JABALIYA, GAZA STRIP -- "We don't want anyone speaking for us any more, not the Jordanians, not the Egyptians, nobody," shouted the 20-year-old Palestinian. "We want our own country, with our own flag," he said, chopping the air with violent strokes that matched the fury in his eyes. "We are tired of living like this while you live happily in villas in France or the United States."

For thousands of Palestinians in this rancid refugee camp -- and throughout Gaza and the West Bank -- the cork on their anger has burst. Jettisoning for now the prudence taught by years of repression, Palestinian youths have taken to the streets with stones and molotov cocktails to prevent Israel and the world from forgetting that they exist.

"Al Intifadheh," they have named it -- "The Uprising."

No one knows whether it will last, least of all those who set it off 2 1/2 months ago. Some Palestinians here have vowed it will go on indefinitely, despite stern Israeli attempts to put it down. Others already have concluded that it is dying slowly, succumbing to the combination of Israel's crackdown and the need to make a living.

Five days of visiting and listening among the families of the Jabaliya camp provided an intimate look at their rage and suggested how deep, and perhaps irreconcilable, it has become. All of those interviewed seemed to agree that something snapped here as 1987 moved into 1988.

Always bitter, relations between Jewish authorities and Arabs in the territories Israel has occupied since the aftermath of the 1967 war have taken on a new charge of hatred and violence since December, multiplying the odds against anyone reconciling Israel with its Arab neighbors.Crowded Camp

Looking down the dirt roads of Jabaliya refugee camp is like looking at a schoolyard during recess. Children dart about, shouting in every direction, hopping over the open sewers and slipping in the mud.

At a European-looking stranger they shout, "Jew, Jew," and stick out their tongues. Unless someone convinces them otherwise, boys in side alleys often reach for stones to practice what has become the camp's leading sport.

Demographers say almost half of Gaza's rapidly growing population is under age 14. Most families in Jabaliya and the other camps live crowded into small cement hovels with corrugated tin roofs that leak in the winter rain.

Gaza, which measures 140 square miles, is one of the world's most densely populated regions, despite its history as an agricultural center. Since the 1967 occupation, Israelis have taken control of about one-third of its area, making room for 13 Jewish settlements with about 2,000 inhabitants.

In Jabaliya, however, Jews generally arrive in jeeps and command cars. Since the rioting began, they often appear with helmets and plastic shields over their faces, making them seem as remote and menacing as space creatures to the children who run for cover at their approach.

But agents of Shin Bet, the Israeli internal security apparatus, drive into camp often enough to be known by the Arab names they affect. One is Abu Salim, residents say, and another is Al Halaby. Nobody knows their real names or when they might show up, and everybody professes to be ignorant of why they come.

Soldiers who knocked on the door of Nasser Radwan last Monday night, for example, had his name on a list and, according to neighbors, drove off with him after throwing him into a mud puddle and beating him up. Radwan had been going to work every day, his father asserted, and family members said they did not know why he was arrested, where he was or how long he would be gone.

On another recent day, a 10-man Army squad on the outskirts of Jabaliya forced its way into a garden. As women cried, the baton-wielding soldiers seized a small boy in a red shirt and carried him off.

Several minutes later, the boy was seen walking unharmed across a trash-filled empty lot several streets away. Asked what had happened, he said, "Nothing." Asked why the soldiers had seized him, he said he did not know.

A lot happens that the residents of Jabaliya are not sure about.Father and Son

Ibrahim turned to Ehab, his 3 1/2-year-old son curled up against his father's side.

"Do you like the Jews?" Ibrahim asked, while a reporter looked on.

"No," Ehab responded.

"Why not?" his father continued in a recitation both seemed to know.

"Because they shoot people."

Ibrahim, 24, had invited two neighbors for dinner in his three-room house in Jabaliya refugee camp. Over mutton, rice and crimson pickles, they discussed with a foreign house guest what has happened since the disturbances broke out Dec. 9 and what traces the crisis has left among the camp's more than 50,000 residents.

Ibrahim smiled bitterly as he recounted the time several weeks ago when soldiers burst into his house because Ehab, who was playing outside in the dirt despite a curfew, shouted a curse at a passing Israeli patrol.

"People have stopped putting up with the Jews," said Mohammed, one of the neighbors. "They just don't like the Jews any more, because of what they are doing. You see my son?" Mohammed asked, pointing at his toddler peeking in the door. "He knows what is happening to me. He will remember. And when he grows older, he will fight."

