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I have perused every image of Yasser Arafat to emerge from this terrible siege, and each of his features is engraved in my mind. At times his face seems to be collapsing in grief and despair; at others, the strength of his will lends it a firmness reminiscent of his young days as a freedom fighter. His eyes can be hollow, illuminated from below by the light of a single candle, the folds of his flesh casting long shadows upon his cheeks, or they can shine with what seems like resolve, springing out of the surrounding gloom. Often only a hand appears, ghoulishly suspended in the murky twilight of the presidential compound; that hand could be hiding a despondent grimace, quavering in infirmity or calling a halt to this enormity. The images flash by hypnotically, superimposed on the other data my brain collects and stored, framed by the stark black and white of the Palestinian president's kuffiyeh -- the material confirmation of his refusal -- or inability -- to raise a white flag.
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