6/9/02

Lives of the (Palestinian) Rich and Famous

Famous freedom fighters have private lives too, probably no different from anyone else's.

NEWS ITEM: "Arafat's a billionaire" -- Yasser Arafat is worth an estimated $1.3 billion.

NEWS ITEM: "Hamas leader's wife forbids son to become suicide bomber" -- The wife of senior Gazan Hamas figure Abdel Aziz Rantisi has refused to allow her son to carry out a suicide operation against Israel and become a shahid (martyr), according to the transcript of a phone call released by the Israeli security services.

"Bills, bills, bills! How will I pay all this, I ask you?"

"But --"

"I can't feed the family, I have nothing to wear; you call yourself a husband?"

"But I --"

"You work, so where's the money? I'm fed up with this!"

Yasser Arafat sighed. He could manipulate the Americans, befuddle the Israelis, hoodwink the Europeans, swindle the Palestinians, beguile the Arab world, but he couldn't handle this one woman, his wife Suha.

It only got worse when the newspapers reported he had a billion and change stashed away. And you can be sure it wasn't piled up under his mattress (Suha looked).

Yasser slouched, thoroughly beaten. He had finagled out of many tough spots in his life, but there was no way out of this. Thank Allah, he thought, that Suha was not an Israeli.

"OK," he grumbled. "I'll give you another 20 million."

"What?! I'm supposed to buy shoes with that too? Have you seen my shoes? My shoes are absolutely --"

"OK, OK! Thirty million. But I'll have to dip into our savings."

Suha was furious. "Don't you touch that money! I'll have to live on that when you -- y'know."

"But sweetheart, you'll still have a billion two hundred and seventy million dollars, plus I didn't even get paid this month."

"No. You'll take the 30 million from the national treasury. In cash. I don't trust them."

"But the treasury's empty."

"Lies! Just last month --"

"Last month," Yasser reminded his wife, "you needed for reupholstering."

She'd forgotten. "So call Europe. Tell them you need extra to feed malnourished Palestinian children, or something, but hurry, you know how slow they are to pay up, and I need it NOW."

The phone rang. It was the national treasury. "Could we have some of the money back? Just a bit. The malnourished Palestinian children need food."

Well, Yasser wasn't about to fall for that. No, he said, "but if you can let me have a few million, for my daughter."

"You're asking me to take out of the national deficit. We'll have to withhold salaries again."

"Sacrifices must be made." Yasser's financial woes were giving him a stomach ache. "Money is tight," he pointed out. Then he remembered: he loosened his money belt, and felt a lot better.

The Palestinian people were very proud of their chairman and chairlady. After all, Suha reminded her personal pedicurist, the Israeli leaders don't have fancy homes in Paris and Switzerland. And what with Yasser's compound in Ramallah and the palace in Gaza, well, sure it costs something. "A national leader needs a billion dollars, for all kinds of things, like pedicures." Suha smiled and dropped a large tip.

"He works hard, my Yasser, but he never spends money, so of course it adds up," she explained to her pool attendant. "He has one green suit. Just one! The Palestinian people always tell him, 'Chairman Arafat, buy yourself another suit, a gray one, we'll pay!' But no, he says. Tell me one other world leader who saves money for his people!"

At 2:15 that afternoon, Suha's team of bank officials gathered in her swank office for the daily review. (This is not uncommon among billionaire wives who own national economies.) It got dicey for a moment when it didn't add up.

"Somebody stole 100 million from me!" Suha shrieked at her bankers, accusing them of corruption and conspiracy. She drew her pistol (a birthday gift Yasser gave her for just such an occasion). A pinstriped gentleman explained that it was only 10 million, and it was needed urgently, the malnourished Palestinian children needed bombs.

Did they think she was stupid? "The Israelis are giving us money again," she reminded them icily. "Isn't that what it's for?"

At 6:30, Yasser came home from the office, pecked his wife on the cheek, and dutifully handed over the national pension fund. Suha tucked it into her bosom, and glared at her husband, holding out her hand for the rest.

"But honey, that's all there is," he protested. "The country's down to petty cash, not even enough to -- OK, OK, I'll go back and get it."

On the way back home, he stopped to buy a nice bouquet of flowers for Suha (charging it to the Education Ministry), and she readily forgave him. They kissed each other, one thing led to another, and Yasser suggested they try for another child, but Suha pointed out that a poor country like theirs couldn't really afford another mouth to feed.

MEANWHILE, THE Rantisi family was having a problem. Nothing out of the ordinary, really: it's just that they couldn't agree on a summer job for their son. Like any normal family with a troublesome adolescent, they went to a family therapist.

The doctor smiled at the boy. "So. What do you want to be when you grown up?"

The kid slouched, picked at his fingernails, and grumped. "Wanna be a suicide bomber. Don't wanna grow up."

"Well, that makes you a typical, well-adjusted Palestinian boy," the doctor said. "So what's the problem?"

"My mother won't let me."

This surprised the doctor. "Mrs. Rantisi, it's natural for a boy to want to work in his father's business. As a Hamas leader, your husband gives jobs to lots of kids. I think it would be a good experience for the lad."

"My son is a Rantisi," his mother snarled defiantly. "We don't do the dirty work. He can sit at a desk. He can help out in payroll. I want my boy to come home from work every day."

"Hmm. What's your view, Mr. Rantisi?"

"If it be Allah's will," the father shrugged.

The youth was very upset. "My friends get to have all the fun; Ahmed, Muhammad, Mahmud -- they all got jobs, and I have to stay home and help with the laundry. I want to be with my friends!"

"I see. And your friends are --?"

"-- In paradise, getting laid by 10,000 virgins. But my mother won't let me go!"

"Allah's will," his father reminded him.

He caught a dirty look from his wife, a reminder that it was her will that counted, or in this case, her won't. He knew he'd get an earful when they got home. He wondered for a moment if perhaps Allah could will him to paradise instead.

He took a deep breath and tried to reason with his wife. "Allah has given us 16 children, we don't need all of them. Let him go and prove himself. What could possibly happen -- he'll blow up too early?"

"I won't! I'll be careful, I promise!" the kid said eagerly. "C'mon, Ma, let me go, just once!"

"No!" She thundered. "And that's final!"

The therapist prodded her to reconsider. "The pay is very good," he reminded her. "You could take a nice vacation in Syria."

She stared for a long moment at the therapist, and then gazed lovingly at her son. "How much?"

"Ding!" went the clock. The session was over. "Well, I think we made a lot of progress today," the psychologist said pleasantly. "Have we all agreed on the suicide? Good! Same time next week, then..."