Another neighbor, Khathir, who like many in the camp has been staying away from a job in Israel, said Israeli employers have begun to question the wisdom of retaining Palestinian laborers, saying they cannot be relied on to show up steadily. Some Israeli employers, he recalled, have suggested bringing in Turkish or Portuguese laborers as replacements.

"The Israelis say they want to make life better for the Palestinians in the camps, that they want to bring in money from outside, from the United States, and improve things for us," he added. "And then instead they fire us."

Ibrahim, voicing desperation in another conversation over what he described as a dead-end life, sighed and, looking straight ahead, suddenly declared in steady tones:

"Sometimes what I'd like to do is get a rifle and go into a school and spray gunfire at about 40 Jews. Then maybe someone would listen to us."

Defense Minister Yitzhak Rabin said Jan. 19 that Israeli soldiers should use "force, power and blows" to put down the demonstrations and stonings in Gaza and the West Bank. The Israeli Army, under criticism for shooting rioters, distributed wooden and metal clubs to its soldiers in addition to the standard-issue Galil assault rifles.

Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir told a Herut Party gathering a week later that an attack on Israeli soldiers last Nov. 25 by Palestinians who crossed from Lebanon in hang gliders "shattered the barrier of fear" that had been keeping order among the Palestinians of Gaza and the West Bank.

"Our task now is to recreate that barrier and once again put the fear of death into the Arabs of the {occupied} areas, so as to deter them from attacking us any more," he added at the time.Words and Deeds

Translated into deeds at the Jabaliya camp, those words have meant shootings, beatings, destruction, arrests, nighttime roundups and bulldozed streets.

Some Israelis have questioned the morality or wisdom of such tough repression. Within the Army itself, individual soldiers have expressed anguish over what they are doing and the Defense Ministry has asked psychiatrists to counsel the troops.

But the people here have not been part of that debate. They only know what has happened to them and how the ministers' words have turned into violence in the muddy alleyways and cement-block shacks of Jabaliya.

For Nafiz, they have meant a bullet that entered the left side of his lower lip and came out his cheek, leaving a path of welted skin. Nafiz said the round struck him as he stood in his home listening to the noise outside.

For Yusif Shehadeh, they have meant a lost eye. Shehadeh, 22, said he was riding a donkey cart when a tear-gas grenade slammed into the left side of his face, destroying his eye and ripping off part of his nose.

For Ibrahim Awad, 102 years old, they have meant what doctors described as an "assault by the Army" that resulted in bruises serious enough to keep him in Gaza's Shifa Hospital for six days.

For Awad's 60-year-old wife, they meant a beating that doctors said resulted in bruises on the head and body. For his daughter Hana, they meant a beating that has put her arm in a sling. For his daughter Frial, they meant a beating that doctors also described as "assault by Army."

For a neighbor of the Awad family, Halifa Sarif, 55, they meant a clubbing with rifle butts that, according to a report by Dr. Elias Artin, caused her to fall and damage her spine in two joints, forcing him to put her in a full body cast.

For Hajir Talal Waheidi, 75, they meant what he described as a beating by Israeli soldiers who burst into his house on Jan. 18 and hit him with batons, leaving him with what he said was a broken right arm, a broken finger and bruises on his head and back.

"I've been around, all the way to Turkey," he said, waving his cast in the air. "And I've never seen what they do. It's not right. It's not right."

The Israeli Army, asked about these incidents and other matters over a three-day period, failed to respond.

A Palestinian U.N. medical officer who kept records from Jan. 13 until mid-February said that during that month, 370 patients wounded by the Israeli Army came to a clinic run the U.N. Relief and Works Agency in Jabaliya refugee camp. Of those, 86 were severely beaten, including a half-dozen infants under 9 months who apparently were hurt accidentally while in their mothers' arms, he said.

Two women, one three months pregnant and one seven months pregnant, aborted because of beatings, he said. Nine patients suffered gunshot wounds, including a 13-year-old, Ramadan Yunis, who died from a bullet that severed an artery in his left shoulder, the medical officer said. One woman got gangrene in her leg because she was prevented from coming to the clinic for insulin shots during a curfew, he added.

The Palestinians of Gaza long have spoken of kibt, the bottled-in rage they carry in their chests over a long list of frustrations that they say make up their daily lives. The rage has burst out now.

