The wind that carries the call to prayer through the olive and almond groves of Turmus Ayya, occupied West Bank, is still, for a moment, haunted by screams.

Not loud. Faint. Almost drowned in the dusk chorus of birdsong and a muezzin's voice. But it's there. Caught forever in a surveillance clip. A boy is dying. He is only 14.

Amer Rabee had 11 bullets in him — two in his stomach, one in his leg, two in his hand, and two in his heart. Two tore through his teenage face. The other two perforated his shoulder.

This is what a doctor told his father, Mohammed Rabee, when he was summoned to collect his son's body from an Israeli military base, hours after Amer had gone to pick spring almonds with two childhood friends.

The groves are a sanctuary in Turmus Ayya, a small West Bank town of hills, memories, and returnees.

Located in the Ramallah and al-Bireh Governorate in the West Bank, the historic town with a population of 2,500, lies on a low knoll in a fertile plain, surrounded by fruit trees.

For Palestinian-American families like the Rabee, Shehada, and Igbara clans, it was a second home — New Jersey summers reimagined in old family houses, morning walks to the stone mosque, boys climbing almond trees.

But this Sunday, April 6, the almond grove turned into a killing field.

Thirty-six shots first. A pause. Then ten more.

Captured on video. Audio too. Gunfire and screams. Then deadly silence.

"I got a call from a neighbour," Mohammed Rabee said via a video link (from Turmus Ayya) at a community centre in New Jersey.

"He said they shot two. One is still on the ground. He said, 'I think it's your son.'"

 Amer didn't make it.

His friend Ayub Igbara, also 14, is in critical condition, his body riddled with bullets. He lost 16 pints of blood before an Israeli checkpoint-delayed ambulance reached him.

Igbara, born in Little Ferry, New Jersey, and now a resident of the West Bank, has undergone two surgeries. More await.

Their friend Abed Shehada, 15, from Macon, Georgia, was also shot but is now stable.

All three are American citizens.

The Israeli army claims the boys were throwing rocks at cars. It labelled them "terrorists."

But Rabee's voice breaks through that defence.

"He is 14. Even if he threw a rock, is that a reason to empty 11 bullets into his body? Two in his heart?" he said.

 "You catch a child. You don't kill him."

New Jersey Governor Phil Murphy says he is "asking for answers from the Israeli government."

US Senators Cory Booker and Andy Kim have called for an inquiry and sanctions on violent Zionist settlers. Representative Bonnie Watson Coleman has called Amer's killing "an atrocity."

"How can the Israeli military possibly justify shooting and killing an American teenager in cold blood?" she asked in a statement.

"The US must step in and stop this madness."

Yet the Rabee family feels forgotten.

"They called him a terrorist," said Amer's uncle, Rami Jbara.

"A child with no weapon, no tank, no gun. Just a kid climbing trees, picking almonds."

Heartbeat silenced before its time

Two months ago, Amer had flown to New Jersey to celebrate the birth of his sister's daughter. He smiled in photos, held the baby in his arms, and played video games with cousins.

Now, his name is added to a growing list. Nearly 200 Palestinian children have been killed by Israeli troops in the occupied West Bank since October, according to Defense for Children International – Palestine.

More than 900 Palestinians have been killed during the same period in settler or army raids.

There was another layer to the horror.

The ambulance was held at an Israeli checkpoint, according to town residents, for over 30 minutes.

When the medics asked about the third boy, Amer, they were told there were only two. They were instructed to leave.

Rabee said his son's body was left behind. Hours passed before he was told to come retrieve it from an Israeli base.

"I called the US Embassy," he recalled. "They kept asking about my passport number. I said, 'Please, just go get my son. He might still be alive.'"

By the time help came, it was too late.

"They called me the next day," Rabee said. The embassy asked him if I needed anything.

I said, "He's dead. What now?’"

US State Department told AFP it offers its "sincerest condolences to the family on their loss."

Stolen land, shattered lives

The families of Turmus Ayya are no strangers to violence. In June last year, Israeli settlers stormed the town. They burned homes, torched cars, and opened fire.

"My house was set on fire," said Rabee. "They made it unlivable."

It was not an isolated attack. Turmus Ayya lies near the Zionist settlement of Shilo. According to Mayor Lafi Shalabi, illegal settlers from there frequently attack residents under the protection of soldiers.

"We are 80 percent American citizens here," said Yaser Alkam.

"When soldiers shoot children, there's an 80 percent chance they’re shooting an American. But the US embassy turns a blind eye."

Over the years, several American citizens have been killed by Israeli forces — their names etched into a troubling ledger of grief stretching from Gaza to the West Bank.

Shireen Abu Akleh, a 51-year-old journalist, was shot dead by an Israeli sniper while reporting in Jenin in 2022. Her press vest offered no protection.

In 2024, two teenagers — Tawfic Abdel Jabbar and Mohammad Khdour, both just 17 — were killed in the occupied West Bank. Their lives, like so many others, ended before they could begin.

Omar Assad, a 78-year-old Palestinian American, was killed in 2022 after being detained and reportedly mistreated by Israeli soldiers.

Rachel Corrie, a 23-year-old activist from Washington State, was crushed by an Israeli military bulldozer in Gaza in 2003 as she tried to block the demolition of a Palestinian home.

Most recently, Aysenur Ezgi Eygi, a 26-year-old Turkish American, was fatally shot during a protest in the West Bank in 2024 — another name added to a list that should not exist.

Each of these lives carried dreams and loved ones left behind. 

At Amer's funeral, his body wrapped in a Palestinian flag, hundreds marched in silence. A father led the way, his face locked behind dark glasses. But grief, they say, is a language without accents. It shows.

"They enjoy this place," said Jbara. "These kids. It is where they learn about who they are. Amer had just visited his sister, just got back. He was top of his class. Kind. Brilliant."

Amer's father looked down over the video link, still holding onto something beyond reach.

"He had 11 (gun) shots," he quietly said.

"Two in his stomach, one in his leg, two to his hand, two in his heart."