A Russian immigrant who came to the United States in the early 1980's told me about a woman who worked at the Moscow office that handled exit visas. The insignia on her uniform identified her as a KGB colonel. Her job was tough but uncomplicated. She collected paperwork from the applicants and bounced prospective émigrés who, after many months or sometimes years of waiting for their visas, dared to personally inquire about the state of their cases. She wasn't allowed to answer any questions; she wasn't in a position to help those who came to her office. With silent contempt, she listened to the desperate people's questions and complaints and curtly instructed them to go home and wait until notified. If a visitor didn't leave immediately, she would slightly raise her voice. Very few people were brave enough to keep asking questions after that, because she was sufficiently intimidating even when she spoke softly. She stood just a tad above 6 feet tall and sported the shoulders of a football player. No, I don't mean a soccer player; I am talking about a quarterback in full gear. Her palms were so huge she could easily grab a basketball with one hand. She looked like the Berlin Wall, and functioned like one too. Ironically, her last name was Israilova. My Russian friend told me that during his last visit to her office he noticed a thin, delicate wedding band on her bratwurst-size ring finger. He was dumbfounded. She was a robot programmed to oppress. She was less feminine than the monument to Karl Marx erected in front of the Bolshoi Theater. Her “Honey, I'm home!” probably sounded like a fire alarm on a nuclear submarine. It was impossible to imagine her cooking dinner, having the flu, making love, waiting in line to buy milk, comforting a child with a scraped knee — doing normal human things that are equally common to KGB agents and dissidents, Republicans and Democrats, Jews and Muslims. Although, speaking of Muslims, I am probably exaggerating. There must be something very different about Muslims; otherwise, jihad would not have been possible.
When I heard rumors that Arafat died of AIDS, my shock was similar in
nature to that experienced 20-something years ago by my immigrant friend. After
all, exposing oneself to HIV usually involves at least some kind of loving, and
Arafat seemed too inhuman, too monstrous to be capable even of such a sad
surrogate of love. Although my heart refuses to believe it, my mind tells me I
may be wrong. Take V. I. Lenin, for instance. Between the onset of the Russian
revolution in 1917 and his death in 1924, Lenin presided over approximately 20
million Russian deaths. Can a murderer of millions be capable of even
rudimentary human feelings? My heart says no. Obviously my heart is wrong, since
Lenin died from complications of syphilis. Go figure. The semi-official
explanation says that Lenin contracted the disease from his wife, N. K.
Krupskaya who had been raped by the Tsar's gendarmes. This explanation is only
marginally plausible. I have no illusions about the Tsar's gendarmes, but I've
seen portraits of Ms. Krupskaya, and, believe it or not, she was uglier than
Eleanor Roosevelt, and that's ugly, no matter whose gendarme you are.
Actually, not everyone aspiring to kill as many people as possible for
a higher purpose looks and behaves like a heartless machine. Consider Napoleon,
for instance. He came as close to starting a world war as the technology of the
time allowed. The death toll of his ambitions reached hundreds of thousands. And
yet, his beloved Josephine, although definitely not centerfold material, was
reasonably attractive. Some Paris archive faithfully keeps an urgent note
Napoleon sent to her from one of his many wars. The note says, “Coming home
within a week. Do not bathe.” Whether you find the emperor's request cute or
revolting, it betrays a funny side of his nature, and those with a funny side
cannot be totally bad. Or can they? Let me add here that judging from the odor
prevalent in the Paris Metro, the majority of the French are still waiting for
Napoleon to arrive from the front. If you wish to experience it first hand, you
don't need to schlep all the way to Paris. Just stop by a grocery store on
Brighton Beach or get in the middle of a crowd at JFK awaiting the arrival of a
plane from Moscow. There are only two noticeable distinctions between the French
crowd and the Russian one: the Russians use more English words and more French
perfume.
But I better lay off the Russians before gets on my case again. I really only meant to insult the French. I have misoverestimated them on numerous occasions. For instance, I mistakenly predicted that Arafat would die in Cairo. I was confident that even the French would be reluctant to touch something as thoroughly unclean as Yasser Arafat. Please, don't call me naïve. This is way beyond naïve; this is outright ignorant. How could I forget that Ayatollah Khomeini himself enjoyed French hospitality for many years while preparing the Islamic revolution in his country? I thought that everyone shared my disgust for the undersized mass murderer with the permanently moist lips of an habitual pedophile. I was wrong. I failed to factor in that the undersized mass murderer specialized mostly in Jews, which earned him the adoration of masses all over the world and a blank immunity from prosecution, no matter what other atrocities he committed.
If the rumor is true and Arafat really died of AIDS, I don't think we
should blame Suha's mistreatment at the hands of French gendarmes for his
demise. Some people however do tend to blame the French for Arafat's death.
Take, for example, Arafat's personal physician, Dr. Ashraf al Kurdi, who
recently complained to the press about the lack of professional courtesy among
his French colleagues. They snatched the ailing rais from his loving
hands and never asked his opinion on his condition or treatment. And look what
happened. Dr. Kurdi had kept the world's most beloved mass murderer alive for 25
years; as soon as the French got him, he croaked. Dr. Kurdi reminded me of
Baghdad Bob. Sometimes I think Arabs could've been funny. Too bad they chose
murder for their national pastime.
