Frightened and shaking, Yasir Arafat jumps out of his bed in the semi-destroyed room in the Mukkata, where he’s been a virtual prisoner for longer than he cared to remember. The world, it seems, has almost forgotten him. Few dignitaries still bother to visit, and the calls for Israel to allow him to leave Ramallah have all but ceased. Doesn’t anyone care anymore?

He creeps quietly toward the window, listening to the never-ending buzz. Those damned Israeli helicopters! Even in the middle of the night they won’t go away. He remembers the shock to his system when he turned on the radio a few weeks ago and heard:

“Breaking news – Hamas leader Dr. Rantisi was assassinated today as missiles fired by Israeli helicopters turned his car into an inferno. Hamas is vowing revenge….”

Just then the phone rings, the sound snapping him out of his contemplation of the fate of Dr. Rantisi and, before him, Sheikh Yassin.

“Hello? President Arafat? I’m glad you are up.”

“Who is this?”

“A friend.”

“A friend? Is this Shimon Peres? Hosni Mubarak?” 

“No! Just a friend. Now listen carefully.”

Arafat falls silent as the voice on the phone, jocular yet authoritative, launches into a two-minute monologue.

“Mr. President, I am calling you on your cell phone because my heart goes out to you. I would call you on your regular line but I understand that your phone is tapped. I know that sitting there in Ramallah for so many months without the ability to move more than a few feet at a time must be extremely frustrating and nerve wracking.

“Not being able to physically direct any of the ongoing missions against Israel is emotionally unbearable. I know that you are straining at the bit to get back into action, but those ugly Israeli tank muzzles staring through your shattered windows bring reality to bear. May Allah protect you from them.

“Mr. President, several weeks ago they dispatched Sheikh Yassin. Then it was Rantisi. One by one, courtesy of Israeli missiles, your compatriots are being violently dispatched to meet Allah. Although it no doubt frustrates them to know that they will not receive the rewards reserved for the ordinary shahid who commits a homicide bombing, I’m certain that a most worthy prize awaits those who come to Paradise riding the tail of a rocket instead of three-thousand body fragments. Don’t you envy them?

Mr. President, do not fret! You, personally, have the world’s implicit guarantee that you will not be physically eliminated. Even so, I’m sure that your mental capabilities are by now on edge. Seeing how Israel continues to defy the world’s explicit condemnation of such barbaric acts must keep you awake at nights. How you must dread the thought that Sharon may flip his lid and go gunning for you, too.

“Hearing the constant buzzing of those helicopters flying above your headquarters can drive a man totally mad. And the Israeli tanks only fifty feet away are a daily threat. With such danger lurking, how can they expect you to do anything to curtail the raging terror?

“You’ve been saying for years that those Israelis are not fighting fair. The assassinations of your friends, the UN has made perfectly clear, are in direct violation of all international standards of behavior. And besides the UN, the European Union, Russia and China have gone on record time and again condemning such illegal acts of state-sponsored terror. I know you constantly ask yourself and others, “How dare the Israelis fight such a dirty war? Do they think they can eliminate the Palestinian leadership one by one?”

Mr. President, this Sharon is a calculating fellow. His plan is to keep you alive physically but to destroy you emotionally. He wants you to see your circle of equals become smaller and smaller. The grand plan is to keep you on edge. He wants you to squirm each time another of your friends is hunted down like the wild beast he is.”

Arafat has heard enough. “Tell me now – who are you?” he demands.

“Me? Oh, sorry, I guess I did neglect to properly introduce myself. Please look out the window now, Mr. President.”

Arafat shuffles over to the window. “All right, I’m looking,” he says.

“See that helicopter hovering above you?” asks the voce. “I’m the guy with the finger on the trigger. Have a lovely night.”