The details of that night come to him now in disconnected bits: Dania at an Aleppo hospital. Her stomach flayed. His daughter's intestines.
Doctors telling him to go to Turkey immediately. Kilis State Hospital was an hour away, just over the border. Dania's best chance was there. He rode with her in an ambulance. A phone call to his wife. Dania was in surgery. He was still in his pajamas.
"I didn't expect her to live," says Amroosh, who worked as a tailor in Aleppo. "I still can't believe what happened. Sometimes I think it couldn't have happened."
For five months, he has been sleeping on the floor in the hall, or sometimes outside on the grass. His son Mahmoud, 8, sleeps where he can find space.
They have no money. The hospital gives them food. Their only possessions are a few clothes stuffed into a small plaid bag.
Dania's mother, Ghada Amroosh, has slept every night in the armchair beside her daughter's hospital bed. She doesn't mind.
"After what happened, nothing is really difficult anymore."
Before the Syrian war, Kilis was a quiet outpost of about 80,000 people on the Syrian border. Now its population is at least 130,000.
At Kilis State Hospital, with pretty, salmon-colored walls, surgeons have operated on Syrians at least 11,000 times this year, in five operating rooms that run nonstop. Bomb and bullet wounds account for most of the injuries.
More than 530 refugees have died in the hospital this year, and more than 1,500 Syrian babies have been born. Doctors keep photos of the grotesque wounds they have treated, including one that shows a fetus with a bullet wound to its foot.
Source: Washington post News paper