Seven Days, One Never-Ending Night

April 5
Moaid's call wakes me up. He's excited. "We have planted home-made landmines at the entrance to Al Yasmina (the old city's biggest neighbourhood). Let's see them send in ground troops," he chuckles, promising to give me a tinkle in the evening.

His optimism is incredible. I double-check with Nasser Jomah, a Fatah activist. Qasba's staple is hope. "Everything is going perfectly," he confirms, "There are 150 fighters. Assisting them are 80 Palestine Authority policemen. Moaid is a terrific leader. He's from the old city and knows it well."

At 7 pm, a deafening explosion reverberates through the city. Moaid hasn't called yet. I dial his cell number. An unfamiliar voice responds, "Moaid is dead. He was killed at the entrance to Al Yasmina. We'll avenge the death of our hero."

There's more bad news. The commander of the Fatah military unit of Nablus, Nasser Owis, is also dead. I knew him well. Though he had never parted with his mobile number, he'd often send me videotapes of suicide bombers. I was told Nasser died when the explosive belt he was wearing detonated accidentally.

I'm numbed, I ache inexorably. The cell rings: it's Moaid's girlfriend, Samah. I've never met or talked to her. Moaid gave her the number for emergencies. "Is there any news about Moaid?" she asks, sniffling. I lie to her. "They say he's dead," Samah continues, "You are a journalist, you'd know, won't you," she says hopefully. "Moaid always says he'll never die because he loves me."

I couldn't hold myself back. I start weeping. Samah is wailing. We just hear each other crying inconsolably.

Let's face it, the tide has turned against us.

April 6
Khalid Abu Aker calls me up. He works for a French TV channel, whose crew has entered Nablus today. "But we are confined to our hotel. It's just too risky to venture out, they are shelling indiscriminately," he says.

In this gloom there's a reason for children to be jubilant. The water supply has been restored, they can have their first long shower in three days. Hisham is assured. I know he too will learn to adjust to the hyper-reality of Palestine.

April 7
Khalid and the TV crew have managed to infiltrate Al Qasba. Lucky him, I mutter, he has witnessed our gallant resistance. I'll describe the scene just the way he narrates.

Khalid, the French TV crew and the New York Times bureau chief form a group at the border of Al Qasba. They take an alley and press on, egging each other on. There are dead bodies lying around, left behind by the retreating defenders.

Suddenly, they find Palestinian fighters pointing their guns at them. Khalid takes off his helmet, says he is from Nablus. The incontrovertible proof of his claim lies in his knowledge of the maze. The fighters deftly guide them into the inner recesses of the battered quarters. They are now at a Palestinian position, manned by a trio whose immediate mission is to retrieve the two bodies lying down the alley.

In an adjoining building there are Israeli snipers, waiting for the kill. The plan is simple: one of them will rush down the alley, the other two will provide him cover. The first darts forward, a hail of bullets greets him. He takes one in the leg and retreats. It's now the turn of the second fighter. The enemy's position is now clearer: their location is such that the rescuer has only to survive the initial few seconds of the operation.

Khalid is flabbergasted. The two bodies, one at a time, are dragged to cover at the other end. But the entire city knows it is losing the battle.

I pray for the dead, and I pray for those still alive.

April 8
Good news arrives in an armoured car at my door. The Associated Press journalist Laura King and a Palestinian photographer are in it. We drive down to Qasba. There are tanks all over the place, and houses in different stages of destruction. Over the hailer, soldiers order people to come out of their houses raising their hands.

We enter the old quarters. There are home-made bombs lying around, and strings of booby traps. Laura thinks it is too dangerous to venture any further. Come on, we tell her, we must reach the makeshift Albak health centre.

The stench of rotting bodies assaults us. Here there are 40 injured people, mostly fighters. In another room lie the dead. Osaid Khalid lifts the sheet from a body and wails, "He is my brother." We visit the injured. Mahmud Qaneir is writhing in pain—there's nothing left of his left hand. Zahra Wawi, a medic, says, "The soldiers came and kicked the injured and said that these men must die here. Please, could you rush at least four of them to the hospital?"

In choked voices, we plead helplessness. We have been allowed in because we are journalists, we are expected to remain neutral. A medic shrieks, "But aren't you human? Here we are trying to save lives but you are interested only in pictures."

We wade deep inside. The fighting is still under way in about 30 per cent of Al Yasmina. We see houses with their floors blown off. Large families are huddled in single rooms. Devastated, we take the armoured car back home.

Later in the afternoon, a medic from Albak centre calls us. He wants us to return to Qasba. In a defiant, quivering voice, he says 30 volunteers have decided to evacuate the injured to the hospital. Could we please bring our TV cameras? "Those are our only security against the Israelis," he declares. Back in the old city, we watch the evacuation of 15 patients.

In the evening, an Arabic radio station from France calls me. They want me to describe what I had seen. I tell them about the Albak centre, about the bodies rotting, about their brave and committed volunteers. I start howling. They postpone the interview to a later hour.

Tell me, why can't journalists cry openly?

April 9
We are back in Al Yasmina. It's eerily quiet. There's the pervading smell of defeat. Thirty-three-year-old Wejdan Tanbor completes the picture. Late last night, the Israelis ordered the residents to shift out from their houses to the nearby Ibn Alhaydham school. Wejdan preferred to stay behind, and heard the fighting continue all through the night.

At 4 am, there was complete silence. She peered through the window and saw some 90 fighters surrounded by hundreds of Israeli troops. "They had to surrender because they ran out of ammunition," Wejdan defends them proudly.

Postscript

Have we been defeated? Make no mistake, this invasion will see more suicide bombers enter Israel. There's one that happened today. I am against the targeting of innocent Israelis, tormented by the pictures of devastated parents mourning their dead children. I feel the fight of Palestinians has to be moral.

But, the fighters say, Israel must learn the cost of occupation. They say the contempt they have for death is their only weapon against Israel's might.

When the Israelis pull out, I plan to meet Moaid's girlfriend Samah. And I am going to ask her: Tell me, are we to know freedom only in death? But Samah will weep because her boyfriend is dead.

I hope my six-year-old will one day laugh and answer, No Dad, that isn't true.

(The author works for Al-Ayyam and The Associated Press. He narrated this diary over the phone.)