Hassan Ghandour

Beirut, Saturday December 6th 1975.

Within the span of two hours of that dreadful day, hundreds of people were arrested, savagely murdered or even kidnapped.

My name is Hassan Ghandour, and I am one of the victims of the Black Saturday.

On that day, I was staying at a hotel in downtown Beirut, nearby the Debbas square. My work as an editor for the Safir newspaper, would sometimes have me stay there. When work required me to be in Beirut, I would rent out a hotel room for one or two nights, since my house was in Jwaya in the South.

On that day, I heard gun shots. It did not sound like an exchange of fire, it rather seemed to be coming from one direction. The noise of the shootings got louder and louder. A state of panic suddenly hit everyone around me. People started running, terror was engraved on every face.

Within seconds, news of the massacre started spreading. I headed back to my hotel. As I was going up the stairs to get to my room, I heard armed men ask the receptionists for the list of guests. When they read out my name, my heart stopped. It was only seconds before I found myself blindfolded, sitting in a car, heading towards the unknown. An unknown that I could only but dread.

What happened next? No one knows. Was I killed and buried within a few hundred meters? Or was I taken in for questioning and transferred to a detention center, somewhere far away from where I was kidnapped?

Forty years later, my family is still waiting for an answer.

My name is Hassan Ghandour. My story does not end here.