Make The Difference Today With Charity

In a moment that was only the beginning of a long sorrow, the war began. My family and I were forced to move from one house to another, searching for a safe place to stay. Eventually, we returned to a house near my grandfather’s home, but the escalating events forced us to leave again so others could take shelter there. It was a difficult decision, but we eventually returned to our own home, hoping to find comfort and peace.
Days passed, and on a fateful day, my father decided to bury 17 martyrs from our relatives, the Khattab family. Before leaving, he told his friend that he would return quickly for lunch and then continue his duty. When he came back, he entered the house and said to my mother, “If the food is ready, serve me.” Preparations for lunch began.
During that time, my mother asked me to go to my aunt’s house to bring a serving ladle. Her house was nearby—just four houses away. When I arrived, I found my little sister, Toujan, playing with my aunt’s children. I asked her to come home with me for lunch, but she wanted to stay and play a little longer. I took the ladle and returned home.
As I arrived, I saw my brother, Mazen, heading to the rooftop. I asked him, “Where are you going?” He replied, “Go eat. I’m going to perform ablution and will be right back.” I entered the house and handed the ladle to my mother. We began eating. I was sitting at the high table, while my father and little sister sat on the floor. Suddenly, my three-year-old sister asked me for a glass of water.
I went to the kitchen to get her water. I poured some into a small tea glass, but she refused it and began crying, saying, “I want a pretty cup like Baba’s.” I started looking for another cup to please her. And then—suddenly—the world around me shook.
A violent explosion. It felt as if the ground had flipped over my head. Stones, water, smoke… I had no idea what had just happened. I was trapped beneath the rubble, feeling like I would be stuck there for days, just like the children we used to hear about in the news. When I opened my eyes, I found myself near a window, seeing nothing but a strong light piercing through the darkness.
I started screaming, “Blood! Blood!” But all I could see was the light from the window. Suddenly, I heard the voice of a relative calling out, “Who’s here? Who’s alive?” I struggled to raise my hand and weakly responded, “I’m here.” He came and pulled me out from the rubble. I was still in shock. My back hurt, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to see my family.
When I got out, I saw our house as if it were just a memory—neat and orderly, just as we always left it. But reality was different. They took me to the hospital, where the questions began: “Where is your brother Mazen?” I told them he had been on the rooftop performing ablution. They went looking for him, but I didn’t know what fate awaited us.
At the hospital, people began telling me about my family. One said, “Your mother’s leg is broken.” Another said, “Her arm is broken.” I felt there was something worse they weren’t saying. Deep down, I knew something terrible had happened.
Then came the news I couldn’t bear. My father, my mother, my brother Mazen, and my little sister Tia… all of them had been martyred. My heart was shattering. I asked about my sister Tayla, and they told me she was in intensive care—her leg and fingers had been amputated. I was trapped in a nightmare that wouldn’t end.
But even that nightmare didn’t last long. A few days later, Tayla also passed away, joining the rest of our family. I was left alone, surrounded only by their memories, their voices, and the laughter that once filled our home.
This is my story—a story of a family that became a memory and of a girl who learned to carry pain in her heart and share with the world a suffering that can never be forgotten. May God have mercy on them all and grant them paradise.