I was on for what seemed like twenty minutes. Fortunately, Pat knew the subject, and kept the conversation going. At the time, it didn’t even strike me as odd that I was doing a phone report from bed, with a man I’d covered in the Reagan White House and as a presidential contender, who was now a talk show host on cable news.
All night, the Palestinians used bulldozers and backhoes to prepare the gravesite for their leader, polishing the stone by hand. The courtyard of Arafat’s headquarters had been piled with tires, rubble, and abandoned cars to barricade against the anticipated Israeli invasion. Now the rubble was cleared and leveled to create a landing zone for the Egyptian helicopters that would bring Arafat’s body home.
The funeral was the next day. Two of our best New York producers, Phil Alongi and John Zito, had found rooftops with camera angles on all sides of Arafat’s walled compound. Camera crews had flown in from NBC bureaus all over Europe and the Middle East. In the dust of buildings that had been shelled repeatedly for years, our Palestinian team had created a satellite village.
The air was black with the acrid smell of burning tires, a traditional signal of defiance, as thousands of mourners began to fill the streets. Brian opened the broadcast from a second-story rooftop with me standing at his side. An hour later I went out on the street, trying to appear inconspicuous as I pushed my way through a sea of men to get to our second location. We had a perfect view of the burial, directly across from the main gate.
As we went on the air, the mourners started shooting their AK-47s in the air. Thousands of men and boys were massing at the gate and scaling the wall to get inside the yard. Security was nonexistent. Palestinian soldiers in olive-drab uniforms reached down from their perches on top of the wall to help them climb over. Suddenly, the crowd surged forward, filling the helicopter landing zone and firing more rounds of ammunition. The air was thick with gunpowder and rubber from the burning tires. At one point, I looked in my hand mirror and saw that my face was covered in soot. Somehow, the helicopters landed, but the frenzied mourners wouldn’t let them lower the stairs so that they could carry out the coffin.
On MSNBC, Don Imus was on the air as I reported in from Ramallah. I told him how the al-Fatah youth brigades were marching below, shouting that they were going to drink the blood of the man who poisoned Arafat. Imus asked, “Are you safe there?”
I replied, “Oh, yeah, I’m on a rooftop, I’m fine,” although I didn’t really believe that myself.
Don asked, “Is that gunfire, Andrea?”
I said, “Yeah, it is. It’s traditional to shoot into the air with AK-47s, but of course, these bullets can come down, so we’re getting down behind the satellite dish now. We’re pulling our people down, Don, but I hope you can still see these pictures. They’re firing rounds in the air. This is mostly a celebration. It’s to honor Arafat. He’s a military hero to them. This is traditionally done, so this is not an outbreak of violence.”
Imus observed to Charles McCord, sitting across from him, “Bullets come down somewhere, don’t they, Charles?”
I answered, “Yeah, that’s occurred to me.”
Brian offered some hard facts: in the case of automatic weapons fire, bullets spiral down at 120 miles per hour. That’s all Alan, watching from home, had to see and hear. During a commercial break, I called him on my cell to reassure him that I was safe. I didn’t know who was going to reassure Brian and me.
We were on the air for five hours that day, nonstop. The only thing that prevented a worse riot was the approaching deadline for the end of the Ramadan holiday. By sundown, the men had to be home to break fast. The crowd began to disperse. I went down on the street to tape a stand-up for Nightly News, trying to wipe the gunpowder off my face and reapply makeup discreetly, hoping not to offend the sensibilities of the Palestinian men.
Surrounded by so much emotion from Arafat’s followers, I started thinking about the broader issues his death might trigger. Would his passing now create a real opportunity for peace? Not without a new commitment by the United States to mediate the dispute, according to Palestinian leaders I spoke to that night. President Bush and Ariel Sharon were waiting for Arafat’s successors to prove they could control the violence before the United States would reengage. But the Palestinians told me they would not be able to hold elections and control the dozen or more militias that Arafat had supported, without American help.
At a surprise fiftieth birthday party for Condi Rice, at the residence of the British Ambassador the night I returned, however, the president would tell me he first wanted to see the Palestinians control the violence and prove they are reliable partners. Bush said if I really wanted to understand his thinking on the conflict, I had to read a book by Natan Sharansky, The Case for Democracy. Sharansky, the former Soviet dissident who has served as a cabinet minister in several Israeli governments, opposes any compromise with the Palestinians until they fully accept a Western-style democracy. His writing has, in fact, also influenced the president’s thinking beyond the Middle East. As expressed in Bush’s second inaugural address, and echoed by Rice when she became secretary of state, Sharansky and the president see America’s vital mission as advancing the spread of democracy to oppressed peoples around the world. In this, George W. Bush is parting company with conservative realists—like his own father—who place a higher priority on achieving stability through strategic alliances, not idealistic causes like the advancement of liberty.
Bush was already thinking deeply about the region, but had not yet shown he would take the political risks necessary to play intermediary. Nor was he willing to acknowledge how much the criticism over his “benign neglect” of the Israeli-Palestinian stalemate had already poisoned his relationships with other Arab leaders. Circumstances and history would now make reengaging in the Middle East one of the first tests of his second term. That was already clear on the night of Arafat’s burial, as we prepared to leave Ramallah and begin the journey home.
