Middle East: Like a scene of biblical chaos, Yasser Arafat's people took charge of his burial in Ramallah and did it their way. Michael Jansen was there.
The morning watch at the muqata, Yasser Arafat's headquarters, was quiet. A group of about 200 Palestinians stood waiting patiently opposite the main gate pasted over with posters of the late Palestinian leader.
The black, green, red and white Palestinian flags hung limply at half mast on either side of the gate. A wreath in pink and white plastic flowers surrounded by green plastic leaves was propped up against the gate.
A gallant guard in green beret took the arm of a tiny, bent octogenarian village woman, dressed in traditional embroidered dress, to a plastic chair in the shade of the gate house.
A heavily pregnant woman in black with a bright blue scarf soon joined her on a second chair.
From time to time a worthy dressed in a black suit would thrust through the gathering, speak to an officer, and enter the muqata. A cheerleader lifted on the shoulders of two youths began the chant, "With our soul and our blood, we will sacrifice for you Abu Ammar," using Mr Arafat's nom de guerre. The old lady - who said she was from Beitunia - hobbled to the door and demanded admission.
"If they get in I must enter. Abu Ammar is my president, too. They don't own him."
She tucked herself under the arms of the guards manning the narrow door beside the wide iron gate for vehicles which were no longer permitted to pass. The guards ignored her until she blocked the way and was gently guided back to her chair. Perhaps this, perhaps some other slight, prompted the crowd to surge forward suddenly, trapping me in the corner nearest the door, until members of the presidential guard drove people back, creating enough space for me to escape.
Crumpled and shaken, I walked up the slope to the upper wall of the muqata, and climbed the steps of an unfinished five-storey building to a landing with a wide empty window with a good view of the compound. From my slot behind the camera of CNN Espagne, I could see the broad expanse south of the muqata's buildings which had been prepared for the burial of Mr Arafat.
The tarmac had been washed, red sand spread along the back wall, which had been covered with white material decorated with Palestinian flags. Beneath the larger two of the four juniper trees still standing the burial site had been prepared, a concrete box set in a surround of polished grey granite. A bright red firetruck stood to one side and a guard of honour dressed in blue and black night camouflage drilled back and forth.
Television journalists went up and down the stairway between their temporary offices and the roof where the cameras had been positioned to record the last rites of Yasser Arafat, the enigmatic man who had led the Palestinian people for 40 turbulent years.
The steady stream of people flowing along the road along the muqata wall grew into a torrent at about noon. Their way to the burial site blocked by guards at the gates, youngsters climbed the walls and perched on top, holding on to the barbed wire.
They scaled light and electricity poles, backed vehicles up to the wall and peered over the top. They shoved aside the guard at the iron door to "our" building and came charging up the steps to the roof, overwhelming the television teams who had paid hundreds of dollars a day for the vantage point. They screamed insults at the security guards hired to keep order until armed "shebab", lads, wearing black and white checked head-cloths, drove them back down. But they soon returned, angry and hot, covered in cement dust, determined to take the roof.
Like the old lady from Beitunia, they were absolutely determined to see Yasser Arafat's second ceremonial return to the Palestinian homeland. The first was in 1994, when he came to Gaza and Jericho after the signing of the Oslo and Cairo peace accords. On both occasions he was hours late.
Suddenly the dam of presidential guards broke and a wave of people swept into the muqata and swamped the tarmac near the grave, submerging it in a deep lake of humanity. At that moment the Palestinian people wrecked the leadership's impossible plan for an orderly ceremonial.
The people who loved Mr Arafat, a true man of the people, took charge.
At 2.15 p.m., two light-yellow helicopters bearing the insignia of Egypt came in low, their rotors kicking up a swirling storm of dust and paper, briefly blinding the throng. As the airships sank onto the landing circles, they were greeted with piercing whistles, high-pitched ululations, and a barrage of gunfire which drowned out the brass band and drums assembled on the tarmac.
Yasser Arafat had come home.
The mass in the muqata surged forward, surrounding the two helicopters and pinning the doors shut. The president was, once again, trapped in the muqata where he had been a prisoner of Israel for nearly three years. But this time he was caught by his own people who simply did not want to let him go.
Eventually the presidential guard managed to create a slice of space to the helicopter door, reverse in a jeep and lift in the flag-draped coffin. A spattering of pistol fire came from a "shebab" on the roof above our heads. The jeep waded through the throng, soldiers on its roof passing above the heads of the people clamouring to touch the vehicle and take Abu Ammar's "baraka", blessing.
The coffin was wrenched from the grip of the people for a few moments so a Muslim cleric in turban and dark gown could recite the first verse of the Koran, the Fatiha, over his tired, expired body. He was supposed to rest in state briefly to give diplomats and dignitaries the chance to pay their respects.
But the people reclaimed him and enveloped the presidential guard who conveyed him to his grave. He was lowered into the cement tomb, warmed by the afternoon sun, a slab was put in place and a Palestinian flag and checked Arab head-cloth were laid on top. Soldiers and "shebab" fired into the air, with no regard for people on the ground who could be killed or wounded by stray bullets. Sirens screamed as ambulances carried away injured or faint persons.
Suddenly the leader the Palestinians had relied upon for 40 years was no more. Abruptly the sea of people broke into rivers, streams and rivulets and slipped out of the muqata into the streets, flowing back over the hills to homes in Ramallah and the neighbouring towns of al-Bireh and Kalandia. They hurried home in time for the last evening breakfast of the Muslim fasting month of Ramadan. The mood of the people was neither sombre nor festive. Emotions had been spent on the gates of the muqata which now hang crookedly on broken hinges.
Groups of family and friends walked quietly away, some carrying Palestinian flags, others the black banners of mourning. Few wore black.
Palestinians were at peace with themselves for the moment. They had buried Yasser Arafat on the last Friday of Ramadan and on the eve before the feast which ends the fast. He is doubly blessed, always remembered. A man of the people, the man the people came to the muqata to greet and give to God.