Ali Hamadeh

My name is Ali. I was born in 1971. Unlike many families in Lebanon, ours was small; it was only my mother Nayfeh and I . My father had passed away before I had the opportunity to know him. However, my mother gave me the love and support of both a mother and a father. Every day, I would go to school, and she would head to the offices of the Al Safir newspaper where she worked. Every once in a while, we enjoyed short journeys from the city to the mountains where we would visit my grandparents in Qumatiyyeh - those trips were needed to escape the violence and the turmoil that engulfed Beirut.

Ironically, it was after one such journey that I went missing. On March 26, 1984, after spending the weekend with my grandparents, a friend of the family was driving me back to Beirut and was supposed to drop me off at the Mathaf crossing. That was the last time anyone saw or heard about us.

Our families never found out what happened to us. To them, we simply vanished. My mother published several letters in Al Safir newspaper, in the hope that somehow, somewhere, they would reach me. She pleaded that no matter how badly they might harm me, I would not allow those responsible to plant the seeds of evil in my heart nor deprive me of my innocence. She wrote about us leaving the country as soon as I return and about her wish to protect me. Sadly, this never happened. I never returned. Nine months later, on December 27th, my mother took her own life in desperation.

I was 13 years old the day I disappeared; that was the day my mother was left childless; the day my life was cut short.

My name is Ali Hamadeh. Do not let our story end here.