"Look!" says Private Dror, his eyes nervously scanning the street. "There are no youngsters over twelve in sight. Hell, where have they disappeared to?" The five Israeli soldiers from the Nahal unit quickly slip down a narrow alley. Four Palestinian youths peek briefly from between two houses. Seconds later, a hailstorm of stones and metal pieces pelts the patrol. Hugging the walls, the unit breaks apart. When it reassembles, Dror, 20, is breathless. Three masked men had hit him with rocks. "The bastards knew very well I couldn't do anything to them," he mutters to TIME's Ron Ben-Yishai. "They know our...
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