FOR all the natural serenity of this beautiful place, it is dangerous.

At the top of the hill behind us, there is a large shed. A man runs a chicken farm here, on land illegally confiscated from the locals.

A pair of enormously powerful spotlights on the far hill are switched on at dusk to shine through villagers' windows as they lie in bed.

This is Itamar, an illegal Israeli settlement. Or at least, it is an outpost of Itamar, a project established in collusion with the Israeli government, in spite of the fact that it, like so many others, has no legal justification for its existence.

As the occupying power, Israel is forbidden under the fourth Geneva Convention to move its civilian population into occupied lands.

Itamar is the visible manifestation of the Israeli authorities' contempt for international law.

Although the outposts are illegal, even under Israeli law, they are connected to the Israeli electricity grid and well supplied with water at the expense of local Palestinian farmers.

In 2002, Yanoun's residents all left. Violent, ideologically- driven youths from Itamar had been making their lives miserable.

Now, they have returned, on the condition that international activists have a permanent presence in the village.

So here we are: two Swedes, a Norwegian and myself, to ensure that when the settlers come down from the hills, they know that we are watching them.

We will film, record and report on any trouble they make.

On Saturdays, we will be on high alert: most of the attacks take place when the settlers have their day off.

It is tragic and nauseating that the Sabbath, prescribed by Judaism as a day of rest from the toils of a pious life, is taken by a few extremists as the perfect opportunity to go and terrorise some Arabs.

Of course, the problem is not confined to Yanoun. On our first night in placement, we received a phone call from Abdullah, the mayor's secretary in Asira Al Qibliyyah, about half an hour west of Yanoun. Youths from the nearby settlement of Yizhar were attacking, but from a distance there was nothing we could do but make phone calls to human rights groups and pray.

The next day, two of us visited Asira, another hillside community terrorised from above by settlers.

Jamal Ahmad's house sits well outside the village, at the end of a steep, gravel track that we just managed in our four- by-four taxi after a long run-up.

Out here, there is little protection from the settlers, who live in pre-fabricated bungalows on the top of the hill and do their best to make life a misery for the people below.

As we arrived, we saw the results of last night's hooliganism — five stars of David spray-painted on the wall of the house and a sixth on a piece of machinery in the driveway.

Another group had gone to throw rocks at the neighbours' house down the road.

We sat with Jamal's wife and children for a while, in a pleasant courtyard.

Workmen were digging a hole under the patio for a new water tank, because the settlers had destroyed the one on the roof and stolen the pump.

The family were fasting for Ramadan, but insisted that we drink black coffee until Jamal arrived home from work.

I asked Jamal how he felt when he saw the results of the latest settler attack.

"Whatever!" he shrugged, with a grim laugh.

"If they want to draw pictures on the wall, whatever — but because it's a symbol of theirs, I don't like it.

"Look at their spite, their bigotry. They are so full of hatred."