I find it terribly sad that too often we begin appreciating brilliant qualities of a person when it is too late and the person is no longer among us. When Arafat was alive, I never even suspected he had sense of humor. Now I know better. Remember how in the immediate aftermath of 9/11, while his myrmidons were celebrating the greatest ever victory of Islam over the infidels by dancing in the streets and passing out sweets, he made an elaborate show of donating his blood for the victims. I didn't know at the time that he was infected with HIV, but even without it, the mere thought of his blood flowing in the veins of a normal person can make one's blood curdle. He, however, most probably knew his diagnosis. He also knew that sooner or later it would become public knowledge. Can you think of a bigger finger to give the Americans without actually killing anyone?
Seriously speaking however, Arafat has left a legacy that extends far beyond his disgusting buffoonery. His legacy is enormous and can be compared with that of Abraham. Arafat, like Abraham, has fathered a people. It doesn't matter how many times I tell you that “Palestinians” are a terror organization rather than a nation left homeless by cruel Zionists. It doesn't matter that they do not have a language, or culture, or history, that they come from all over the Arab world, that they have nothing in common except for Islam and their murderous hatred for Israel. It doesn't matter that “historic Palestine” is nothing but another anti-Semitic myth, akin to the infamous Protocols, only much more successful. What matters is that the entire world believes that Arafat's terrorist organization is a people. That effectively makes it a people.
In a way, Arafat's accomplishment is greater than Abraham's. Abraham was guided by God. Arafat was guided by Muslim hatred to everything that is good in this world. That's why, no matter how many Arab children he sacrificed on the altar of his hatred, not even once did God send an angel to stop the slaughter. Unfortunately, God has done nothing to stop the murder of His people either. I won't pretend to know why. He may be on vacation. He may be stuck in traffic somewhere. He may have gotten Himself involved in a different, more promising project. But on the slim chance that He is reading this, I would like to state unequivocally that now would be a very good time for Him to come out with a strong hand and outstretched arm, or vice versa, whichever way He prefers it, because His people are about to perish in the next Holocaust, and they haven't even figured out yet the meaning of the previous one. Please, Oh Lord, consider this a prayer.
Throughout his entire life, Arafat steadfastly pursued the goal of Israel's destruction, and nothing could veer him off course. In the Arab world, where loyalties are more volatile than the stock exchange in anticipation of a major recession, where betrayal is as common and natural as camel dung in the streets, millions of people subjected by him to ruthless daily abuse, wholeheartedly devoted themselves and their children to him and carried on his murderous will without fear or reproach, no matter how devastating the consequences.
Skillfully playing Western fear and hatred of Jews, he graduated from outlaw to freedom fighter to statesman. Yet, even as a statesman he continued to rule by murder and was able to effortlessly get away with it. He corrupted everything he touched. He rubbed elbows with everyone of any importance on this planet, from Clinton to the Pope, and the only person who treated him according to his deeds — to the extent possible under the circumstances — was Rudi Guiliani. Israeli leaders were driven by their stupid cowardice to shake his bloody hand. Israeli armed forces could have wiped him out at any moment, but the Israeli government was afraid to even think about it.
That's why I find no satisfaction in Arafat's death. Death itself is not a punishment; it is simply the end of life. Death on the gallows by the sentence of a Jewish court would have been different, but Jews no longer have the cojones to defend themselves, and our Never again! has become as meaningless as Kerry's promise to fight terror better than Bush.
Is Arafat's death good for the Jews? I don't see how. Salaried optimists, the same ones who sold us Oslo as a reversible experiment, today mumble something about a new era. Let's see. Lenin's death, after a few years of shuffling at the Kremlin, brought Stalin to power. Kim Il Sung was succeeded by Kim Jong Il. Hafez Assad passed the throne to Bashar Assad. Arafat did not leave behind an heir apparent, but the only cohesive force capable to fill the power vacuum left by his departure is Hamas. Where do you see a reason to be optimistic? And yet, no matter where you turn, everyone is talking about the hopes for the renewal of the peace process. Sounds good? Certainly, especially if you forget that the peace process has very little to do with peace for Israel. It means the end of the cycle of violence. The cycle of violence emerges whenever Israel attempts to respond, no matter how unconvincingly, to the murder of its citizens. Therefore, peace process means Arabs killing Jews and Israel doing nothing to stop them. We are getting there.
Under President Bush, the US strategy against openly hostile Islamic regimes is based on the idea of the replacement of the “bad” leadership with a “good” one. I expect this strategy to fail completely in Afghanistan and Iraq before the end of President Bush's second term. The problem is that before the new “Palestinian” rulers prove themselves as bad as their predecessors, the United States is going to try to earn points with them by pressuring Israel into even quicker surrender. Therefore, I feel no optimism about the new era. Chances are those of us who will see it, will feel nostalgic for the old one.
Russian version