Ali Mustafa

My name is Ali. When the war broke I was a worker at Beirut port. One day, as I was working, I heard shouting and gunfire shots, and saw people running. I immediately understood what was going on and had no choice but to run for my life. Some of the employees - who were not a target due to their religious identity – hid in their colleagues’ offices. I, like many others decided to escape swimming out to the sea, but it was too late. they were already here... I did not have time to get away.

It was on December 6th 1975, an infamous date known as «the black Saturday». I was 25 years old and my son was only 2 months old. My wife never got remarried. In order for that to happen, she would have had to declare me dead. My relatives could never get themselves to do it. They would have had the feeling that they abandoned me. I am one of hundreds of anonymous victims who died that day and whose families refuse to give up their right to know. Rumors of being thrown in the sea or moved to another part of Beirut to be buried are the only answers my family has to date.

My name is Ali Mustafa. Do not let my story ends here.