Deeb Matar

My name is Deeb.

I was living with my wife and children in the Ouzai neighborhood. I was a 41 years old man that had never participated in the war. I was doing my best to keep my two sons away from the militias.

I would long for those times back in the day, when we could go anywhere freely; back when our religious background had no influence whatsoever on our friendships. I used to wish that these battles would come to an end.

Unfortunately, I did not have the chance to see the end of the war.

On November 7th 1985, as I was leaving my workplace, one of my colleagues saw me in the passenger seat in the company of Syrian soldiers. I looked terrified. As he called on me to check that everything is fine, I explained to him that I had to drop these men up in Hermel and that I will go back home right after that. These were the last words anyone has ever heard me say.

My wife Fatima swore she would find me.

In Lebanon, in Syria, she knocked on every other door. “Come back tomorrow!” this brief answer, was all she was given. Yet that was enough to raise her hopes up for a few hours, hopes that someone might actually help her. But she would return the following day to discover that these people were simply trying to get rid of her and avoid answering her overwhelming questions.

But she wouldn’t give in, she would keep fighting against the world, screaming that her husband could not have simply vanished, screaming for help.

The only comfort she found was in the company of wives and mothers of the others that disappeared. These people, who were separated from their loved ones by the war, people from various communities and regions, have now come together to share their sorrow and demand the release of their loved ones.

The war has ended, but their battle goes on.

My name is Deeb Matar. My wife Fatima and thousands of other women in Lebanon are still waiting. Do not let our story end here.