It’s Sunday morning, October 31, 2004 as I’m writing this: and Yasser Arafat still isn’t dead.
At least his body isn’t dead. But according to everything we’re hearing, his mind might not be that lucky.
The Palestinians are unbelievable. If there was an international contest for self-delusional people and liars, no other community would need to compete.
The Palestinians are so proficient at living in a dreamworld where they make it up as they go along, that their idea of truth makes London fog look transparent.
They lie so well, that even amongst themselves, they don’t know who is telling the truth. Or even worse – what the truth is.
As news started to break about Arafat’s illness, this is what we heard from the people closest to him:
He has a cold.
He has a stomach flu.
He’s just worn down.
His blood cells are screwed-up.
He has cancer.
He doesn’t have cancer.
He lost consciousness.
He’s never lost consciousness.
His memory’s gone.
He was just a little bit disoriented.
No he kisses everyone’s hand who comes close to him.
And now they’re suggesting that perhaps he was poisoned.
Then there’s Suha; Arafat’s expensive wife who lives in Paris with their daughter, both of whom Arafat hasn’t seen in several years. Suha flew in from “self-imposed exile” (according to CNN) to be with her husband in his hour of need.
EXILE? Give me a break.
HIS HOUR OF NEED?
What did she think the last few years of him living like an animal were like, holed up in his compound, if not his “hour of need”? Where was she for the past few years while “her people” engaged in the struggle?
The best I can remember of Suha Arafat, is her statement from Paris during the height of the suicide murders of Israelis, that her biggest regret was that her only child was a girl: because she would have been proud to have a son who could be martyred killing Israelis.
Tough talk from Suha, the useless wife of Arafat from her luxury Paris accommodation, which is a gazillion miles above Ramallah and Arafat’s two room shit-hole in a failed society.
Arafat’s wife, with the money he stole from the Palestinian people couldn’t possibly find the right restaurants and fashion centers in the West Bank and Gaza to satisfy her genteel tastes.
You’ve got to love France: Every international thug seems to wind up as the honored guest of the French government. Baby Doc Duvalier of Haiti. The Ayatullah Ruhollah Khomeini of Iran. And now Yasser Arafat of the failed Palestinian people.
See: France is good for something. In what other garbage can could these people feel so comfortable?
For all we know, Arafat’s mind might be one or two IQ points above the intellect of a chicken. Or his body could be riddled with a disease for which there is no cure. But, if left up to the Palestinian toadies who bottom feed off Arafat’s table scraps, we will never know.
Arafat is the key to their Expensive Cars. Posh Living. Jet-Setting. Designer Shopping. Haute Cuisine Dining. And Numbered Bank Accounts.
When he is publicly declared dead. One way or the other. His mind or his body. The Arafat toadie’s gravy-train dies with him. And then you’ll see some real grief, crying and mourning.
But it won’t be for the Egyptian born TERRORIST Bastard Arafat over whom they’ll be shedding tears. It will be for the end of their great ride with the money Arafat and his thugs looted from the Palestinian people since 1993.
If I was them: I’d be crying too.
And about the continuing “great” governance provided by the Palestinian Authority. Don’t worry, it’s all under control.
Even though it is generally accepted that Arafat’s current mind and mental capacity is a mish-mash, the Palestinian Prime Minister (Ahmad Qurei) assures his people and the international community that he is in regular contact with Arafat who is still making decisions. (I’m not making this up).
In every other sense, this statement would be considered asinine. But in the context of the Palestinian people, it’s quite normal.
After-all; it’s the truth as they see it.