23/4/99

Arafat's Independence Day Blues

"The Jews have a Jewish country. I think we should have one too."

    Yasser Arafat sat comfortably in his lounge chair. A frown sat uncomfortably on his brow.
    "Ahmed, isn't there anything else on TV?"
    His trusted servant boy jumped in fright. "Master is displeased! Perhaps there is something better on a different TV. I will fetch one immediately."
    Arafat sighed bitterly. "If this is what there is to watch," he said philosophically, "then this is what there is." He snapped his fingers twice, which Ahmed understood to mean he wanted tomato juice and a yogurt.
    The boy caught a glimpse of the TV. "What are you watching?"
    Arafat grumped. "The Independence Day celebrations."
    "But I didn't know --"
    "Not ours! Theirs!"
    "Oh, good. I thought I missed something."
    Arafat glared at him and impatiently snapped his fingers again, but three times, which Ahmed took to mean he wanted to change his socks.
    The well-meaning lad -- he hoped to be president some day, just like his master -- couldn't take his eyes off the dazzling images. (The TV, not the socks.) "The Jews, you know, they have a country, a Jewish country. You know what I think? I think we should have one too."
    "Oy," said Arafat, or the Arabic equivalent. Ahmed wasn't the first to bring it up. In fact, he was thinking of starting one in a couple of weeks. It was not right, he decided, that a country should have a president who does not have a country. Where else would you find such a thing but in Palestine?
    His feet were suddenly cold, and he couldn't understand why. He wondered if he would still have cold feet on May 4.
    It occurred to him that he had devoted his life to one thing, and if there is an Allah, then that thing would happen on May 4. All the world would be holding its breath, wondering if he would make like Ben-Gurion.
    Well? Would he?
    He glared at the TV and shook his head forlornly. How could he? Look at all the things a real country has that he doesn't have. What's a country without ... without ...
    Over Arafat's head, a little lightbulb (25 watt) clicked on.
    "Ahmed!" he shouted joyously. "Come quick!"
    The lad came running. "Brown or green, Master?"
    "What?!"
    "The socks."
    Arafat clucked his tongue annoyingly, which Ahmed took to mean he had said something dumb.
    "Bring my pencil," the president commanded. He still had two weeks to get everything he needed for his own independence day, and you know how he was going to find out what Palestine needed? By spying on Israel!
    He was glued to the TV now.
    "Ahmed, write this down. Parachutists."
    "Sir?"
    "Every year those Israelis put on an air show. I want one too."
    "Not a good idea, Master. You know how we are, every time there's a celebration, all the Palestinians get out their guns and fire into the air. The Israelis only clap their hands."
    "OK. Parachutists with bulletproof vests. Two: Charcoal. We can learn a lot from the Jews, like these sacrificial burnt offerings they give to God. We are no less religious than the Israelis, you would agree? So. Every Palestinian man shall have one bag of charcoal, one spatula, one animal to sacrifice. Got that?"
    "But Master, where would we get all those animals?"
    "The kibbutzim."
    "I don't think we have any."
    Foolish Ahmed. Everything had to be explained. "We will go in the middle of the night and take them."
    "Steal them?"
    "Are they not Allah's creatures? Are we not Allah's faithful servants? Are we therefore not permitted to return what is His to Him, by whatever means?"
    "But how? There are fences."
    "The parachutists."
    Ahmed beamed. His Master was wise indeed.
    The Palestinian president could already see his country's birthday taking shape.
    The boy servant was seeing things on the TV that made his eyes pop. "Excellency, can't we have some of those?"
    "Soldiers?"
    "Girl soldiers. Curvy ones, like the Israelis have. Please?"
    "But Ahmed, you know the law: every Palestinian fighter must have a mustache."
    "Aw, sir!"
    On the other hand, he mulled, as leader of the troops he might enjoy kissing women soldiers instead. The one thing he hated about being an Arab leader was having to kiss other Arabs with mustaches. It feels like Velcro.
    "OK, Ahmed, special for you. I'll change the law."
    "Can I kiss them too?"
    "No."
    They added fireworks to the list, and laser shows, dancers and clowns, spray foam and plastic bopping hammers. If they were going to learn anything from Israel's success, it was that you can't celebrate independence without these essential items.
    The TV showed the Jewish prime minister making a speech, attended by an array of dignitaries.
    Arafat drummed his fingers on the armchair, which usually meant Ahmed had forgotten something. The boy servant searched his blank mind, but he couldn't think what it could be.
    Why wasn't I invited?, the Palestinian president wondered to himself. Are the Israelis still mad at him? Was it something he said? The hell with it, he thought, he'd show them: when he has his party, they won't be invited. So there.
    Arafat absentmindedly stroked his stubbly jowl, so Ahmed ran off to get the razor.
    The Arab leader was deep in thought. He listened as the Israeli prime minister recalled how his country was born, how it was invaded by the Arabs and valiantly beat them back. And how we must learn from history.
    That's it!
    "Ahmed!" he shouted excitedly, just as Ahmed was smearing shaving foam across his mouth.
    "Blah!" said the president, wiping it away. "Never mind that. Tell me this: are we not poor and wretched? Are we not pathetic, miserable, pitied by the world? And are we not in the shadow of a mighty enemy that would throw us all into the sea? Are we not prevented from strengthening through immigration, development, armaments? Are we not being commanded by even our allies to put off declaring our independence because of the wrath of they who would deny us? Are we not ... the Israelis, 51 years later?!"   
    "Oh, yes, sir! We are not!"
    "Forget it. Point is, we are. And do you know where our future lies? In history, Ahmed!"
    Ahmed did not understand any of this, but he nodded enthusiastically all the same.
    "Get the list. What is the last thing you wrote?"
    " 'Bopping hammers.' "
    "Good. Under that, write 'war.' "
    "Uh, sir?..."
    Gevalt, Arafat thought, but in Arabic. The lad really is an idiot. "That's what we need! The Israelis must invade us! Because that is the way countries happen. It's the way the world works."
    "I see. So, to have a nation, we all have to die first?"
    "Yes!"
    It's a good thing one of them was wise, Ahmed thought dumbstruck.
    Arafat snapped his fingers, real loud, which Ahmed understood to mean he should come to his senses.
    The president smiled benevolently upon him. "And you will be in charge of winning that war."