The founding leader, Yasser Arafat, remains embedded in the collective memory of the Palestinian people, especially during this time of loss and reflection. Personally, my connection with him, as his nephew, began early in life. I vividly recall a visit to my father’s modest apartment in Benghazi, Libya, where he worked.
This was before the Palestinian revolution truly ignited, and Abu Ammar stayed the night with us. As a child, my biggest curiosity was knowing the number of Fedayeen, believing it would reassure me of our inevitable victory. Abu Ammar would laugh at my persistence, offering no real answer, only saying, “We have as many Fedayeen as you have hairs on your head.”
Another memorable encounter took place in Belgrade, Yugoslavia, then a leader of the Non-Aligned Movement. By then, Abu Ammar had risen to prominence as a global leader and was close to President Joseph Tito. He asked to see me, and I, as a member of the General Union of Palestine Students (GUPS) and the Fatah organisation, attended a special meeting. During that meeting, he handed me a hundred dollars—a small fortune at the time, and an unforgettable gesture of his support and encouragement.
In general, Abu Ammar deeply valued his family connections, particularly with his siblings, starting with Hajja Inaam, may she rest in peace. Near the end of her life, he made it a priority to visit her daily in the hospital in Gaza, honouring her as the one who raised him after his mother's passing. Then there was my mother, Yusra, whom he also held in deep affection. However, as his official responsibilities grew, his personal relationships became less frequent, including our own.
Often, our interactions came through my younger sister, for whom he had a special fondness. He even brought her to Beirut for a period. I recall visiting her in a modest apartment in the Fakhani neighbourhood, where Abu Ammar himself lived. Her place lacked air conditioning, and I found him there, trying to shake off a cold. We spent some time together, and slowly, our close connection began to rekindle.
Not long after, I reminded him of an old promise. I said, “You once promised me a gun, but it never happened.” Without a word, Abu Ammar rose from his sickbed, opened a rickety closet, and searched through a drawer. He pulled out a finely crafted box, saying, “Here!” When I opened it, I was astonished to find a silver pistol and a card bearing the name of former Iraqi President Ahmed Hassan al-Bakr.
Somehow, I managed to say, “Thank you very much, but I believe gifts like this should be preserved, not given away.” Abu Ammar looked momentarily embarrassed but took the pistol back, promising to get me another one—a promise that, of course, never came to be. Looking back now, I’m convinced that someone eventually took that silver pistol, oblivious to its sentimental worth.
Life is like a boat
One unforgettable memory took place in Tunisia. I went to visit him, and once again, he was nursing a cold, dressed in a casual sports outfit. Seeing him like that—an ascetic man, ailing but unwavering—stirred a sense of sadness in me. We spoke for a long time, and our relationship, somewhat distant over the years, began to grow close again.
After a while, an aide entered the room, mentioning that an elderly woman, for whom Abu Ammar had previously approved medical assistance, had returned requesting additional funds. Without a moment’s hesitation, he took her application and signed it. I couldn’t help but wonder aloud how he was so certain this wasn’t a manipulation. He looked at me with a gentle smile and said a line that will stay with me forever: “My son, life is like a boat; if there’s no good in it, it sinks.”
This reflected Abu Ammar’s philosophy on money: he saw it as belonging to the Palestinian people, not as his personal wealth, and as something to which every Palestinian in need had a rightful claim. He believed in supporting those who sought help, like the elderly woman, regardless of other concerns. While we might have had differing views on how money should be used in politics, his outlook was unwavering.
In general—and perhaps due to my life experiences—I felt a deep pride in being Palestinian, though I kept my personal connection to Abu Ammar discreet to avoid any misconceptions. Most importantly, I was proud of our political journey in the Palestinian national movement, which laid the foundation for our rights to criticise, voice differing views, and stand as one.
On a certain occasion, six of us—four from Fatah and two from the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP)—attended a meeting of the Palestinian National Council following the Palestinian-Syrian reconciliation. There, we discovered that the Fatah Central Committee had decided to re-elect Khaled al-Fahoum as PNC chairman. Meanwhile, the Rejectionist Front had chosen to nominate Bahjat Abu Gharbia against Fahoum.
For us, as Federation representatives, the election of Fahoum, despite his high moral standing, was out of the question. Central Committee members tried to persuade us, but their efforts were in vain. Finally, Abu Ammar invited us in to explain the Committee’s position. We, in turn, explained that, as elected representatives, we would be accountable to our base, and we couldn’t justify electing a Syria-backed leader, given the past conflicts he had stirred against us.
