Today started off early: 7.30am we met at the United Palestinian Medical Relief Committees (UPMRC) centre just past the demolished Mukhata (Prison and Palestinian police authority building) to discuss participation in a demonstration in Ramallah. The demo was organised by some GIPP (Grassroots International Protection for Palestinian People) and (ISM) International Solidarity Movement activists, with the intention of resisting the actions of the Israeli State, once again besieging Yasser Arafat's compound.

The information we are given is this: the situation is critical. Over 200 people are trapped inside the structurally weak building (literally wobbling claim those inside, after adjacent buildings were exploded and bulldozed by the Israeli army, compromising the compound's foundations). The bridge between it and the Mosque - upon which my friend Dave* slept when he managed to bust his way in the last time it was surrounded in April - has been blown up. All water has been cut off and people suffering from diabetes and heart conditions are running out of medicine.

A small affinity group action attempted to get cigarettes, water, food, and medicine in yesterday. No dice. The group managed to take about 15 steps before being apprehended by 6 soldiers, served an immediate exclusion order (official white letter, opened up quick by the commander in front of our faces) and told to leave the area immediately. The army bulldozer, a vast, metal shack on a clanging tread-belt, worked busily away, piling rubble, shifting dust spewing debris. A psychological noise trick. No further bulldozing had been reported to be taking place. The group was then pursued by approximately 10 soldiers and 4 army police jeeps, and forced to bound over rocks and walls and through people's gardens to escape potential arrest.

The night brought with it mass spontaneous demonstrations up and down the West Bank and Gaza. Mosques rang out with the call to collectivity, a defiance of curfew and combativity against the escalation of repression by the Israeli state. Many non-Arafat supporters and outright PA rejecters joined PA loyalists in the streets.

A distinction needs to be asserted between those who genuinely support the stalwart leader and the many many which see him as a thief, a sell-out, class traitor, colluder with the Israeli state (the arrest of Ahmad Sadaat, PFLP leader, (the PFLP being the only organisation carrying out targeted assassinations, fash Israeli Tourism Minister Zeivi being the most famous recent example; hijacking planes in the 60 and 70's with gun-girl pin-up Leila Khaled, past examples), and regular insurrection thwarter (Tel At Azar 1968 - autonomous Palestinian and Lebanese reclamation of the area free from state forces - army and police).

Army jeeps were attacked, rocks out-flying bullets on the West Bank, while fighters armed to the teeth with Kalashnikovs and machine guns took to the streets in Gaza. A 17-year-old boy was shot dead in Balata refugee camp, Nablus, 2 in Ramallah, and one in Tulkarem.

Many saw the much-publicised support of Arafat by international volunteers in April as damaging for the reputation of the ISM. Whilst the world's media was focused/diverted to 'Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves' as he is popularly referred to, massacres were taking place in Jenin and Nablus. People who spent over 2 weeks in the compound reported an abundance of food for Arafat and his men, on the top floors, and scarcity for the 200 people cloistered below. The head of the CIA's Middle East operations division visited the leader within the first few days of the siege. Deals were being brokered, fates decided, all behind closed doors, all adding more strings to the puppet state the PA is.

All the while, support for the victimised Arafat swelled. I found the whole Ramallah situation this time round like a nest of vipers. I have never had such an uneasy, Wrong, Get The Fuck Out Of Here feeling in my entire life. It wasn't fear. I had spent the previous night running through the streets of Al Shajaeje in Gaza responding to news of 9 tanks heading in from Eretz crossing. I and two friends from back in London had grabbed a cab which stopped on the way to pick up a man from a street corner. He got in and smiled, nestled a Kalashnikov between his legs and searched for his cigarettes.

'Salaam Aleikum' I said to him (peace be upon you - standard Arabic greeting, you say it to everyone). 'Aleikum Salaam,' he responded (Upon you be peace). 'I think we're going to the same place' I said, grinning. Smiles came back. When we got as close up as was safe, the streets were full of fighters, clumped together, stood under streetlamps, waiting in doorways, 2s, 4s and 6s, some with heads wrapped up in hamas scarves, others with faces swathed in black, eyes front, some with balaclavas, some in combat gear, and some just casual in tracksuit bottoms and t-shirts. Some had Kalashnikovs, others M16s and grenade launchers on their backs.

The atmosphere was expectant. Ready. An apache chopper was thudding in the sky. We saw red laser guided tank fire on the Fateh HQ, a burned out restaurant and workshop, heard explosions, saw Hamas fighters exchange fire with IDF, and kids, fathers, locals, in long day-robes, rubber sandals, were all out in the streets, waiting for the tanks just Try It, shouting encouragement to the fighters, peeking round corners to see what could happen next.

