Dani Mansourati

Year 1990, is a date that represents the end of the Lebanese civil war. The end of the bombings and the return of harmony. After 15 long years of conflict, the warlords and the foreign authorities decided to put an end to this war, to “turn the page” and overlook the atrocities committed.

1993, is the start of the process of “rebuilding”, life seemed to be regaining its balance. Yet, despite the efforts put forth to silence the victims’ sufferings, the desperate cries of the families of the disappeared still resonate.

During that same year, I was in Damascus, with my brother Pierre, on the way to visit some family relatives. All of a sudden, we got stopped by members of the regime who forced my brother out of the car and boarded my vehicle. Within seconds, I was kidnapped in the heart of Damascus, in broad daylight. I was then taken 30km north of the city to the Sednaya prison, which was sadly reputed for its maltreatment. I never got out.

On April 11th 2005, the families of the missing started a sit in, to draw attention to the tragedy of the detainees in Syria. In the context of that era, it was a courageous act that symbolized a flicker of hope. My mother joined the dozens of women who had gathered to demand their loved ones’ freedom. But contrary to what they had expected, the withdrawal of the Syrian army did not terminate their agony. The tent, which was erected as a call for help, has unfortunately become part of down town’s landscape and now fails to attract any attention.

2017, the tent is still there, but it is without the ones who had given it life. These women who had held sit ins for the last twelve years, have now grown old and are deprived from the ones who had offered them constant support. They have lost the strength to go on.

Abandoned to face their fate, they still hold on to their hope of being heard.

My mother spends most of her time at home. She looks after my room and makes sure it stays as I left it. She doesn’t stop telling herself that the worst pain one can inflict on a mother, is the knowledge that her son is suffering and she is unable to help.

My name is Dani Mansourati. Do not let my story end here.