I left the hospital wishing I possessed the courage of that young man. I too vowed to put up a fight. I also wrote about this, just a few days ago. I wrote, “Tomorrow, I intend to call Mahmoud. I will tell him that “Searching Jenin”, the “important book” I told him about during my visit, was published. I will tell him that the voices of the victims have finally escaped the Israeli censurer; that the faces, the images, the numbers and the stories will finally be told, that thanks to his inspiration, Palestinians are no longer standing on the periphery, praying that others will narrate their plight. Now, they will convey the stories themselves, the way they ought to.”

I did fulfill my promise, and called the next day. I had the book on one hand, ready to translate parts of the chapter where I detail my encounter with him in Amman. Yet, on that same morning, Mahmoud died in a decrepit hospital in Jenin.

His family had given up on getting Mahmoud the medical attention he deserved. All they hoped for was to get him to a Ramallah hospital. Israeli army blockades, however, even snuffed out this simple wish.

I wish I could say that Mahmoud died with a smile on his face. He didn’t. He was in so much pain. Moments after his death, hundreds of people broke the siege and rushed to his family’s home. They cried, chanted and wrote Mahmoud’s name over the walls of the camp: “Jenin mourns its latest martyr, Mahmoud Amr Turkman.”