Preamble
I offer you this three part preamble to set the record straight and to prepare you for my thoughts on Yasser Arafat’s love life.
Writing about this subject comes naturally. My first name is Ezra who is generally described as the scribe of Jerusalem in what the Christians call the Old Testament. (See the Book of Ezra between II Chronicles and Nehemiah.) I write about the romantic side of Arafat because I have clearly inherited Ezra’s genes. There is no reason why an Irishman could not be the recipient of the genes of an ancient Hebrew scribe.
Some Right Wing Bush supporters may conclude that I choose to deal with the delicate side of Arafat because I am a liberal Democrat. All Bush supporters know for a fact that liberal Democrats are basically gay. Please take it from me. There are two wives and several thousand close female acquaintances spread across the globe who will testify that I am a vigorous, heterosexual man with no latent homosexual tendencies.
My Right Wing friends will probably take delight when I say that Arafat is a liar, a man who fails to deliver and a two faced imposter. I am glad to say that. To borrow a favorite phrase from Margaret Thatcher, the former Prime Minister of Great Britain, Arafat is a cad. (long “a”). I’m not
sure what a cad does to bring infamy down upon his head, but if Mrs. Thatcher thinks he is a cad, then I will be the first to bow to Her Britannic Majesty.
Now having settled all that, we can proceed to Yasser’s love life.
Yasser
Since the Israeli’s have decided to reoccupy the towns in the West Bank, I find myself thinking about Yasser Arafat. In this case, I am not thinking of his military strategy nor him hunkered down in Ramallah without electricity or running water. Basically, I find myself thinking of his headdress and its effect on his love life. In Arabic, it is called a kaffiyeh. Ordinarily, the kaffiyeh is worn when a man also wears the long gown, usually white, called a thwab. In the more orthodox offices in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait or Yemen, the kaffiyeh and the thwab are worn almost exclusively. In Egypt, Western clothes seem to be favored by 50% to 60% of workers in offices. In the rest of the Muslim countries in North Africa, Western clothing predominates.
Arafat seldom wears a thwab but he is never seen without his kaffiyeh. His usual dress is some sort of military outfit topped off by his kaffiyeh.
Arab men who favor the thwab baffle me. It is completely ungainly. It buttons high up on the neck, so it is a hot garment to wear. The thwab stretches from the neck to the shoe tops. In the desert where it is warm, dirt is kicked up with each step and a good bit of that has to settle on the hem of the thwab.
In the times that I have been in thwab-wearing countries, I have never used restroom facilities with a thwab-wearing Arab man. In short, I don’t know how they handle bodily functions such as using a urinal. The Pope often refers to the mysteries of life so I suppose this is a piece of information that non-Arab men will not be privy to in this life. But in Arafat’s case, this presents no problem. His main concern is his kaffiyeh which he must keep balanced on his bald pate.
The kaffiyeh consists of a square piece of cloth measuring about 52 inches to 54 inches along its edges. It is usually made of cotton and rayon. In colder months, it may be blended with some wool.
In summer months, the kaffiyeh has a sort of checkerboard pattern with alternating black and white squares being the standard. In winter months, most men wear a slightly heavier cloth with red squares alternating with white squares. The kaffiyeh is held on by two bands of black which are put over the cloth and pulled down on the head so that the kaffiyeh does not blow off in desert winds.
While nearly every other Arab man moves from the black and white kaffiyeh in summer to the red and white one for winter, Arafat always sticks with his summer head dress – all year long. It is doubtful that he has it dry cleaned, certainly not in Ramallah. If he has replaced the kaffiyeh with a new one, it can’t be discerned from television images or from newspaper photos. So Arafat watchers are left to conclude that the kaffeyeh you see today is he same one he has worn for a long time.
Arafat is in his early 70’s. He stands only five feet four inches tall and his physique is most often described as dumpy. In short, he is not the sort of man that movie producers cast in leading roles. In opera terms, he might be in the chorus, certainly not in the leading tenor role. He simply is not a romantic figure. On top of all that, he is pigeon toed.
He seldom shaves so we always see him with unattractive stubble adorning his face. It might be guessed that he should see a dentist. The thought that he seems to wear the same clothes, including the same kaffiyeh, might suggest that his personal hygiene is not so great. One might think that a bath or shower might be in order.
While we are on Arafat’s shortcomings, it is important that I again please my Bush supporters, and Right Wing conservative friends by stating that he is a liar, he doesn’t keep his word and is an all around low life. I thought all that went without saying, but a few of my friends would want me to again state the obvious, so here it is. They love to hear this tripe. In spite of all of his shortcomings, Sharon and Right Wing American conservatives have created so much sympathy for Arafat, that he (Arafat) now enjoys his greatest popularity. Students carry banners with his picture on them and often sing his praises. I think Sharon and U. S. Right Wing conservatives might want to study the effects of boomerangs. They certainly have one in this case.
In spite of all of Arafat’s failures, this essayist holds that truth in advertising must prevail and therefore, we should now address a glimpse of Arafat’s love life.
