TUNIS, Ramadan.

WHEN Yasser Arafat left Beirut in 1982, he was not spoiled for choice

for a new base for his revolution. After the experience of Jordan and

Lebanon, few of his Arab brethren were ready to take the Palestinian

cuckoo into their nest.

Tunisia -- almost as far as it is possible to be from Palestine and

still be in the Arab world -- was the only country ready to accept him,

without attempting to usurp his leadership. Though grateful, the

Palestinians are out of sorts here. The locals seem to speak and eat

French more than Arabic; and the longing for Palestine, a country many

of the exiles have never seen, now is compounded by a pining for lost

Lebanon -- its sounds, smells, and excitements.

While in many ways Arafat today lives in reduced circumstances, no

battle-hardened army at his command, no departments of state beneath him

or civil society around him, no territory in which his writ can run; in

other ways he has made the leap from mere guerrilla leader to President

of the self-proclaimed ''state'' of Palestine -- which is recognised by

more countries around the world than Israel.

In the last 10 days, he has been received with state honours by the

Pope and the President of Italy, and by the new darling of eastern

Europe, Vaclar Havel, President of Czechoslovakia.

His officials now sit down with the US State Department (remember

Secretary of State Brzerzinski at Camp David -- ''Bye-bye PLO'') to plan

how to push Israel out of impasse and in to peace talks in Cairo. In

Palestine, his unarmed child-army ties down the bulk of the Israel

Defence Force and has forced the worst Government crisis in Israel's

history.

Thus it is in Tunis that I, an old friend of the President, and my

companions, who include a Glasgow councillor bearing silver plate from

the Lord Provost and a leading businessman from Glasgow's Pakistani

community, settle down to await the President's call.

As around us joyful adherents celebrate 7.15pm by breaking their

day-long Ramadan fast, I prepare my colleagues for a long wait. Arafat

rarely sleeps; never in the same place he slept the time before, and

usually during the day. His nights are hard work. The buck, and for that

matter the bucks, begin and end with him.

At nearly 1am, as my colleagues' hopes for an audience plummet, a fast

car and breathless driver arrive with the news that now is the hour.

Within minutes, we are in a large, darkened villa among a throng of

heavily-armed youths.

In the presidential anteroom, a Harvard-educated Palestinian woman is

glued to the television, taking notes of congressional and international

stories on Cable Network News from New York. Well-suited men -- with

machine-guns -- politely apologise for the presidential delay. Then, in

a trice, it is straight into the familiarly stubbly embrace of the

President of Palestine.

My companions are startled by how small he is. Standing in his

olive-green fatigues, but without his once-notorious black and white

chequered keffiyah, he is only a little over five feet tall.

Certainly, as he sits, smiling shyly as I make the introductions,

there is a soft, bird-like quality about him. But before long, despite

his day, he is back in overdrive. The famous left forefinger stiffens

and jabs home his points. He (correctly) predicts that the theocratic

farce in Jerusalem will scupper Mr Peres' attempt to reach 61 Knesset

votes and form a government.

''In any case,'' says Arafat, ''at least 70 votes will be required to

form a stable peace government in Israel.''

New elections, which would not happen until the autumn, or another

paralysed ''national unity coalition'' would be ''a disaster for

everyone'', he said.

The Pakistani, a great benefactor to Palestinian charities and now

trading with the occupied territories, wishes to raise a different

problem -- that of Kashmir.

His co-religionists are worried he tells the President, by his

reported comment in India last month, that ''Kashmir is an integral part

of India''. The comment, says the Pakistani, has caused great offence

and is hitting his fund-raising. The President effortlessly changes

gear. ''Do you think me so unintelligent that I would say this?''

implores Arafat. ''I want to mediate with this problem, not exacerbate

it!'' he barks.

The Pakistani looks sheepish as Arafat launches into the minute

details of the Kashmiri dispute. The Pakistani tries to intervene to say

he's satisfied, but there's no stopping the President.

''I have a particular responsibility to help solve this problem,'' he

says. ''I must help my young niece, Miss Bhutto.''

The Pakistani looks surprised. ''Yes,'' says Arafat, ''she is the

daughter of my brother, the martyr, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto.''

The Pakistani raises his hands in surrender, but the President ploughs

on: ''There are circles which are trying to push Miss Bhutto into war

with India. This would be a complete disaster, for the area, and for my

brother's daughter.''

Of course, by the end of this tutorial, the President has neither

broken with India or Pakistan, or even the Kashmiri separatists! But

this is the point. This man is a high-wire act without pole or net, of

consummate skill, and he always performs before a big top full of

enemies.

There is a joke about Arafat which helps explain why, after nearly 25

years in power, he shows no signs of falling. In the joke, Arafat and a

member of the PLO executive go to Mecca for the pilgrimage. They join

the million people navigating the huge black Ka'aba, the object of their

devotions. At a point in the circumference, the devotees must bend to

pick up an imaginary stone and cast it at the devil. Arafat's colleague

notices that this is the only part of the ritual which the President

fails to perform. Afterwards he asks him why?

''At this difficult time for our struggle,'' replies Arafat, ''I am

not prepared to break off relations with anyone.''

By this time, our meeting has been interrupted by hard-boiled eggs and

black tea -- midnight feasting is a regular vice of the President,

Ramadan or not. Arafat, noticing neither clock nor flagging audience, is

just getting into his stride, his mountain of paperwork abandoned for

now.

''Tell me about this poll tax which is causing so much trouble in your

country,'' he asks. As I describe its henious iniquity, he shakes his

head, almost in disbelief; though that, too, may have been diplomatic --

he was reluctant to cast a stone at Mrs Thatcher either!

He seemed reluctant to take my word for it that Neil Kinnock would

soon take her place in Downing Street; and he doesn't place too much

store by opinion polls either. ''I saw Madame Thatcher in Parliament on

television the other day,'' he said, revealing himself as perhaps the

world's least likely fan of the live Prime Minister's Question Time.

''She still looks very tough.''

At last, he asks the time, anxious not to miss the dawn resumption of

the fast. It is almost 4am as we hug goodbye. The Harvard girl has gone

home, a new shift of Rockys wait to usher us into the morning. The

president is about to return to his papers. As the door opens into the

dawn, the chill North African wind makes him shiver. ''I seldom now see

the sun,'' he confides.

As we walk away, the Pakistani asks Allah in the morning sky to return

the President soon to his own land where the Palestinian sunshine can

warm his bones.

* George Galloway, MP, is vice-chairman, Parliamentary Labour Party,

Foreign Affairs Committee.