I also wrote about Mahmoud then, appealing to the world to help him. His doctors said that the bullet had destroyed much of his lungs, broke its way to his back and left him completely paralyzed. They said that advanced medical technology in Europe would help save his life. Mahmoud and his family waited to hear from me. They prayed for a miracle, for a living conscience. I had nothing for them, but my own prayers.
When I met Mahmoud Amer, I was on my way back to the United States, a month after Israeli border police told me that I was unwanted in my homeland, that I would not be permitted entry. It had been a month of almost daily trips to the border when I decided to go back to the States.
Only two weeks had passed since the Israeli invasion of Jenin, in early April 2002. The purpose of my West Bank trip was to conduct an eyewitness enquiry into the atrocities reported there. I was motivated by my worries that the Jenin story might never be told in the way it ought to, by the victims. I waited at the border as I watched many ambulances from the West Bank, carrying wounded Palestinians, all being ordered to return, amid screams of pain and pleas from ambulance drivers. Before I boarded my plane back to Seattle, I stopped for a brief visit to the hospital ward where wounded Palestinians were kept. I waited in a long line. There were several officials representing various Arab governments who were ahead of me. A few journalists escorted them. Luckily, their visits to the Palestinian wards didn’t last for long. There were clearly there for the photo opportunity. The wounded youth were little impressed.
When I met Mahmoud Amer, I was on my way back to the United States, a month after Israeli border police told me that I was unwanted in my homeland, that I would not be permitted entry. It had been a month of almost daily trips to the border when I decided to go back to the States.
Only two weeks had passed since the Israeli invasion of Jenin, in early April 2002. The purpose of my West Bank trip was to conduct an eyewitness enquiry into the atrocities reported there. I was motivated by my worries that the Jenin story might never be told in the way it ought to, by the victims. I waited at the border as I watched many ambulances from the West Bank, carrying wounded Palestinians, all being ordered to return, amid screams of pain and pleas from ambulance drivers. Before I boarded my plane back to Seattle, I stopped for a brief visit to the hospital ward where wounded Palestinians were kept. I waited in a long line. There were several officials representing various Arab governments who were ahead of me. A few journalists escorted them. Luckily, their visits to the Palestinian wards didn’t last for long. There were clearly there for the photo opportunity. The wounded youth were little impressed.