For the last three decades Yasser Arafat has been the symbol of Palestinian independence. As the situation in the Middle East hovers on the brink of a new crisis, Northern Echo journalist Paul Willis recalls his encounter with the Palestinian leader.

IT was a little over a year ago, 18 months into the Israeli-enforced house arrest which came to a end last week when the ailing leader was flown to Paris. It was only for a few minutes and I glimpsed him through a crowd of waving Palestinians, but it left a very powerful memory.

I went to Ramallah from Jerusalem, a journey of no more than 20 minutes as the crow flies but one that is complicated by the presence of Israeli army checkpoints en route.

For foreigners the checkpoint poses few problems. Ramallah, unlike many West Bank towns and the entire Gaza Strip, is not cut off to foreigners. However it's a different story if you're Palestinian.

As I flashed my passport and was immediately waved through at gunpoint, Palestinians stood waiting patiently, albeit with suppressed anger, at the whim of the young Israeli army officer on duty.

Sometimes they wait half an hour or sometimes they wait all day - just to be told they aren't being let through at all.

It was when I first saw this spectacle that I realised just how important Yasser Arafat was for the Palestinians.

Reviled and hated by Israelis as a sponsor of terrorism and cut off from the peace process by the US for his failure to rein in the suicide bombers, Arafat has always been a hero among ordinary Palestinians. Although there have been doubts about his leadership among those high up in the Palestinian Authority, for the man on the street those doubts hardly figure.

All the Palestinians I met in my time in the Occupied Territories were unanimous in their support for him. They love him as much for what he represents as for what he has done, which, in reality, has been precious little in his last few years in power.

Throughout his life he has been a symbol of resistance, a powerful voice that told them never to give up whatever was thrown at them.

His compound in Ramallah illustrated better than anything else that spirit of resistance. So much so in fact that it looks set to become the old man's final resting place after the Israelis ruled out letting him be buried in Jerusalem.

Ramallah is a dusty, bustling centre at the heart of the West Bank. It is a world away from the affluence of nearby Jerusalem. Arafat's sandbagged compound, known as the Muqata, is just on the edge of town.

As I approached it, I thought perhaps the taxi driver was playing some kind of bad joke. Surely this crumbling heap of mangled metal and rubble couldn't be the home of the leader of Palestine?

Two tinpot "soldiers" armed with rusty-looking machine guns stood in a rickety wooden pill box. I told them I wanted to see Arafat and they waved me through without hesitation. Inside the compound it looked more like a junk yard.

At the back of the compound cars from the presidential cavalcade were piled up on top of one another, destroyed by the Israeli tanks. A crowd had gathered outside made up largely of volatile young Palestinians, who held up pictures of Arafat and danced and chanted for the assembled world media.

I asked someone if the presence of the crowd meant Arafat was going to make an appearance, but they told me the crowd was always there, swelling in numbers if rumour got round the Israelis were threatening his life.

However I was told I was lucky because a delegation of pro-Palestinian Israeli MPs was visiting him, so it was highly likely Abu Ammar - as Arafat is known among his own people - would show his face.

A prisoner in his own home, by this time Arafat's public appearances were reduced to a few snatched minutes at an upstairs window.

By the time the frail old man in the chequered headscarf flashed into view overhead the crowd was frenetic. Wild-eyed young men chanted in unison while Arafat smiled and blew kisses to the crowd. I had time to snap a few pictures of him and of the crowd's jubilant reaction and then he was gone.

After leaving Arafat's compound I went to meet Munir Quazzaz, a lecturer from the nearby University of Birzeit.

From his flat in Ramallah he showed me a checkpoint he crossed every day to go to work and described the daily humiliation of queuing at the barrier. He told me he could leave and come and work in England if he wanted to, so I asked him why he didn't.

'This is my home, these are my people," he said. "Every day is difficult, but we have a duty to stay and help them."

When the dust has settled on the Middle East conflict, and it may not be for a long time yet, there is no doubt Yasser Arafat will go down as one of the true political icons of the 20th century.

Like the image of the young Che Guevara in his beret, Arafat in his headscarf and military fatigues is an enduring symbol of armed resistance or terrorist aggression, depending which side of the fence you're on.

There are many who question the Palestinian people's fanatical love for Arafat, just as many people around the world find the overwhelming public support inside Israel for Ariel Sharon's hardline policies totally baffling.

But just as Israelis would point to the cruelty of suicide bombings as proof of the need for strong leadership, so I would defy anyone to spend more than a few hours in the poverty-stricken West Bank among the rubble and dirt and the dehumanising checkpoints, and then try to deny the people there their leader.

While the international community, including most of the Arab world, has barely lifted a finger to help the Palestinians, Arafat fought for his people.

It can only be hoped now that, in the political upheaval that is sure to follow Arafat's death, a path towards some kind of future settlement in the Middle East can be forged.

And though it may be many years off, it is essential the rest of the world doesn't abandon the search for a peace that has never seemed possible during Arafat's life.