At one point there was a blackout. The streets plunged into darkness. Emergency lights sparked up in the windows of odd buildings here and there. We could hear loud bangs. Hails of bullets. Fire all over the city. Three tanks were exploded that night. One near us, one in the north and one in the south. Allegedly. One definitely got it for sure. The locals wrap barrel bombs round lamp-posts, hence the many bullet riddled oil drums and barrels we always see. If a tank rides into one of those. Curtains.

A man and woman were killed that night. Many more were injured, including a pregnant woman. What I felt in Ramallah wasn't fear. It was just a Get Out wrong wrong feeling. Like there was manipulation there so big it would dwarf you senseless. I got out and didn't look back. Later in the streets of Asakar people told me it was about time the old Dog was shifted. People repeatedly referred to it as Massara - 'theatre' the Big theatre. People speculated that there was enough supplies (medical and food) in there, especially after last time, to last them years.

It suits the Palestinian Authority to have a victimised leader and its security apparatus in crisis; the Israeli state has continually played the victim to mask its daily humiliations of the Palestinian people. The Palestinian 'state', especially the projected new state, estimated to be ready by 2005 under the Denmark Plan which stipulates there must be a thorough restructuring of the PA security apparatus, will do the same. Its job will be to thwart any grassroots attempts to secure real autonomy for Palestinian people, revolutionary change in state structure, i.e. the elimination of the PA as it is, and will suppress all action which could spark a global intifada - the only real hope anybody has for genuine autonomy.

This will be done by using maximum force, supported by Israel and the US to eliminate all threats to its authority. Most militant autonomous activists and prominent PA critics so far have been killed, jailed or deported to Gaza. It's no small statement which I heard an activist in Askar tell me ' The worst thing that ever happened to us wasn't the Nakba (catastrophe) of 1948 (the creation of the State of Israel) or the invasion of 1967, it was the establishment of the PA. Because now, we have two enemies'.

Our meeting finishes unresolved. The blocking of the roads to Ramallah

and the redefinition of Nablus as a 'Closed Military Zone' renders us pretty much trapped in Nablus. The light-aircraft din of a tank and APC vrooming past the UPMRC sees me, Hanneen (stunning and feisty Palestinian/German girl here visiting family and doing volunteer work), Al (pragmatic, cool-headed Welshman from the UK anarcho scene) and Carol (no-shit taking or talking American woman with Polish Gypsy blood), get up and make our way into the Old City to see what's happening.

We were accompanied by Baha. Baha is an energetic, vibrant local kid, 14 years-old, with twinkly green eyes. He's wearing his usual green and black stripy cotton polo t-shirt, tucked into his jeans. He really reminds me of my friend Tamsin's boy, Travis, who's half Jamaican, with dimple cheeks, one of those insightful kids that can smell bullshit from a mile. Baha's always all 'mush mushkele - No Problems', and capable as an adult, looking after international activists staying in the old city by doubling up as guide and mediator between hostile kids and us.

He takes time out to explain who we are and why we're in their town when our governments are funding the occupation. He's always accompanying activists on their wanders round the city. Lisa, an ISM activist from up North first met him 6 weeks ago when she was being sexually harassed by a youth on the darkened stairway of the internet cafe building. She'd been really really scared. Baha drove the offending creep away. She'd called him her 'guardian angel' ever since.

We made friends the first time I came to a do some checkpoint monitoring opposite the Mukhata. The shebab (yoof) were doing the usual - luzzing stones at the soldiers, waving the odd raggedy Palestinian flag, stomping on a torn Israeli flag. The soldiers were shooting back teargas, live ammo, growling up the tank. I ran down to join the kids. He was there with the best of them, rock after rock - thunk, hurl, thunk - most of the stones just cracked on the road, nowhere near the tank, uphill as it was, but its the frustration release and attack that counts.

One kid handed me a rock, and said 'go on go on!', I couldn’t resist, picked up a big one and hurled. It went nowhere near, the soldiers wouldn't even have seen it, their vision was obscured by a clump of trees. Instant kudos with the kids. They leapt about happily and gave me their open palms to slap. Especially Baha. He was really surprised but really happy. After that he was always calling my name and waving with a great big grin 'Aeva! Aeva! Haow arr you!?

