Estephan Iskandar

My name is Estephan. Before the start of the war, I used to work at a tiling company in the Batroun region. I was the father of 11 children, seven boys and four girls, aged between a year and a half to 21 years old. I was very proud of my boys, but everyone knew that I mostly pampered my girls. They were my princesses. They could ask of me whatever they want and I was always ready to give them joy.

We were living in Bjdarfel, somewhere near Batroun. It was a peaceful and pleasant place. But early on in 1975, armed men ventured into our village and set up a camp there. Following these men’s arrival, many of the villagers, especially the youth, decided to move. To keep my children away from harms’ way, I asked my wife Bahia to give our kids shelter in Jbeil. I, however stayed in the village because of work. After a while, and once the situation in the region steadied, they all came back home.

But in August 1975, only three months after the beginning of the war, those armed men who had remained present in our village, knocked on my door. They forced me out of the house, under the watchful eyes of my children.

I never laid foot inside that house ever since. My wife and family had to face the war and fifteen years of hardship all alone”. I was not there to provide them with a decent life, neither was I there to reassure my children when they were scared of the sounds of the bombings, or there to give strength to my wife in the moments of uncertainty.

Bahia will never know my fate. She passed away a couple of years ago. My children are still hoping that one day, they will know what had happened on that ominous day of August 1975.

My name is Estephan Iskandar. Do not let my story end here.