Saleyha Ahsan, a medical student and journalist, tells us of her experiences last summer on the frontline of the conflict in the Middle East

"Put your camera down, and take this man's blood pressure," said Dr Sabir, as he thrust a sphygmomanometer into my hands. "Be quick, the soldier's coming back."

I didn't have time to explain that my skills at taking blood pressure were limited to physiology practicals in my first year. Faced with both kit and expectant patient, I recalled last year's sessions with fellow Dundee medical students and, to my surprise, managed to get some useable readings. "Great," I thought, "It works."

I was spending my summer break from medical school in Palestine, wearing the double hat of film-maker and medic with the United Palestine Medical Relief Committee. This long running non-government organisation has been supplying medical and humanitarian aid throughout the West Bank since the first intifada of the 1980s and has branches in every city.

During my two month stay I experienced life close to the edge because Nablus was reoccupied by the Israeli Defence Force in August. Medically speaking, there was plenty of business, but the problem was getting to it. Usually a tank sat between us and the patients.

Today the rubble from previous army incursions has left Nablus, a once beautiful ancient Roman city, looking like a tragic building site. The army arrived in the early hours of 1 August 2002, killing two and injuring at least 10 civilians. Both 27 year old Raed Al-Ahmed and 38 year old Noman Abdul-Ghaffar Hussein were shot in the back when they had come out of their homes to see what was happening.

Owing to the Israeli Defence Force's restrictions on ambulances, Raed's body lay for 12 hours on the roof where he had been shot. The next day, Raed's traumatised brother, Muhammed, took me up on to the roof to see the bloodied spot where Raed, a local carpenter, had died. As I imagined the scene, I did not realise that the shots firing in the background were for our benefit. Only when I saw Muhammad dive for cover, and then heard the ricochet, did I notice how close the shots were. We held our breath, waiting for a break in fire. It took a few minutes, but when it came, we crawled on hands and knees towards the stairwell and down to safety. So much for my clearly marked medical jacket, I thought. The Israeli Defence Force eventually allowed the body to be taken to Rafedia Surgical Hospital, which conflicted with their claim of him being a wanted man. The bodies of such men are normally held in custody.

Every house and shop was searched thoroughly in the Old City section of Nablus. The entire contents of a spice shop was emptied into the street and burnt. The stench of burnt spice and weeks old rubbish lying on the street in the heat was unbearable. Curfew prevented any form of clean up, and municipality refuse collectors were not permitted to do their job. Cats walked among the rubbish, and then sauntered into homes or joined children who came out to play.

"If the ongoing closure continues, serious disease outbreaks are highly likely," said Dr Ghassan Hamdan, director of the Nablus branch of United Palestine Medical Relief Committee, as we saw open sewage lying at the entrance to one house. The recent tank movement had damaged many sewage and water pipes. Already at Balata refugee camp up to 500 people being infected with the Shigella strain of diarrhoea in a matter of days, and hepatitis A was at epidemic levels in Beit Foreeq, near Nablus.

Getting to patients was all about breaking the strictly enforced curfew. Doing just that, I joined Dr Sabir, two Palestinian paramedics, and two American International Solidarity Movement volunteers. Trying to ignore the eerie silence and tension, we spoke loudly and tried to crack jokes. With nervous laughter we approached every street corner with caution.

"Are there any soldiers?" we asked locals sitting watching the empty streets from their windows, as we made our way to an "occupied house." One young mother told me, "They came in the night, and made us all get up and come into one room. They didn't let me bring anything for my children, and they took my husband." The seven storey building was normally home to about 100 people, but when the army moved in three days earlier the civilians were collectively moved to the second floor. The 12 families were distributed between three apartments. In each room there were close to 40 people, locked behind iron barred doors. The soldiers held the keys. More than half of the occupants were children under the age of 10. A young man sat with his frightened teenage mentally handicapped and wheelchair bound brother trying to reassure him that the latest commotion was not due to the return of soldiers.

