My Life in the PLO

The Inside Story of the Palestinian Struggle

Shafiq Al-Hout, Jean Said Makdisi, Hader Al-Hout, Laila Othman

• Publisher: Pluto Press
• Year: 2010
• Print ISBN: 9780745328836
• eBook ISBN: 9781783714223
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Politics & International Relations
• Subtopic: Historical Biographies
• Index: Politics & International Relations

This is the inside story of the Palestine Liberation Organisation (PLO), from its beginnings in 1964 to the signing of the Oslo agreement in 1993.

For over three decades, the main goal of the PLO was to achieve a just peace in the Arab-Israeli conflict, and to build a democratic state in Palestine for all its citizens. Shafiq Al-Hout, a high ranking PLO official until his resignation in 1993, provides previously unavailable details on the key events in its history such as its recognition by the UN and the Oslo peace negotiations. Analysing and criticising decisions and individuals, including Yasser Arafat, we are taken right to the heart of the decision making processes; our eyes opened to the personalities and internal politics that shaped the PLO's actions and the Palestinian experience of the twentieth century.

An essential piece of history that sheds new light on the significance of the PLO in the Palestinian struggle for justice.

1

JAFFA, MY CITY

I was born in the city of Jaffa in Palestine, on January 13, 1932. My name is Shafiq, my father’s name was Ibrahim, my mother’s was Tohfa, and our family name is al-Hout. Two official documents issued by the British Mandate Government in Palestine bear witness to these facts: the first is my birth certificate, issued by the Ministry of Health, and the second my Palestinian passport, No. 212023, issued by the Immigration and Travel Service.

Neither of these documents is in my possession any more. My birth certificate I left in the drawer of my desk in our house in Jaffa, when we had to abruptly leave the city in 1948 under the pressure of Zionist terrorism. My passport was seized by an Israeli officer who found it in my desk drawer in our house in Lebanon, when the Zionists burst into West Beirut in 1982.

(1)

Whenever we had a chance to meet and talk about our memories of the old days, my mother, who died in 1992, liked to recall the details of my birth. She said I was born on a rainy day, her labor pains beginning as the family sat at a low, round table having supper. Once when I asked her what was on the menu that night, she smiled and said: “Muloukhia” (Jew’s mallow). And it was only then that I discovered why I used to sneeze whenever I ate that delicious dish!

My mother used to say that my birth was easy, not because I was her seventh child, but because I was the first to be delivered with the help of a licensed midwife. The shadow of that woman, Zainab Qabbani, remains vivid in my memory. She would frequently drop by our house, where she delivered all my younger siblings. Her presence aroused my curiosity as she was the first woman I had ever seen go around not wearing a veil. Instead of the usual black dress and head cover, she used to wear a long coat and wrap her hair in a white silk scarf. She was also a heavy and unapologetic smoker: indeed she used to show off by brazenly smoking in public. In those days, the conflict over clothing was not restricted to the question of whether or not women should wear veils, but was also about whether men should abandon the traditional male costume, the kombaz, for Western-style trousers – in other words the conflict was one between Arab and Western costume. My father remained loyal to his kombaz until his death in April 1971, although all his younger brothers adopted the new style. Once I asked my mother about the meaning of a scene which often came to my mind when I remembered my childhood: a blooming henna tree beside a well, underneath a dome that was open to the sky. Above the well a bucket was suspended from a rope wrapped around a log. She told me that the henna tree and the well were in the garden of the house where I was born, located in an alleyway off al-Alem Street, the second most important street in the Jaffa neighborhood of al-Manshiya. The house was a close by my father’s shop; he was then a merchant.

