Remembering King Hussein

The headlines on the Israeli papers Friday--the thick, multi-sectioned equivalent of the Sunday ritual back home--had tabloid fronts of the king in his kaffeyiah, the red-and-white checkers falling over the fold, and a young Jordanian boy kissing this official portrait on the streets of Amman. In the moments before the news blackout that is Shabbat here, the prime minister's office said all Israel wished well for the royal family; on Saturday, many synagogues included the king's name in the prayers for the sick. Sunday, when the king died, Israel was one of the first countries to express its grief and announce who would attend the funeral in Amman.

Hussein's death, at age 65 from chronic cancer, came quickly: The image of the king's triumphant return three weeks ago, piloting his own plane, was in stark contrast to the gold-painted ambulance making a slow left turn as it took the king from the Mayo clinic Thursday, returning to his country unconscious and on life support, his body in a state of deterioration following a unsuccessful bone marrow transplant and liver and kidney failure. By Friday, the Israeli radio stations announced "Hussein is clinically dead." The king had returned to his land and its people, but only to die.

Now Prince Abdullah, made successor three weeks ago, is on the Jordanian throne. The abrupt dismissal of Hassan as crown prince did not elicit too much surprise in Israel. Abdullah has his father's politics and his father's support among the key factions of Jordanian society: the Beduoin tribe that hold the commanding posts in the military. But the predicted success and stability for the reign of the next Hashemite king was only a side-bar to the real feelings on both sides of the Jordan River this weekend: how to say goodbye to an ally who became a trusted leader and a friend to three peoples--Jordanian, Palestinian and Israeli.

It is very easy to overestimate the distance from Jerusalem to Amman today, but at the time of Israeli independence, the apartment where I sit was a field behind an Arab villa. Jerusalem was a city of Jordan, and King Hussein was at his grandfather's side when the first King Abdullah was assassinated here in 1951. King Hussein personally financed the renovation of the Dome of the Rock and the demolition of the Jewish quarter, and before the Six-Day War in 1967, Amman seemed a world away from Israel politically. The distance and the military controls continued through the Gulf War, when Jordan chose to side with Iraq; only in the messy political aftermath of that decision--and when the dreams of the Pales-tinians came a step closer to reality at Oslo--could King Hussein turn to Israel and to the West to try again.

The success King Hussein had as a force for peace in the past five years was remarkable; in failing health, the signing of a 1994 treaty with Yitzhak Rabin and his quiet hand behind both the Palestinians and the Israelis at the Wye River accord--his frail hand the crucial fourth at the signing table--showed a resolve to not let past mistakes prevent future triumph. "Our king," Clinton called him at a prayer breakfast Thursday, which must always seem a strange phrase out an American president's mouth. Yet Clinton was right that he was our king: In the past decade, Hussein has been essential to the processes of peace and development by engaging in the Middle East compromise rituals of threats, compliments, secrets and strongly brewed coffee. His ability to show emotion and take courageous steps toward a finally peaceful Middle East.

In 1992, I stood with my parents in Jericho and looked out at the Allenby Bridge crossing, wondering if I could ever go see the wonders on the other side of the unassuming Jordan river: the Roman city at Jaresh, the Biblical Har Nevo in the Gilad Mountains, the unspeakable wonders of Petra. Now, I know dozens of friends who have traveled this now-trendy tourist route from Israel to Jordan and hope to spend my spring break sleeping nights on the East Bank.

My sense of security as a tourist, of course, is compared to the reaction of Israelis whose children died fighting Jordan in three wars: They too feel safe in Petra and Jaresh, and flock to the novelty of a secure Arab metropolis in Amman. King Hussein is especially beloved here for his emotional speech at the death of his friend and colleague Yitzhak Rabin and, in an occasion less well known outside Israel, his visit to comfort the families of seven Israeli schoolchildren killed by a Jordanian soldier. King Hussein joined the families on the floor, as is the traditional Jewish mourning custom. And today, it is Israel's turn to comfort their brethren in Jordan.

Friday morning the distance from Jerusalem to Amman was even shorter, as the high winds swept away the clouds. In the chilly sunlight, the heights of the mountains where Amman is nestled could be seen clearly over the plain of the West Bank, and just to the south, the salty waters of the Dead Sea reflected the light of the mild winter day. And that morning, the Hashemite king had returned to die.

Outside the medical complex, his family was mobbed by the Jordanian people, wishing them health and comforting them. Thousands stood outside in the rain over the weekend, praying for the king and holding giant paintings of their leader, who spent 47 years on the throne. Maybe these outpourings of grief come as no surprise, but the echo here in Israel--the way people have gathered around radios to hear the developments, the statements of sympathy the politicians have made--reflects an uncommon respect among the Israeli people for this former enemy who had become a dear friend. King Hussein demonstrated that at least for a little while, the lines in the sand are just that.

Adam I. Arenson '00-'01 is an history and literature concentrator in Lowell House. He is studying this year in Jerusalem.