Several years ago when Arafat was only 25 or 30 or 35 years of age, he certainly would look better than he does today. For one thing, the subtraction of 30 or 35 years would still leave him at five feet four inches. But in this inquiry into fantasy, let us suppose that he had a certain charm which came from part of his up bringing in Cairo. Lately, when we come across Arafat, we find him in Ramallah or Bethlehem or Nablus, all West Bank towns.
Even though Arafat views himself as a revolutionary, nobody ever suggested that he led a celibate life. He was no cloistered monk. So one day in Ramallah, Arafat sees a beautiful Palestinian girl who has distained traditional Arab clothing and who wears what many Palestinian men would consider to be fairly revealing clothes. By revealing, I mean it is apparent that she is a woman, not a person in an old ankle length housecoat.
At this point, Yasser did not know her name or where she lived. So he summoned his most loyal aide and explained to him that he needed to know where she lived in preparation for further romantic expressions. So the aide staked her out and after a time, he was able to follow her home even though buses and streetcars were involved.
His instructions from Arafat were to approach her parents, now that he knew where she lived, and explain that he was charged with explaining what a nice fellow Arafat was. That is the way things are done in Arab society. After talking to her father on the telephone, he was admitted to her home. He found out that her father had four wives in the house. He owned a string of camels which he used in his business of conducting Holy Land tours for wealthy non-Muslims visitors. The father offered him some strong Arabic coffee and then sat back to listen to what Arafat’s aide had to say.
It turns out that the beauty in question is the third daughter of the father’s second wife and her name is Qumrana. After a time, the father indicated that he was finished with this initial conversation, and Arafat’s aide departed and reported his new found information to his boss.
The trusted aide kept up his observance of the beautiful Qumrana and even had visions of cutting Arafat out and trying to win her for himself. He found out that Qumrana worked as a model at a fashion house devoted to clothing belly dancers. The place of employment is called
Mrs. Field’s Secrets of Desire. I know that is an unusual name all around, but my efforts to find out about that name have been amply rewarded.
A few years back when the owner of the belly dancers store was looking for a good location and name, she talked frequently to her sister who was then living as an unregistered immigrant in Newark, New Jersey, USA. Her sister had a maintenance job at the Short Hills Mall. She spoke very little English, which is why she was put to cleaning windows.
Her sister noticed that two new shops were being constructed next to each other at the Mall. One was a Mrs. Field’s cookie shop and immediately next to it was a new Victoria’s Secret emporium. Being unable to read English, she had only a vague idea of what these shops were intended to do. In fact, she concluded that the two stores were actually one store. When a clerk at Mrs. Fields was explaining a cookie recipe to a customer, she overheard her talking about a “cup” of this and a “cup” of that so she assumed that she was talking about women’s undergarments at Victoria’s Secret. Also, Mrs. Fields always keeps a plate of cookies on the display case in the hope of enticing passersby to have a free cookie and to buy her stuff.
The Newark Palestinian sister noticed that when a customer left Victoria’s Secret, they would almost always go by Mrs. Fields to take a free sample cookie. So she urgently told her sister that after a consumer bought a girdle in Victoria’s Secret store, for example, a reward of a toll house cookie was waiting for the customer at Mrs. Fields. That was the American marketing strategy: the package deal.
So her sister back in Ramallah followed the marketing formula given to her by her sister in America. If it is good enough for the Short Hills Mall, it ought to play well in Ramallah. He named her place Mrs. Fields Secrets of Desire and when a new veil or a new belly dancing dress was sold, she offered such a customer a large dollop of hummus, which is the other half of the package deal. And then she hired Qumrana as her model.
After Qumrana’s father had more or less dismissed Arafat’s lieutenant, Yasser went to work himself. Knowing the name of the father, he called in the Chaplain of Al Fatah, one of Arafat’s organizations, and told him that as Imam of the leading mosque in Ramallah, he ought to order Qumrana’s father to take himself and his wives on a Hajj. Every Muslim is expected to go to Mecca at least once while he is alive and touch the Kaaba (stone) which is at the center of their faith. The process is called a Hajj. Failure to do so results in banishment from Paradise.
So at the next Friday services at the mosque, in his homily, the Imam really leaned into backsliders who had failed to make the Hajj. He didn’t want any backsliding in the Mosque. Checking his records, the Imam knew that Qumrana’s father was so busy riding his camel and conducting his Holy Land tours that he had never made the pilgrimage to Mecca. In short, he was Hajj-less. And so under this pressure from the Imam, Qumrana’s father and his four wives and other children, decided that they had no alternative but to make the month long journey to Mecca, right now. Score one for Arafat!
While all of Qumrana’s parents and siblings were on their way to Mecca, Arafat had his trusted aide call on Qumrana to suggest having dinner with Yasser. She was not particularly interested in seeing Yasser for dinner, until she was informed that he intended to take her to Restaurant Arabian Nights where a sumptuous dinner would be offered. Qumrana also knew that most of the belly dancers at Restaurant Arabian Nights wore intimate apparel from her employer, Mrs. Field’s Secrets of Desire.