AP PHOTO/BRENNAN LINSLEY

All mobile phones from these people had been confiscated and the phone lines disconnected, but despite this, an urgent call for baby milk had somehow filtered out to us. It wasn't clear how many soldiers were in the house, but the four armoured police cars, two armoured landrovers, and two tanks parked outside suggested a platoon of up to 30. With sandbagged windows and barricaded doors, the house had the appearance of an operational base, but the children waving from the second floor windows made it look surreal.

As we expected, the soldiers were reluctant to let the team in until Aisha, a Palestinian paramedic, thrust a bag of nappies into the young sergeant's rifle laden arms; we were granted a 10 minute visit. The young sergeant in charge was at first hostile to our presence. The aggressive orders subsided as apartment doors were unlocked and children poured out. The chaotic noise of families and people scrambling to be seen was overwhelming. We hurriedly set up a consultation area in a living room, and Dr Sabir began his work. We saw the elderly and sickest, and we dealt with those in need of repeat prescriptions at warp speed. The volunteers quickly took down notes of what was needed, promising delivery on a return visit, if possible. A large number of children had chest infections and raised temperatures. Two babies had what Dr Sabir described as scrotal hernias.

As the sergeant stood in the doorway watching the team at work, children approached him. One 5 year old boy stretched out a hand for him to shake. The soldier responded. He looked hot and tired under all the military paraphernalia of radio headsets, webbing, and weapon. The heat was unbearable, even for the acclimatised. "My wife cries every time we speak on the phone and my 8 month boy doesn't know me," he said to one volunteer before turning away. He wiped away the tears quickly, but not before the children and myself saw.

"The real law lies in the hands of the soldier on the ground, and depends on whether he feels threatened, not the government in Jerusalem." Abed Quisani, a Nablus based journalist for Reuters, told me. Just getting his material out of Nablus on a daily basis depends on how the soldier at the checkpoint is feeling that day. This has led to an increase in the number of pregnant women opting for home births, especially within the refugee camps and the surrounding villages. The head of United Nations medical projects in Nablus, Dr Ibrahim, told me about the impetus for the trend: "My patient, a pregnant woman from the village of Beit Foreeq went into labour one night and needed to get to the hospital in Nablus. Together with her husband, she got in their car for the 10 minute journey. Two minutes outside Nablus, a temporary army checkpoint stopped them. When the husband got out of the car to talk with the soldiers he was shot dead. Then they shot the expectant mother; she survived but lost the baby," explained Dr Ibrahim, "And that's why women are delivering at home these days."

Supply, however, is not matching demand in the villages to deal with the enforced situation. During my stay in a remote village, an American journalist told me of two heavily pregnant women, who had gone beyond their due date. Pregnant women try to delay giving birth in anyway possible, until they feel it's safe to travel to hospital. Conservative villagers do not always accept the help of outsiders, and so my offer of getting help was declined. I learnt later that one of the women had lost her baby during the home delivery. She had needed a caesarean section, but the village does not have a clinic, a doctor, a nurse, or a midwife.

A week later, Ahmed Qreny, a 54 year old electrician, was driving his municipality truck on his way to a repair job. In front of him, an ambulance had been stopped by a checkpoint and was being searched; it was the ambulance I had been in 10 minutes earlier. Ahmed too stopped with his Israeli government permission to be on the road displayed on the dashboard. The officer signalled Ahmed to show his pass, but as Ahmed reached for the cab door, the officer shot him dead. Ahmed leaves behind seven children, the youngest being a 7 year old girl. Their mother died last year. This attack led to an apology by the Israeli Defence Force and an inquiry may take place. Feraz Bukhari, a 30 year old ambulance driver, with whom I had earlier been travelling with, witnessed the incident. I asked him how he was. "Not so good," he said. "If you had been with me for 10 minutes more, you would have seen an innocent Palestinian man die," Feraz told me with that familiar look of disbelief.

Recently, I was contacted by the United Palestine Medical Relief Committee to be told that Feraz had been stopped by an army checkpoint while picking up a patient, and then beaten up. He normally has a good relationship with the soldiers in Nablus, so this attack shocked many. Dundee and Nablus may be twined cities, but the relationship is as dyzygotic as they come.