Early in the last decade of the nineteenth century, my grandfather, Salim Youssef al-Hout, traveled from Beirut to Palestine to make a better living for himself and avoid being conscripted into the Ottoman army. He settled in the port city of Jaffa, where his older sister had married a well-known local merchant from the Saber family. My grandfather enjoyed life in Jaffa, which was becoming known as the “land of the newcomers,” as it hosted so many outsiders, including many from other Arab lands and other parts of Palestine. As his standard of living improved, he became one of the main orange merchants in town, as well as the mukhtar (an administrative official) of the quarter where he lived. He acquired a solid reputation and great popularity, mainly because he used to stamp the documents required by his fellow citizens at no cost. Owing to his always detectable Beirut accent, he was known as Salim al-Bayruti rather than by his real last name. Just before his death at the end of 1948 in the Lebanese town of Souk al-Gharb, which he had chosen as a summer resort pending his eventual return to Jaffa, he gathered his sons around him. He told them about his plans for an orange grove he had planted 18 years earlier, in the village of Kastina, near the city of Majdal, north of Gaza. He then closed his eyes and passed away. He was buried in the Bachoura cemetery in Beirut, near his ancestors, including two noble sheikhs, Mohammad and Abdul Rahman al-Hout.

(2)

When I was about five years old, we moved from the house where I was born to another nearby which had a direct view over al-Alem Street. Our new home had a large garden with an old mulberry tree in one corner and a lofty jujube tree in the middle. I shall never forget my first day at school. I remember that I had been getting ready to attend the public school, but I ended up, though I do not remember why, at a private school belonging to the Association of Muslim Youth, which had been founded in Jaffa in the 1920s and played a great role in fostering education; however, in Palestine, it was the public rather than the private schools that had the better reputation, despite the fact that they were either free or charged only nominal tuition fees. At any rate, I did not regret what happened. When I sat for the first-year exam, not only did I pass but I was also promoted to a more senior class than expected, bypassing an entire academic year.

It was in our new house overlooking al-Alem Street that I had my first contact with my “problem” as a Palestinian. I was then around six. On the dawn of a summer’s day in 1938, I was awakened by a terrifyingly violent knocking at our door. British soldiers accompanied by a Jewish woman recruit rushed in to the house; their commander ordered my father and my older brothers outside, where dozens of others were already gathered in an open space. One of the soldiers signaled to me with his rifle to go and sit on a straw mat near the garden. I did, but I kept a watchful eye on my mother who was struggling with the Jewish woman because she was refusing to be physically searched; the reason was that she had been fasting and had just finished her ablutions. The soldiers searched through the house, ripping open mattresses and tipping out oil, rice, grain, and kerosene together onto the floor, and even pocketing the money that they found, as well as some of my mother’s wedding jewelry.

After sunset, and after the men had been standing in the burning sun for many long hours, my father and brothers were finally allowed to return home. My mother received them warmly and thanked God for their well-being. But after we were all reunited, and had made sure the soldiers had left the area, my mother brought out a strange object from underneath her clothes’ chest that the soldiers had not found. Addressing my older brothers, Mustafa and Jamal, she asked: “What is this … and which one of you does it belong to?”

“It’s a bomb,” my father said, taking it from her hands, while my brothers denied any knowledge of it. Yet I knew instinctively that it belonged to the younger one, Jamal, who was only 14 then. I became certain of this fact when I saw him weeping silently as he watched our father sneak out to hide the object away from the house.

That night, I sensed the danger we faced, not just as a family, but as a nation. I knew that we had a ruthless enemy. But I also realized that this enemy could be resisted, that there were already people resisting, and that my brother was one of those. When I woke up the following morning, I saw Jamal in a new light: he became my mentor and he was to leave an indelible mark on my life.

From that day on, I had a growing interest in politics and, as I got older, I began to understand newspaper articles and would follow radio broadcasts more closely. Whenever I failed to understand something, I would ask my brother. By that time, World War Two had erupted, and people used to gather in cafes to listen, carefully and silently, to the radio news. Occasionally, someone would whisper a prayer for the victory of Hitler, or Abu al-Nimr (Father of the Tiger), as some people called him, believing in the maxim that “my enemy’s enemy is my friend.” I shall never forget the sight of groups of men sitting around a radio in the cafe near our house every evening, listening to the news from Ankara. Turkey’s neutrality allowed it to broadcast news that Arab stations could not. The news from Berlin, on the other hand, was banned, and anyone found violating the ban would immediately be dragged off to the detention camps at Sarafand or Acre.

