Fadi Habbal

My name is Fadi. In 1983, I was studying at the Aamliyeh Institute in Beirut. I used to go back home to Saida every weekend to check up on my family. Like many of my friends, I was a volunteer in the Red Cross. During this time of war, I was convinced that it was my duty to help others. I believe I inherited this commitment from my mother who was a nurse.

During my last few days at home, I had had a long talk with my sister Zeina. She had asked me about the rescue operations I had participated in recently. I used to bemoan the loss of young people – who were as old as I was – dying because of the war. I could not have imagined that a few days later, I myself would be taken away from my family.

In the following week, my sister and my parents were waiting for me as usual. But I did not come home. Worried, they left Saida and headed to Beirut to ask my friends and classmates if they had any news about me. But they too, had not seen me during the past few days.

During the months following my disappearance, my family desperately searched for news about me, asking the different warring parties at the time. Yet they never got an answer. Until the day when a man showed up at their doorstep to inform them that he had seen me when I was being detained in a prison in Syria.

My family was relieved; I was still alive; they had a glimpse of hope that one day I will be coming back home. However, as time went by, my loved ones’ desperation grew bigger.

In 2005, while visiting the tents set up by the families of the missing in downtown Beirut, people who were released from the Syrian prison recognized my picture.

Once more, my relatives’ hope was reignited. But how can they be sure of what they were told? How can they find answers? How can they go on living with these never ending questions?

My name is Fadi Habbal. Do not let my story end here.