"The Purblind Peevishness of Polyphemus..."
...isn't a phrase you come across very often, but that's what happens when you give writers like Wole Soyinka a few free drinks. (By Polyphemus, he means Israel, by the way.)
Now, see if you can make it all the way to end of this:
Arafat! Arafat! Arafat! Long before there was the likelihood of my venturing near the cave of Polyphemus, I had found myself shaken to the foundations of reason that anyone with the slightest intelligence, with even a minimal grasp of the psychology of humiliation and desperation, could exhibit such inanity as to imagine that within the context of the Middle East conflict, any one individual, no matter how highly respected by his followers, how sacrosant his authority, could control a form of action that stemmed out of both collective and individual desperation and trauma.