Two men served as headmasters of the Manshiya Elementary School for Boys during the five years that I spent there. The first was a Lebanese man from Sidon, Said Sabbagh, who designed and drafted atlases that are still in print to this very day. The second was Jamal al-Alami, a Palestinian from Gaza. Both were extremely stern, and we used to quake whenever we ran into either of them in the playground or the classroom, or out on the street. The boys were often given beatings, and some instructors even became experts in the selection of the best wood for the purpose, as well as the most appropriate length and width.

All my elementary school teachers had a salutary influence on me during that period, yet one of them above all had a particular impact on me. Zaki al-Dirhalli had an amicable yet firm personality, and more importantly, he was one of the most famous football players in the Islamic Athletic Club of Jaffa. He used to play on the right wing, and was known by his fans as “the Golden Foot.” He made training in all kinds of sports enjoyable – especially football – despite the shortage of equipment and playing fields. Fortunately, though, there was a spacious deserted area that divided the outskirts of our quarter of Jaffa from Tel Aviv. This space became a permanent bone of contention between us and the Jews of Tel Aviv. As if there were some unwritten agreement imposed by the balance of power, we used at first to leave the playground to them on Saturday, their weekend holiday. Later, however, when our team became more organized and in need of a proper playing field, we cancelled the agreement and no longer allowed them to monopolize the playground on Saturdays. In this we were supported by Mr Dirhalli, who believed that the land was ours and no one else’s. In 1947, he was martyred in a Zionist terrorist attack on the Jaffa District Court.

(3)

Al-Ameriya was one of the best and most beautiful schools in Palestine. It was the only government secondary school in the Jaffa area, and only the top students from local elementary schools could gain entrance to it. It also recruited the best teachers, who had graduated from the élite academies of Palestine, as well as the universities of Egypt and the American University of Beirut. Al-Ameriya, which I entered when I was twelve years old, was one of the most significant milestones in my educational and public life.

It had a twin school, al-Zahraa for Girls, which was on the opposite side of the street. The building was painted the same green as my school, with the same yellow porcelain sign hanging over the gate and the same style of fence surrounding it with orange and lemon trees. No doubt this proximity was a major incentive for us to start talking about that “other sex” hiding behind the fence. It was the beginning of adolescence, with all of the changes, transitions, curiosity, and problems that normally accompany this phase in one’s life. Unfortunately, there was no educational counselor, no therapist, and not even a useful textbook to help satisfy our natural curiosity.

One day we came across a book in the school library entitled The Old Man’s Return to His Youth, which delved into sexual matters more graphically than some of today’s pornographic magazines. It may be part of our Arabic literary heritage, but I have no idea how it ever made its way into the school’s collection. When the librarian found us eagerly perusing it, he confiscated it.

Our homes were no less conservative than our schools. The only way for adolescents to learn about sex was from one another. Sometimes we would consult with older and more mature friends. At other times we would entice some rascal to provoke a religion or Islamic law teacher into broaching the subject in class. I recall one of those teachers who used to occasionally engage in something approaching free speech. When asked embarrassing questions posed by young men in the earliest awareness of sexual instinct, he would fidget and then say in a trembling tone: “Boys, there should be no timidity when it comes to religion.” He would then haltingly elaborate on what is permitted by our religion and what is not, but with no physiological, psychological, or social explanation for these rules. This restricted sexual education did little to eliminate our obsessions and fears regarding a number of matters that were in dire need of explanation.

I can remember at least four of these worries. The first was masturbation, and what was being said about the dangers of this “secret” habit. The second was gonorrhea (fortunately penicillin had become available following the end of World War Two in 1945). The third was syphilis, whose reputation was terrifying, similar to that of AIDS nowadays. And the fourth was homosexuality, warnings against which were delivered with the utmost severity, as it was considered illegitimate, shameful, and the source of all terminal diseases. We used to ostracize anyone suspected of being gay. Had our religion teacher at the time imagined that the day would come when homosexuality would become legal and even acceptable, he would have pulled out what was left of his hair and declared it signified the end of the world.

Not only did al-Ameriya reflect the country’s social reality, it also reflected its national character, as it was the most prestigious of all Jaffa’s schools. It was a crucible that could galvanize the masses and incite the people to rebel against the British–Zionist alliance so as to vanquish colonialism and prevent the establishment of a national homeland for the Jews on Palestinian soil. There were several reasons for this which I shall carefully note, lest I be accused of being too biased towards Jaffa and my school.

