Testimony Date: 31 May 2025
Rama Al-Dahdouh, 16 years old.
On 7 October 2023, we were in our home in the Al-Zaytoun neighbourhood of Gaza City, living what we believed were our final moments in what we thought was a safe haven. A week later, the area turned into a death zone. We fled to my grandfather’s house in the Old City, but the forced displacement didn’t end there. We moved more than six times, fleeing from one danger to another. In August 2024, amidst relative calm, we decided to return—despite the destruction.
On 12 September 2024, I was playing basketball at a neighbour’s house. I returned home at 10:20 p.m., showered, prayed the Isha prayer, and prepared my bed for sleep. Beside me were my sisters, Tala and Maram, and my brothers, Abdel Kareem and Fouad. My brother Ahmad was in another room, and my father was in a separate one. My mother was praying in the living room—the same place we used as a bedroom. At 11:10 p.m., an Israeli missile struck our five-story building, destroying the first and second floors where I was sleeping. I felt the impact, and a belt of concrete and rubble fell on me. A nearby marble table prevented it from crushing my body completely. I was unable to move, but I remained conscious.
Amid the smoke and rubble, I heard my mother calling and my brother Fouad screaming. I shouted to my mother, “I’m alive. My leg is cut off.” She responded, “My leg is also cut off.” I looked to my side and saw the place where my siblings had been sleeping buried under rubble. I looked at my right leg—it was dangling, attached only by the skin. My left pinky finger was horrifically torn. My entire body felt wounded, and pain ripped through me, especially in my leg, where I could feel blood flooding uncontrollably. In that indescribable terror, neighbours began arriving and carried me to an ambulance. As they lifted me, my severed leg fell to the ground. They picked it up and brought it with me to the ambulance.
I was taken to Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital, where my right leg was amputated, and I required 16 units of blood. I had multiple severe wounds and burns across my body and needed reconstructive surgeries. I also suffered deep lacerations from my pelvis to my knee. My right thigh wound remains open due to malnutrition and weakened immunity caused by the ongoing starvation amid the genocide.
That fateful night brought more than just destruction—it stole the people I loved most. My father and four of my siblings were killed instantly, leaving behind unbearable loss and emptiness. The following morning, they were buried, but I couldn’t see or say goodbye to them. I was trapped in a cycle of surgeries and bleeding, overwhelmed by my critical injuries.
My first surgery was performed as soon as I arrived at the hospital, but the amputation was done incorrectly, requiring another operation the next day. Even then, the procedure failed. Gaza lacked the necessary medical resources to save what remained of me. I also underwent a skin graft on my chest, where they took tissue from my thigh to cover a deep burn—but that surgery failed too. I now require treatment abroad.
After 14 days of agony in the hospital, I was discharged, but there was no home to return to. We now live with relatives in the Old City, struggling to survive amid the pain of loss and the unbearable pain of my injuries. It’s not just the physical pain that’s killing me—it’s the nightmares. In my sleep, I see the faces of my father and siblings, as if they come back each night to remind me I’m the only one who survived. I see horrifying scenes and wake up trembling, drenched in fear and sorrow.
At the hospital, I became withdrawn, refusing to eat or drink. I would only eat tiny amounts after much insistence. Grief suffocated me, and the pain of loss consumed me from within. After leaving the hospital, things got even worse. I began to hate speaking and avoided any gatherings. I couldn’t bring myself to share my pain with anyone. When I drift off in thought, I feel choked by grief, drowning in memories, and tears stream down uncontrollably. It wasn’t only the loss of my father and siblings that tore me apart, but also my mother’s injury and helplessness—and my inability to help her. My brother Fouad, who needs care, had to be sent to my aunt because we simply couldn’t meet his needs.
A part of me is gone. I used to be one of the top students in my class. But after my injury, I am overwhelmed with fear—fear of the future, of continuing my education, of living with this amputated body and broken heart. I no longer want to go back to school. I’m terrified of facing society, of pitiful looks, of being seen as incomplete. My aunt and grandmother are caring for me now, but I need psychological support.
I’ve submitted a referral for treatment abroad, hoping to receive a prosthetic limb and the necessary reconstructive surgeries. But I’m still waiting… waiting for a chance at treatment, and maybe, a chance to live again.