Some of the frustrations come from little things.

Israeli radio and television, for example, consistently refer to Jerusalem in their Arabic-language broadcasts as "Yerushalaim-Al Quds," preceding the Arabic name for Jerusalem with the Hebrew name in what sounds like a taunt to many Palestinians.

Edmond Sheayek, head of the Israeli Broadcasting Authority's Arabic-language radio broadcasts, said the practice began after Israeli forces took East Jerusalem from Jordan in 1967, uniting the city under Israeli rule. He said he would suggest to his superiors that it be discontinued.

Some of the frustrations come from more substantial things.

Until the disturbances, Ibrahim worked as a cook in a kosher reception hall for marriages and bar mitzvahs. When a rabbi came once to inspect the premises, Ibrahim remembers, he was told to pretend he was a Jew from Iraq because Arabs were not supposed to work in the kitchen.

Another time, Ibrahim recounted, he was invited by an Israeli fellow worker to drink a cup of coffee in a cafe with a television set on.

"An Arab came on the television screen and I heard a little boy say he would kill him," he said. "So I asked the boy why, and he said because the Arabs want to kill the Jews. I asked him how he knew that, and he said he learned it at school.

"So now I bring my little boy and I tell him he has to kill the Jews. I'm doing just like they do."

The hall where Ibrahim worked is in Petah Tikva, near Ben Gurion Airport and about 30 miles from the village his family fled during the 1948 war that gave birth to Israel. Because of Israeli rules prohibiting Gaza laborers from spending the night in pre-1967 Israel, however, Ibrahim had to return to Jabaliya every night, a trip lasting between 90 minutes and two hours depending on his luck in finding a taxi.

"The police come and pick us up if we try to sleep on the spot," he said. "And you can't talk back to the police. They are Jews and we are Arabs and that's that."

Ibrahim said he earned about 700 shekels, or $465, a month, while Jews working in the same hall earned double that sum. The Gaza Strip Survey, a study done in 1986 by Sara Roy for the West Bank Data Base Project of former Jerusalem deputy mayor Meron Benvenisti, estimated Gaza laborers earn "approximately 40 percent of the average Israeli wage and enjoy none of the economic or political benefits given to Israeli workers."

"They only work eight hours," Ibrahim complained. "We stay 10 hours or 12 hours. It doesn't matter. We're like donkeys to them. And there's nothing like their health insurance or unemployment compensation for us. Nobody cares about us."

Israeli government officials have estimated that 40,000 to 45,000 Gazans travel back and forth to Israel to work, out of a population of more than 500,000, including 350,000 refugees. Despite the disturbances and repeated calls for general strikes, including threats from nationalistic youths, many have continued to taxi to their jobs.

For many Gazans, these jobs have meant a menial way to provide for a family rather than by pursuing a career. The Dabour brothers in the Jabaliya camp are one example:Musa, 50, graduated from a university in Egypt and worked as a secondary school teacher until Israeli occupation authorities fired him for contact with the Palestine Liberation Organization. He is unemployed.Aly, 49, also graduated from a university in Cairo. He abandoned Gaza to work on the Aswan High Dam in Upper Egypt. Out from under, he is the family success story.Amin, 30, started university studies in Cairo but returned after one year for lack of funds. He finished in political science at Bir Zeit University on the West Bank and works as a stevedore in Israel's Ashdod port.Majdeh, 28, graduated in agronomy from Cairo University and works for $300 a month as a farm laborer.Nabil, 25, graduated in business management from Bir Zeit and works as a construction laborer in Israel.Abdul Nasser, 23, studied commerce for two years at Bir Zeit before dropping out and taking a job as a construction laborer in Israel.

"They have to eat," said their mother, Um Musa.

Except for a few who open discreetly in the late morning, Gaza's merchants have observed the strike call with shuttered shop windows. Although stone-throwing youths come largely from Gaza's eight refugee camps, shopkeepers have been drawn into the freeze by sympathy with the uprising, fear of retaliation if they refuse to go along, and anger at tough Israeli tactics against the rioters.

"Of course I would like to work," said Atif Hassounieh, 36, who owns a small Gaza grocery store. "We would all like to do business. That is in a businessman's blood. But what am I going to do, open my shop all by myself while people are getting jailed and beaten? That is just not logical."