The first reason for the school’s influence was Jaffa’s geographic proximity to Tel Aviv; whenever an Arab would slap or stab a Jew, or vice versa, the city would become immediately mobilized. Rallies and demonstrations would be launched, and calls for struggle and opposition intensified. The second reason was Jaffa’s position as the center of the Palestinian press. This gave the city a pioneering role in the orientation of the nation. The third reason was that, unlike other Arab cities whose élite families, with their wealth or inherited feudal power, monopolized political life, Jaffa’s political decision makers were the masses, with students and laborers at the forefront. The fourth reason was that several schoolteachers, particularly in al-Ameriya, were intellectuals who had an important role to play in political life.

Photo 1 Graduates of al-Ameriyah school in Jaffa (1947). Al-Hout is standing in the middle, wearing a dark shirt and a beige Jacket.

The influence of several of these teachers was felt strongly by my generation. Shafiq Abu Gharbieh, from Hebron, used to teach English and Latin. He showed us around the country and introduced us to places we had never visited, taking us either on foot or by bicycle. Not once did a lecture of his exclude some aspect or another of the national issues. He fell as a martyr while wiring a bomb which he was planning to deliver to his comrades in Hebron.

I also recall Abdallah al-Rimawi and Ahmad al-Sabe’, who were close friends, sharing the same pan-Arab views, and who went on to join the Arab Ba’th Party. Both were graduates of the American University of Beirut, and together they contributed to the formation of our personalities and helped shape our political convictions.

Then there was Zuhdi Jar-Allah, a critical history instructor, who, though he did not always impress us with his own views, used to arouse our curiosity and instill skepticism in our minds, so we would not take any statement or rumor at face value.

I cannot forget Hasan al-Dabbagh, whose influence on us was both academic and behavioral: his concern was to make us into men who were qualified to deal with the future. He was particularly interested in planning ahead, and he thought that although the country might have enough fighting men, it surely was still in need of thousands of scholars and specialists.

(4)

There were a number of sports, social, and cultural clubs in Jaffa. The club that provided us with the means to carry out patriotic activities was the Islamic Youth Club. We used to gather there to make plans, prepare placards and flags, and make phone contact with other student representatives in order to coordinate rallies, agree on slogans, and so on. It was from there that we founded the first Palestinian students’ union. The principal driver behind the initiative was Ibrahim Abu Lughod, who went on to become Professor of Political Science at Northwestern University, and the rest of us were his assistants.

We later found out that the club had played a major role in organizing the Arab Palestinian resistance, some of whose members fell in the battlefield, while others joined the Jaysh al-Inqadh, or Arab army of deliverance.

The municipality of Jaffa played an important role in the development of the city. It was presided over by four distinguished chairmen, who were, in order: Assem Beik Said, Omar Bitar, Abdul Raouf Bitar, and Dr Youssef Haykal. In his second term, Dr Haykal was elected rather than appointed to his position, thereby setting an important precedent.

I actually remember this election, which offered an occasion to hold patriotic festivals. The candidates would rush to build good relationships wit...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• List of photographs
• List of acronyms
• Glossary
• Foreword
• 1 Jaffa, my city
• 2 From homeland to exile
• 3 From journalism to politics
• 4 The birth of the Palestine Liberation Organization
• 5 The factions gain control of the PLO
• 6 Jordanian–Palestinian relations
• 7 Nasser as I knew him
• 8 Fratricidal wars
• 9 The PLO at the United Nations
• 10 Palestine, around the globe
• 11 The Israeli invasion of Lebanon
• 12 The Sabra and Shatila massacre
• 13 After the departure
• 14 The mysterious triangle
• 15 The second exodus from Lebanon
• 16 The session that changed the path
• 17 The Intifada of Stones
• 18 Return to the Executive Committee
• 19 No final solution without a single democratic Palestine
• 20. The night of Abu Ammar’s plane crash
• 21 Resigning in protest over the Oslo Agreement
• 22 After the resignation
• 23 My heart rebels
• 24 Coming out of a dark abyss
• Index