But before I could leave the West Bank, I was told that an NBC producer in Jordan might be able to secure an interview with Arafat’s controversial wife, Suha, if I now flew to Cairo. Suha Arafat had lived a life of luxury in Paris for years, while her husband was a virtual prisoner in Ramallah. When he died, she attended the services in Cairo, but was warned not to come to the burial in Ramallah, where she was so hated by Arafat’s followers, that if she showed up, she might not get out alive.
I desperately wanted to go home. It had been a long election, and then a difficult trip to the Middle East. There was no guarantee Mrs. Arafat would grant the interview, and I might end up waiting in Cairo for weeks. But I honestly didn’t know if I could turn down the chance. We decided to head back to Israel, the first step toward either flying home or catching a flight to Egypt. Phil Alongi and I piled into a car with a Palestinian driver, along with our bags, computers, and other gear. One hundred yards from the Israeli checkpoint, he suddenly stopped and told us to get out. It was not safe for him to approach the Israeli line. We’d have to walk the rest of the way and hope our Israeli driver was on the other side of the barrier, at least a mile away.
It was pitch-dark. I saw the silhouettes of the Israeli Defense Force, guns ready and on hair-trigger alert. I thought how ironic it would be if, at this point, they mistook me for a terrorist. I would have survived that hail of gunfire at Arafat’s funeral, only to die alongside the road at Checkpoint Petunia. I reached for my cell phone to call Alan.
“I’m almost out,” I said. “But now they want me to go to Cairo and find Suha Arafat.”
Once again torn between my job and my personal life, I was too weary to decide which road to take. For the first time since I’ve known him, Alan told me what to do. He said firmly, “Get on the plane and come home.”
Afterthoughts
On January 20, 2005 I stood on the steps of the U.S. Capitol and watched George W. Bush take the oath of office for his second term. It was the eighth time since becoming a Washington correspondent that I had c
overed this rite of passage, and the ceremony was no less inspiring than when I’d first arrived from Philadelphia three decades ago. For the same reason that walking through the gates of the White House used to imbue me with a sense of awe, I still become emotional during political rituals. On that day, from my perch just behind the cabinet and special guests, I had a perfect panoramic view of the Mall and its monuments, including the new World War II Memorial dedicated only six months earlier.
Interspersed with the applause were the dissonant shouts of protestors. Looking out over the crowd, I thought of all the demonstrations I’d covered since I’d come to Washington, from the farmers and the Native Americans in the 1970s to the Nation of Islam’s Million Man March in 1995, as well as the historic marches for civil rights and against the Vietnam War that had been imprinted in my memory during adolescence. Washington had been the incubator for so many political movements, struggles that changed the way we live, work, and vote. In 1963, John Lewis was marching with Dr. King. Now he was a veteran congressman. At this inaugural, I was one of four NBC women correspondents with major roles. Forty years ago, there weren’t any. Today I am part of an accepted generation of women journalists. In 1969, I was stopped at the press room door in the Pennsylvania state capitol, at a time when women broadcasters were still rare and unwelcome.
Now, surrounding me on the inaugural stage, I saw a virtual photo gallery of images from my life as a reporter. There were the presidents: Carter, Clinton, and both Bushes, father and son. The senators: Clinton, McCain, Frist, Kennedy, and Specter. John Kerry, wearing a forced smile and a wistful expression, no doubt imagining what might have been. And in the VIP section were those other Washington notables, including cabinet members past and present, greeting each other warmly, even though they were often bitter rivals.
In a prominent seat, next to the CIA director, was Alan—wearing a Yankees cap because I’d worried about him going hatless in the cold. As his wife, I could have sat with him among the official guests instead of covering the event as a reporter. But for me, this was a dream assignment: we had a live broadcast, hundreds of prominent politicians with no way out, and no one stopping me from snagging interviews. Libby and I roamed the stands, lining up everyone from Rudy Giuliani to Arnold Schwarzenegger, Karl Rove to Barack Obama, and Bush’s speechwriter, Michael Gerson. Knowing me as he does, Alan understood that it wasn’t even a close call. But looking across the way at him, I was struck by how different our roles were on days such as this: he was inside, looking out, while I was outside, looking in. I caught his eye across the crowd; he waved and gave me a thumbs-up. As the president declared, “All who live in tyranny and hopelessness can know: The United States will not ignore your oppression, or excuse your oppressors. When you stand for your liberty, we will stand with you,” I wondered where rhetoric left off and policy began. If we had learned anything about George W. Bush during the previous four years, it was that he views the world in sharp contrasting colors rather than shades of gray. Whether realistic or not, when Bush pronounced the country “tested, but not weary” and “ready for the greatest achievements in the history of freedom,” he meant it. As a reporter covering foreign policy, I knew that the next four years were going to be busy.
