When I was told I’d never walk again, I thought my life was over. I was at home watching TV with my family when the bomb exploded in our living room. There were no warnings, and seconds later, the room was coated in black dust. I screamed for my mum, but it wasn’t until she picked me up that I saw the blood – and I realised I’d lost my left leg. Without thinking, I grabbed it, carrying it in my arms until we reached an ambulance, where we all sat in shocked silence.
Shortly after, we moved to Lebanon. While it was safer than Syria, I felt just as trapped. Before the civil war began, in March 2011, I’d often go running, and I was determined to run again. I started work on strengthening my remaining leg. The following year, when I came to the UK, I got an “Ottobock C-Leg” – a lighter, more comfortable prosthetic – and two years later, after months of fundraising, I got my first running blade. The first time I used it, I had butterflies; it made me feel so incredibly free.