Inside Hamas

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His activities for Hamas "are what give me satisfaction and peace in my heart," he said, explaining, "I work in making rockets." Salama is in charge of lengthening the range of the five-mile Qassam II rocket, using information he gleans from the Internet and technical manuals that "outside sources" smuggle into the Strip. Since Israel uncovered and smashed many of Gaza's munitions workshops last year, his cell crafts its rockets in a variety of small rooms inside civilian apartments scattered through pro-Hamas neighborhoods. Salama is eager to acquire more sophisticated technology, but one effort in that direction nearly killed him. He told me he bought a remote-controlled drone aircraft that could fire missiles from a smuggler who turned out to be an Israeli collaborator. The drone arrived at Salama's workroom in two pieces: one part was clean but the second was booby-trapped. The explosion killed six cell members and sent Salama to the hospital for months. The wire I spotted in his ear is a souvenir: a hearing aid for his badly damaged sense of sound. When I noted that at 32, he had practically reached retirement age for a militant, Salama firmly shook his head. "The happiest day of my life was when I went back to this war after I was wounded," he said. " The day I am not active is bleak to me. The only thing that harms Hamas is those who do nothing."

Hearts and Minds
If "Hamasland" has a capital, it's Gaza City. It is a tortured place where the bitter past collides with an uncertain future. Concrete office towers sit on rutted dirt streets, half-built houses abut half-demolished houses, cell phones are as commonplace as horse carts, and a skyline of satellite dishes looms over the remnants of refugee camps. Hamas has flourished in the extremes of this cramped 141-sq.-mi. enclave that shelters 1.3 million Palestinians, most of them dispossessed since being driven here in 1948. Misery is pandemic: 70% are unemployed, 80% live in poverty, and 13% of the green, arable land has been bulldozed by Israel into barren fields of splintered tree stumps. The Israeli army said the trees hid militants when they fired rockets on the settlement. But the farmers of Beit Hanoun see a more cynical motive. "They do it," said one, "to break our will."

You have to spend time in Gaza to understand just how hermetic it is. For more than three years of the intifadeh, Gazans have been mostly locked down. When I walk alone down the empty, barbed-wire-rimmed pavement from the fortified Israeli side of the Erez checkpoint to the makeshift Palestinian entry point 500 yards away, I am watched by pillboxed machine gunners, and I feel a chilling sense of just how shut off from the normal world Gaza is. Once across the Palestinian line, one enters a cosmos where rumors, graffiti and leaflets define reality. Virtually all information is shaped by the propaganda of some faction. Television, except for those who can afford a dish, is limited to the Palestinian Authority channel, and the new local radio station is run by Hamas.

What Palestinians do see all too regularly are the constant depredations of the occupation, from petty to grand. According to a daily tally kept by Palestinian authorities listing Israeli actions in the West Bank and Gaza, Feb. 8 was a typical day: 2 Palestinians killed; 35 wounded, including 14 children; 14 arrested; 16 residential and 11 business buildings damaged; 44 acres of land confiscated; 16 houses demolished; 7 cars damaged; 2 checkpoints installed; 1 new satellite settlement staked out; and 22 incidents of bombing or heavy machine-gun fire from I.D.F. troops. "The occupation has taught us humiliation and despair," says a man at a funeral last month, "to the point where we have nothing to lose. Palestinians can't be any more unhappy."

Amid all that suffering, Hamas is one organization that makes people feel cared for. The group accomplishes that, not just by assuaging the Palestinians' thirst to strike back at the oppressor but even more through effective social work. Arafat and the Palestinian Authority stole or frittered away much of the money that poured into the territories after the 1993 Oslo peace accords. Today their dwindling resources are too meager to carry out basic civic services. Hamas has been able to turn that to its advantage. In a little more than 15 years, Hamas charities have insinuated the movement into nearly every facet of life. Their generosity is potent. In the eyes of many people, Hamas is not just a name for several hundred gunmen and a few fiery spokesmen: at least 30% of the ordinary population in the occupied territories tell pollsters they support Hamas.

To understand that appeal, consider the plight of Hosman Ahmad Jamal and his wife Najah. Ahmad is 50 but looks 70. He doesn't have a job but must support 15 children. He's afflicted with severe asthma and prostate disease. I met the couple last summer outside the door of Sheik Yassin's white stucco house on a nameless alley in Gaza's shabby Sabra neighborhood. They had come to beg for money to pay Ahmad's medical expenses. Najah had asked the Palestinian Authority for help but received nothing. Friends told her the sheik never refused anyone. So the couple walked to his house from Shijaya, about 3 miles away. They were immediately attended to. The bodyguard at Yassin's door sent them down the block to Hamas' main charity center with a chit authorizing funds for treatment and medicine. Najah concluded that only Hamas really cared about the welfare of ordinary Palestinians. "They are our brothers," she said, "because they help the people."