Inaugurations are also political celebrations for the victors. After the swearing-in ceremony, I climbed onto a flatbed truck to broadcast the Bushes’ progression along the parade route from the Capitol to the White House. It was as close as Washington ever gets to a hometown event, at least in the years since the Redskins won the Super Bowl. I’ve seen so many of these grand occasions: the bittersweet inauguration day a quarter-century earlier when the American hostages were released from Iran, but too late for Jimmy Carter. The departure of Ronald and Nancy Reagan from their “little cottage” on Pennsylvania Avenue after one of the most consequential presidencies in modern history. And Bill Clinton’s exit a dozen years later, following two terms of political triumph and scandal. I have been an eyewitness to all of these histories, personal and political, but in the role of observer, not participant. To me, that remove is still the price of admission for a front-row seat, despite the revolution that has turned politicians into anchormen and activists into bloggers.
Along this journey, I have made sacrifices I sometimes regret, although none so important that I would take the path not chosen. As I was warned so many years ago, this is indeed a course for a long-distance runner. If asked what qualities helped me earn whatever success I have had in this venture, I’d have to list endurance near the top. It is what drove me to the finish line of the New York City Marathon in 1996, two days before the election, and still carries me through assignments in remote regions far from family and friends. But perhaps even more important is an insatiable curiosity about the way other people live their lives—their hopes, disappointments, privations, and triumphs. Those are the stories that inspired me to want to be Brenda Starr, “girl reporter,” imagining an adventurous life then available only to women in comic strips.
For all the social progress, technology presents new dilemmas for my profession. In an age of instantaneous news, major news organizations have sometimes put speed above accuracy, sacrificing fairness in the process. Is it acceptable to recycle rumors for which we have no proof simply because they are on an Internet website? Does a questionable story become fair game simply because the subject has been forced to deny it? How many correspondents still require two sources before going on the air? And how many broadcasters, to say nothing of bloggers, are even trained in these fundamentals? The stakes are high: after struggling to find truth in competing claims about war, weapons, and terror connections, we are still left with more questions than answers. In my memory, there has never been a time when our coverage of foreign policy or domestic politics was as important or as difficult.
This journey through America and its foreign entanglements has rewarded me in ways both material and emotional. It has also left me in constant wonder over the decency of humankind, along with our awful ability to inflict pain upon one another. I still search for answers to the horrors of 9/11, or the execution of Wall Street Journal newsman Daniel Pearl, or the genocide in Rwanda. But I am equally fascinated by the other side of human nature: by the courage of amputees in Ward 57 at Walter Reed Army Medical Center who still believe in miracles; of the Afghan boys who risked so much to tell me about their mother’s and sister’s plight; of the Cubans, who still dare to speak and write; of the Israeli mothers who put their children on public buses. And by the hopeful spirit of the Palestinian families who welcomed me to share their Ramadan feasts, so that I could better understand their yearnings for peace.
These are the stories I still want to tell. There is so much joy and excitement in being a reporter, I often wonder how I got to be so lucky.
INDEX
Abbas, Mahmoud
Abu Ghraib prison
Affirmative action
Danforth as supporter of
Powell, Colin, on
Thomas, Clarence, as opponent to
Afghanistan
bin Laden in
Mitchell in
Age of Terror
Agnew, Spiro
Ahmadinejad, Mahmoud
Ailes, Roger
Albright, David
Albright, Madeleine
as Helms’s friend
Madam Secretary,
in North Korea
as secretary of state for Clinton, Bill
in Vietnam
Alhazmi, Nawaf
Alicastro, Joe
Almeida, Emilia
Almihdhar, Khalid
Alongi, Phil
Andropov, Yuri
And So It Goes (Ellerbee)
Annan, Kofi
Annenberg, Leonore
Annenberg, Walter
Anthrax contamination
Arabic culture
Arafat, Suha
Arafat, Yasser
death of
Middle East peace process of
/> Aristide, Jean-Bertrand
Armas, Roberto de
Armitage, Richard
Aspin, Les
al Assad, Hafez
Assad, Bashar al-
Atwater, Lee
Aubin, Jay
Axis of evil
Ayatollah Khomeini
Aykroyd, Dan
Aziz, Tariq
Babbitt, Bruce
Baird, Zoe
Baker, Howard
Baker, James
as advisor to Bush, George W.
as chief of staff for Bush, George, H. W.
Gulf War involvement of
Quayle and
as Treasury secretary for Bush, George, H. W.
Bandar bin Sultan, Prince
Banfield, Ashleigh
Baradei, Mohamed El
Barak, Ehud
Barbados
Barrett, William
Barry, Marion
Bashir, Omar Hassan al-
Beckett, Margaret
Begala, Paul
Begin, Menachem
Beirut
Bennett, Bob
Benton, Nelson
Bentsen, Lloyd
Berger, Sandy
Berlin
Biden, Joe
Gulf War vote of
on Hussein
as Judiciary Committee chair
with Reagan, Ronald
Bigart, Homer
bin Attash, Tawfiq (a.k.a. Khallad)
bin Laden, Osama
in Afghanistan
Bashir and
in Pakistan
as Taliban guest
as terrorist leader
bin Laden, Shafig
Blair, Jim
Blair, Tony
Blitzer, Wolf
Bloodworth-Thomason, Linda
Bloom, David
Boies, David
Bolton, John
Bono
Boren, David
Talking Back Page 49
