The date 11/11 has as much resonance for Palestinians as 9/11 does for the rest of us. It was that date four years ago that Yasser Arafat died, (poisoned by the Israelis, according to some). Many experts on Middle-East politics reckon Arafat screwed up on several matters, was head of a PLO rife with corruption, and generally got outsmarted by his political opponents.

To Palestinians his reputation is almost Messianic, the little man (literally) who devoted his life battling for the poor David against the powerful and wealthy Goliaths – Israel and their paymasters the USA, attempting to right what he (and fellow Palestinians) saw as the biggest political theft of the 20th century - that of their very nation state.

The date’s a public holiday for Palestinian schools, and in the evening, in the only place in Shatila that could remotely be described as open space (though surrounded on four sides by unimaginably ugly blocks of flats), hundreds gathered for a stirring al fresco film of the man’s life.The audience applauded,chanted and sang. The next day, a raggedy procession of flags, drums bagpipes and Kalashnikov guns made its way through Shatila’s narrow alleyways to mark the anniversary, the percussive power threatening to shake down the camp’s tall, unstable-looking buildings.

Riding or walking through the camp, every day literally dozens of people shout “what your name?” Replying can get wearisome after the 250th time, but I try. Yesterday, feeling antisocial, I ignored the young caller, I heard padding feet behind my bike, then a stone hit me in the small of the back – a mini intafada. It was an isolated incident – I hope.

Gunshot broke out on the camp two nights ago. Celebrations of some sort, I was assured though the place is stuffed full of guns, and there are no police. The guns are understandable when you realize the atrocities inflicted on this camp, and the need for its inhabitants to defend it.

My local corner shop keeper, a Syrian called Abd Hariri, opens at 5am and closes at 2am and sells everything from Dettol to cream cakes (actually they’re next to one another). He tells me “Shatila always dangerous – Palestinians and Lebanese so close to one another – who knows?”

No-one probably. I’m just hoping they don’t start any funny business in the next three weeks. I’ve got 18 eleven year old Palestinian girls to direct in a short theatre piece, to be performed in English. Present state of play? Total chaos.