So she gave a reluctant “yes” to Arafat’s aide conditioned on the thought that real Arab men always wore a thwab. The kaffiyeh was a given. Without the thwab and kaffiyeh, she would stay home and eat a hamburger from McDonalds. Arafat’s aide said that Yasser would be dressed like a real Arab man on their date night.
Arafat and his aide showed up at Qumrana’s house right on time. The aide went in to fetch Qumrana. As they approached the restaurant, Arafat dismissed his aide and said to pick them up at eleven PM. He then turned and offered his right arm to Qumrana. His left arm carried the purse that thwab wearers are forced to use as there are no pockets in thwabs. Unfortunately, Arafat left his glasses at home to impress Qumrana with his youth, but near sightedness bollixed him up. He didn’t see a curb and in the process, he stepped on his unfamiliar thwab and fell headlong on the sidewalk. He purse came undone and its contents were spread everywhere.
Everyone knows that Arafat uses boosters in his boot heels to make him appear taller. But they come at a price. They shove the feet forward in the boots so that corns form on the top of all the toes. When Yasser’s purse spilled, among other items, was his life saver shaped corn pads. Being round they rolled for several yards. Qumrana noticed the corn pads and assumed that they were birth control devices with which she said quietly to herself, “How thoughtful”.
Inside the restaurant, the couple was seated at ringside seats where they could dine and witness the finest belly dancing show east of Cairo. Yasser spoke extensively in private with the headwaiter. Arab men do not defer to women. Maybe rarely, they might pay attention to women, but generally, Arab men make all the decisions. So it was that Arafat had the only menu and ordered for the two of them. With great ceremony he ordered Jordan River Sparkling Water to drink and imported Swedish Moose Shanks, with pungent sauce, for the main part of the meal. Throughout the meal, Arafat ordered more Jordan River Sparkling Water to be served to his date. When the belly dancers were performing, it was another bottle or bottles of Jordan River Sparkling Water.
During the sumptuous meal, Yasser kept his kaffiyeh firmly on his head which is one reason Margaret Thatcher calls him a caad. As they were winding things up, Arafat disclosed that he had a confession to make. The Jordan River Sparkling Water was really Bekka Valley champagne. And the imported Swedish Moose Shanks were really baby short ribs (from pigs) which came not from Bandhagen, Sweden, but from Arthur’s in Kansas City, the most famous rib place in America. Well, these are two grievous sins – alcohol and pig meat – that will keep the Muslim far from Paradise. Qumrana was devastated.
To make her feel a little better, Yasser attempted to explain the Catholic doctrine of “occasion for sin”. Let us say that a young man walks into a bar and has some beer. Then, under the influence of alcohol, he decides to attend a burlesque show where he meets a stripper and marries her. The church would say that walking into that bar was an occasion for sin.
Now let us say that an older parishioner wants to hear a sermon in
St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York. If he went last Sunday, April 21, 2002, he heard Monsignor Eugene Clark, the number two man at
St. Pat’s, lace into homosexuality for nearly an hour. His homily was widely criticized. Then let us say that this elderly parishioner sees a young man in a bar and attempts to fondle him. In that case, going to St. Patrick’s Cathedral would become an occasion for sin.
Having explained Catholic doctrine to Qumrana, Yasser said he was also a sinner just like Qumrana. They were in such deep theological trouble, he said that Qumrana ought to spend the night with him in his apartment at the Hotel Casablanca. Qumrana thought to herself that I’m damned in any case, so “Why not?”
Because the American Cardinals returning from Rome have requested a first look at the details of the love scene at the Hotel Casablanca, I will honor their obvious interest. I will say only that during this act of great passion, Arafat removed his thwab, which he disliked, but he kept his kaffiyeh on from beginning to end.
There came a time near daylight when Yasser tenderly asked Qumrana how she was enjoying herself. Qumrana replied, “It was alright I guess, but I couldn’t concentrate with your kaffiyeh tickling me”. When Yasser asked if he could see her again she answered, “Hell no. Put that in your kaffiyeh and smoke it”.
I have made several inquires into Yasser’s love life after this abrupt reversal and I have even called the Mrs. Field’s Secrets of Desire. However, since Sharon is punishing Ramallah endlessly, no one will talk to me about Arafat’s love life. So for the time being, I have no further information on Yasser’s amorous activities. Maybe next week after the American Cardinals come home.
I for one, believe that if the Israelis and the Palestinians meet say in front of a French arbitrator – he must be French – love will conquer everything. In the end, Yasser will go over to Jericho Street where Qumrana works and sweep her into his waiting arms. My nominee is the Frenchman Jean-Marie Le Pen, the perennial candidate for President of France.
Le Pen will make these wonderful things happen. Vive la amour!
E. E. CARR
April 25, 2002
~~~
I have no idea what compelled Pop to write this, but I’m glad he did. I very much hope that this is the only piece of romantic fiction about Yasser Arafat in existence, but unfortunately I know too much about the internet to believe that to be the case. That said, I intend on doing absolutely no further research into the subject.
I’ll also be the first to admit that it took me far longer than it should have to realize that Pop was just bullshitting with this one. It’s funny that someone who disliked reading fiction as much as Pop did would be so proficient at writing it.