Ameera Mohammed Suleiman Abu Teir, 17 years old, a resident of Khuza’a Al-Kabira – Khuza’a Boys School.
Testimony Date: 13 April 2025
During the ceasefire, particularly in the month of Ramadan, my family and I were preparing to celebrate Eid al-Fitr with great anticipation. It was to be our first Eid back in our hometown, Khuza’a al-Kabira, and in our own home after the war. My mother had started getting everything ready—she bought new clothes for me, my sister Huda (18), my brother Maher (15), and Abdullah (10). She even had traditional abayas tailored for Huda and me. We were so happy. We had gone through the war without being able to wear anything new—clothing was scarce and unaffordable.
On 18 March 2025, we gathered for our first pre-dawn suhoor meal. For the first time, we were all together: my parents, my siblings, and me, sitting in one place, laughing and sharing stories with love. After the meal, Huda and I went to our room. Unlike her usual self, she began to open up to me. She told me her secrets for the first time—everything. Then suddenly, before falling asleep, she said, “If I’m killed, you’ll know it’s me from my bracelet and earrings.”
At around 1:30 a.m., we fell asleep. Barely 45 minutes later—at exactly 2:15 a.m.—our home was directly bombed by the Israeli warplanes.
I felt a blinding light and an intense heat consume my body, as if a massive wave had thrown me violently out. I found myself buried under rubble—something heavy crushing me. Rubble, concrete, a column over my feet—I couldn’t breathe. At first, I thought it was a nightmare. Then I realised: I was trapped under the ruins of my home. I began moving my left foot, trying to knock the stone loose so rescuers might notice me. After several tries, the stone fell. I raised my leg high in the air to signal someone.
I waited for about fifteen minutes with no response. I gave up. I recited the Shahada, preparing for death. Moments later, I heard a voice: “Is anyone here?” I burst into tears and lifted my leg again—they saw me. I was pulled out from under the rubble. I spent an hour and a half lying on the ground before I was transferred to the hospital.
At the hospital, they found severe burns on both feet, shattered bones in my right thigh and pelvis, and damage extending down to my knee. The doctors told me my right leg needed to be amputated and that they would take me to surgery in the morning. When I heard that, I broke down in hysterical cries. I wished for death rather than to see my leg taken from me. I was so young—I hadn’t done anything in life yet. How could I lose my leg now?
Fortunately, that morning a Jordanian medical team arrived at the European Hospital. After examining me, they said the arteries and blood vessels were still intact and that amputation wasn’t necessary.
Before the operation, I asked to see my mother. They told me she was okay but also needed treatment, and asked me to be patient. They implanted a metal rod (platinum) from my pelvis to my knee. But after surgery, I couldn’t bend my knee, and it tilted to the right. I needed a second operation to fix the implant and realign the joint.
But the bombing didn’t just take my leg. It took my mother and father. My sister Huda. My grandmother. My three cousins and their mother. My brother Maher lost his left eye in the blast. He didn’t speak a single word for five days after our parents died. He was in deep shock. Doctors tried to help him recover, but now he can’t see in his injured eye, and his condition is worsening every day. He needs urgent treatment abroad. Doctors warned that any delay could permanently cost him his vision.
On the fourth day after my surgery, I kept begging to see my parents. I missed them terribly. After my constant pleading, my aunt finally told me the truth: my mother and father had been killed. She said, “Your father loved your mother so deeply. They never left each other in life, and now they are together in the afterlife. And they took their beloved Huda with them.”
I felt something inside me shatter. A crushing tightness in my chest. I needed my mother—she wasn’t just a mum, she was my closest friend. The one I always turned to, who calmed me with her love and care. And my father—the kind, proud man I loved walking beside. He was my backbone in this world.
I miss them so much. Especially my mother. I miss her voice, her warmth, her words, her embrace that healed everything.
I miss Huda, my other half, my partner in everything. She was closest to my heart and soul. We were always together—me, her, and our cousin Jana. We used to laugh and dream together.
Now… there’s no one left who understands me, no one who shares my world.
They all left… and I remained alone.