So we go out on the tank-hunt, Baha in tow. It's the usual. The APC and tank out on curfew patrol. We stay back at a street corner on our way into the old city, next to the wrecked bus (engine scalped, windows smashed). The old city is a warren of sandy big-rocked houses, archways, and piles of rubble (bulldozed ex-homes, factories, workshops) some from last month, some left over from the April incursion. The April attack saw 25,000 soldiers, approx. 400 tanks, an unknown quantity of APCs and multiple apache rocket-fire hit the city and surrounding camps.

The 4th strongest army on the planet doesn't fuck about when it goes in for the kill. 87 Nablus residents were slaughtered within 4 days. Over 200 people were used as human shields. Back to the present...

The APC soldier gets on his phone. We think he might be calling the military Plod. Nablus was declared a closed military zone about an hour ago. We could be nicked and dumped in Tel Aviv or deported. Whatever. We stay put. Kids pelt the APC with stones, a couple, chucked over from behind the safety of a wall, clop the soldier on the top. He responds with a round of live ammo. Bullets ping off the wrecked bus. No casualties.

The kids move off down the street leading into the old city, stones in hands. We follow. The tank and APC rumble along up on a higher road, the streets below still visible to them. The tank stops at the top of the street up ahead which leads down to the old city. Kids throw and throw, from round the corner. The tank is about 80 metres up. The stones barely make it. Shots ring out. Noone's hit.

A family wants to cross the road, right in front of the tank's line of fire. They're in a hurry and looking fraught, mother, father, and four kids. Al thinks it's way too risky with all the stone-throwing kids about. But Baha helps them across. We rush up to be in front of him and them at once. Baha's brave, just goes straight across, head-on, by their sides, defiant. Nothing happens. Baha then shows us up a dusty flight of slab steps. He knows the city like the back of his hand. In the aftermath of the April incursion he was one of the most plucky volunteers, clearing rubble, running around, helping the sick. He had wished he could have had been in Jenin too, his mother will tell us, later.

We make our way down the street to where we expect the APC and Tank to be. It's empty. A few kids are moseying about, the odd stick or stone in their hands. But it seems like they've rumbled off. Just curfew enforcement we think. No big deal. Later we'll find out that its illegal for the Israel Army to use anything stronger than teargas to enforce curfew. Definitely not live ammo. They do what they want anyway though. The entire occupation is illegal under the Oslo Accords, the Geneva Conventions, multiple United Nations directives etc etc etc.

We sit on the Kerb for a bit. Where to? Internet cafe? UPMRC? Checkpoint watch? We get a call from people at the UPMRC. The tank and APC are outside. We decide to just check out what they're doing and after that Haneen's going back to her aunt's in Balata. As we make our way down the road we hear the sound of the two vehicles whirring towards us. We get to the side of the road. I'm in front, Carol a bit behind, Haneen behind a bit and Al and Baha at the back.

The tank veers into view and then turns down a side street, 120 metres or so away. The APC looks like its going to turn but shudders to a halt. It's blazing hot, the sun's burning down. The street is clear at this point. Nothing is being thrown. The APC's too far away, the road is long, no hiding places, bad vantage point to throw from. Kids loiter to the sides, not far from the burned out bus, out of sight.

I see the soldier in the APC take aim. I think it's with his M16 but it could be the mounted gun. I'm not afraid. Tanks and APCs always look like they’re aiming at you here. Guns are constantly being pointed at Palestinians in the territories - at their backs, in their faces, up at their windows, from the middle of the street, from the mountains. A shot rings out, whizzes straight past me. I feel the air rush and duck down instinctively.

'FUCK that was so close', I say, turning round. Al is looking about, 'Okay, is everyone alright' he says. 'Is...Oh my God, Oh-oh My God'. Baha is lying on his back in the porchway of a closed shop. Blood is blooming from the right side of his chest. His eyes are bulged back in shock. Al is immediately beside him holding his shoulder, Haneen is by his other side, holding his hand. A Palestinian man is instantly above him, administering CPR, pumping his chest with short sharp thrusts of his crossed hands.

'It's his arm', says Al, 'No it's not it's his chest', says Haneen. The Palestinian man quickly 'corrects' her, 'no no, it's not it's not'. He knows Baha can still hear him. Blood is welling up in Baha’s mouth, flowing freely, it streams fast from his nose, his ear. 'Turn his head, turn his head, he's going to choke' I yell.

It's too late though. We all know. I’m on the phone, calling an ambulance, along with several other local people who have all come out. There's a crowd around Baha. I talk desperately, in English and way too fast to the operator, he can't understand me, I have to hand the phone to someone else. Everything just seems to slide.

