Cat And Mouse in the Casbah

By Jon D. Hull/Nablus

The children sound the alarm. "Soldiers!" cries a 13-year-old girl, peeking out the window of the dank second-story apartment. As she hides a framed picture of a "martyred" relative, wrapped in the outlawed Palestinian flag, three young men dash out the back door and flee down the narrow alleyway. When the Israeli soldiers hurl a stone through the open window, two middle-aged women cower on the bed, rocking back and forth in terror. "God help us," pleads Umm Hamada, 45, desperately rubbing her hands together.

But the soldiers strike next door, ransacking the home of Rehab Abu Asab, 50. One of her four children is among the hundreds of Palestinians on the army's wanted list. "They've done this 14 times," she mutters. "Only God can stop them."

The young men of the Casbah think differently. Each day they play a deadly game of cat and mouse with the Israeli patrols, attacking with rocks and Molotov cocktails -- and succumbing to the army's return fire of bullets and rubber-coated metal balls. In a single day the same filthy streets may be "liberated" and reoccupied a dozen times.

The Casbah (pop. 22,000) lies in the heart of Nablus, the largest Arab city in the West Bank. After two years of revolt, the ancient and impoverished community has won distinction as the most dangerous turf in the occupied territories. The dense, mazelike architecture gives the Palestinians a home- court advantage, enabling the young shabab (activists) to vanish down secret passageways or disappear over rooftops. Nervous soldiers respond with trigger-happy brutality. The consequences: at least 23 residents have been killed by Israeli troops, and more than 1,000 wounded. Internecine bloodshed has claimed an additional 18 Arabs accused of collaborating with the Israelis. Israelis feel no safer. One soldier died when a concrete block was dropped on his head.

Despite the lopsided statistics, the shabab boast of their accomplishments. "We've finally made the Israelis afraid of us," says an activist named Jamal, 21. His boyish face bespeaks both pride and intense anxiety. "You only die once," he says with some relief. Only once, like his friend Nadir Tayseer Abu Yasin, 14, who was "martyred" two days earlier. Jamal pulls out a photo of the dead boy taken moments after the shooting. "This is our fate."

In the packed vegetable market, hurried transactions are interrupted by rumors of arrests and raids. By 11 a.m., the shops are shuttered and the shabab take over, attacking and evading soldiers. Five toughs from a Palestinian gang called the Black Panthers swagger down the street only two blocks from an Israeli foot patrol. "We're running our own state here," says a young "enforcer" as he demands identification from strangers. Two days earlier, the Panthers dragged Naima Ja'ara, 35, from her house and shot her in the head for allegedly collaborating with the Israelis.

By dusk the streets are deserted. "Anyone who goes out at night may be shot on sight," says Abdel Nasser, 24. "We sit and think only of revenge." In a nearby hideout, Jamal and fellow activists gather to chain smoke, play cards and mythologize their suffering. When the claustrophobia becomes unbearable, they sneak up to the rooftop to stare at the stars and the sweeping spotlights from Israeli patrols. Says Bassem, 29, who has been on the run for a year: "I'm expecting one of two things: either prison or death in an ambush."

The shabab are back on the streets by 6 in the morning, reclaiming their territory and gathering information. The news leaves them visibly shaken: Israeli soldiers stormed Abdel Nasser's house at 1:30 a.m. and hauled him off for interrogation. Seventeen other Palestinians were also arrested. "There is no escape from this nightmare," says Jamal, recalling his own time behind bars. "One night I even dreamed the soldiers had come and taken me away to prison." He awoke to the sound of soldiers bursting through the door.

With reporting by Jamil Hamad/Nablus