and forging the leaves, the birds, and the clouds. The date he set with his country was decisive and deadly. He swore he would return it, and he would go back.
He was no ordinary man. He was a traveling storm. It went into the camps, and the rifles and eyes shone. It went to the desperate, and it was like spring. He would not rest and let no one rest. He would knock every door and seize every opportunity. He would creep into every gathering and celebration. In the face of lack of memory, he would raise the map of a country that was crossed out of the map.
He was aware that he was committing a forbidden dream. He was aware that he was a troublesome and embarrassing guest. He was aware that the world would rather wash its hands from the horrible crime and shroud it in forgetfulness. He was aware of the story of chains and the story of borders. He was aware that his fist is striking at mountains of marble and a conscience of granite. Nevertheless, he went like a bullet that cannot be retrieved, like a storm that only sleeps in the valley it loves.
The man committed a horrible crime. He awakened a dream and set its demons loose. After that, the dates would roll. Fatah and the first bullets. The battle of Karameh and the leadership of the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO). The storm had to live on the edge of the homeland to sneak into it by night. Hosting storms is like hosting fire; worrisome and harmful. The storm could only drown in the fears of the capitals and their wars; on more than one occasion, the storm had to immigrate in search of another haven that would soon be set ablaze.
The battles were long and bitter. Yasser Arafat was unjust and wronged. In the darkest of hours, he waved the victory 'V' and claimed to be heading to Jerusalem. Such was the perseverance of the commando and the tranquility of the believing lover.
In his absence, the scene would be lacking. In the absence of his plane, the airspace seems closed, so are the doors. In the absence of his kufiya, the people in the camps would fear over the promise of return. In the absence of his gun, the bullets would lose their way. The Palestinians will miss a brave leader, an uncompromising fighter, and a skilled negotiator. They will also miss a skipper who knows how to swim between the balances and traps. He misses and corrects; however, the pointer of his compass leaves no doubt for any jurisprudence. They will miss the courage of the one who launched the earthquake against the occupation. The one who dared to sign the most dangerous signature to return the cause to its homeland. They will miss the prisoner of the Muqata, which walls the occupation razes but fails to destroy his will.
The keeper of the Palestinian dream has passed, so close to the next date, even if late. He never dreamt of a palace in Palestine. He dreamt of a grave in Jerusalem. It is his habit not to succumb to oppression. Who knows? Perhaps tomorrow, he would sneak into the Dome of the Rock.
The keeper of the Palestinian dream is gone. Yasser Arafat is gone.
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