Within about a minute an ambulance is on the scene. Medics lift Baha up swiftly and take him away. A thick pool of blood is left behind. I never knew blood was so thick. Haneen's hand and sandals are covered in Baha's blood.

Aftermath. The examining doctor at El Ethad Hospital in Nablus said the following about Baha's killing: "...shot under the axila passed through the left lung to right lung and heart. There was an accumulation of blood in thorax cavity. Died of Haemo-Thorax. X-Ray showed multiple fragments in chest. Main injuries in left lung and the heart." He said that the location of the shot in the upper torso and massive internal damage caused by the "dum-dum" bullet was consistent with an intentional kill. Dum-dums explode and fragment on impact, a bit like landmines, causing maximum multiple injuries.

The Israeli army initially stated that Baha was carrying a bomb at the time of his assassination. This is not true. It does however prove that the shot was fired to kill, not to stun or frighten but to kill. The statement then changed to accuse Baha of carrying a Molotov cocktail. This was supposed to have exploded in his hand. Setting him on fire and killing him.

'It was his fault'. This is what the IDF said about the boy they shot in the head in Balata the night before. 17-years-old. He died when the ambulance carrying him was refused entry through a checkpoint to the hospital. A double killing. They said he killed himself, shot himself. This is a common statement released after the Army murders people here. All armies and police do it. Blame and demonise the victim. It's a pattern consistent with the murder of hundreds of people in police custody in the UK too. 'They were mad, they were drug addicts, uncontrollable, suicidal'. Here, it's because 'they're terrorists'. 328 children have been murdered by the Israeli army or armed settlers (the Israeli State's bought-off reserve force) since September 2000.

The next day I went to Israel, to the pristine air-conditioned studios of Canal 2 in Jerusalem. They put make-up on my face, sat me down in front of a sleek-haired news presenter and I told the story. Don't know how they translated me but there appeared to be sympathies. 'I don't know what goes through their heads', the presenter had said afterwards. Did 2 radio interviews. Stony faces. Brusque technique. 'Very convincing' said the Radio 4 interviewer. Heard it went well. Told and retold the story, told and retold the story. To United Press, The Guardian, The Scotsman, The Telegraph, B'Tselem, the Palestine Monitor, my sister, friends, countless friends, the Bushkar Family, it never got easier.

Yesterday we went to see Baha's mother and father. It was somewhere in the old city. We went into a big carpeted, ornate looking room, plusher than the grieving room I walked into in Tubas, when the IDF rocket-attacked and killed five children. Baha's father was a trim looking man, white crocheted round cap on his head. His eyes were wide, too wide.

'Ham Du Allah (said Hamdulullah) Ham Du Allah' he said, smiling when he greeted us. He shook my hand warmly, up and down, up and down, all the while 'Ham Du Allah'. It means Praise be to God, Thanks be to God. Baha was with his God, he was in heaven. He kept saying it, even when we sat down. Dates were passed down, we all, the three of us who were there with Baha when he died (Haneen we couldn't get hold of but went later) just stared straight ahead. He spoke, translated through Hussein, a close close friend of Baha, of how much Baha loved to help the International volunteers and how happy he was, how much he loved Lisa.

We then went to where his mother was. She was sat in a room full of other female relatives. She was wearing black, a long black dress and Hejab. Her face welcomed us. The room was full. The first question she asked us was hard for her, full of doubt but quietly, almost urgently asked, 'Was Baha carrying anything? Was he? Did he really have this bomb or something?' She was confused. No. We explained. She nodded, firm mouthed but her eyes still full of pain.

Al began to explain what actually happened. Right from the beginning, from when we all left the UPMRC that day. When he got to the part about Baha helping the family across the road in front of the tank, she covered her face with her hands and let out a long low moan, which turned into a sob and more sobs and tears. 'Habibti, Habibti' she kept saying, crying, 'My love, my love'. She cried and cried, cried harder when Al told her how we all came to know Baha, when he met Lisa on the stairs of the internet cafe. An older relative began to chastise her. 'Stop, enough, stop your crying, he is with God, he is in a better place, he is with God, he is safe, take heart, enough'.

When we leave, she shakes our hands, absent, his father shakes our hands, he's still got that same wide eyed energy, the kind that comes from shock and grief, the riding of the shockwave that is sudden, torn away from you death, and which you crash through at some point, privately. 'HamDullAllah, HamDullAllah'.