With characteristic American black-is-white Orwellian knockoff, the one moment of his post-guerilla life that could be called noble was held aloft and crowned as his worst failure: namely that in the year 2000, he had flatly refused the cajoling of a charming western politician who wished him to renounce the Right of Return in exchange for an archipelago of prison camps with a flag over them, not unlike what they are "offered" today, by a warlord consortium that knows full well, even if its serfs do not, that the land is not the warlords' to offer. Quite the contrary. If by some miracle the planet survives long enough, and men of goodwill ever sit at the table, negotiations will begin from the truth, and not the construct of wealthy moguls with oil that needs guarding.

Although to his detriment, Arafat had at that point spent the past decade or so teasing western politicians with coy hints that he might let them have their way with him, and had thereby collected an impressive array of nosegays and filled dance cards as well as a big necklace from Norway, when the confident suitor reached out to claim his prize, Arafat leapt from the carriage and fled.

It may be wishful thinking to suppose he acted out of conscience as opposed to the more mundane and pragmatic desire to avoid being assassinated by his own people; since there were so many people already trying to assassinate him, perhaps he merely felt their efforts would be superfluous, and was motivated by sheer abhorrence of inefficiency and duplication of effort, but in the spirit of generosity and courtesy offered by civilized people to the newly dead, let us once again call it his noblest hour, and for it, honor his memory, and those who honor it with us, they who built a shrine, a mausoleum.

In a day.

If you feel you cannot weep for Arafat, weep instead for Abdel Salam Samren, for Abdul Rahman Jadallah, Raghda Alassar, for Imam Al-Hams, names few of you will recall. Go to google, and type the words "Palestinian child shot," hit search, and weep at what you see.

Yasser Arafat represented Palestine, including every one of those thousands of children. Like him, their bodies are gone from this earth.

Like him, they will live forever.

If you feel you cannot praise Arafat, praise the images that Americans were allowed to see, live, probably because of the scant likelihood that they would comprehend what they were seeing.

What looked like an uncontrollable mob grasping at a coffin was in reality the fulfillment of Arafat's promise, his triumph, his fateh: a State.

Out of the ashes, out of the ruins, out of grief, a people who can build, in a day, a shrine, a mausoleum out of love and tears and sand and suffering, can and will greet you and pray with you one day in Jerusalem, the capital of Palestine, in the spirit of the Prophets, the spirit of Peace, that shall not pass away.