Ali Ahmad Mohammad

Friday September 12th 1982, was an ordinary day. I was sleeping at home in Bir Hassan, with my wife and children.

Early on that morning, we were awakened by loud noises coming from the street. We heard people screaming into a megaphone, “Give in and you will be safe! We are the Lebanese Army.” We remained at home gathered in silence, until someone knocked heavily on our door. I walked over and opened it. I was met by several armed men – that evidently did not look like Lebanese soldiers – who told us that we had to evacuate our house and go down to the street for them to search it.

Down there, we got separated into 2 groups: the women and children were set on one side, and the men and boys – aged 13 years and above – on the other. We were around 25 men. They instructed us to stand against the wall. I was with three of my sons: Walid (18 years old), Adnan (15 years old) and Mohammad (13 years old) – who were all terrified. As for the women and children, they were moved to the Riyadi stadium. I remember seeing my wife clutching tightly to the hands of my younger children, while looking back at us as she walked away

We were never reunited. That same day, my eldest son Hussein came back home after work to find the house empty. He went out to search for us, yet in his attempt to find us, armed men stepped out of the car and took him.

Were we the victims of an isolated act of revenge or a vast military operation?

I disappeared with my four sons. How many others had the same fate that day?

My name is Ali. My sons are Walid, Adnan, Mohammad and Hussein.

Do not let our story end here.