Khalil Menshawi

My name is Khalil. Before the beginning of the war, I was living in Dekweneh with my wife and our five children. I was working at a gas station near our home. I worked as an accountant and administrator. I loved my job.

Unfortunately, tension in the region kept growing. I knew that we could not stay in this country for any longer, so I was preparing myself to move to Germany with my family.

Yet the situation swiftly deteriorated. On August 12th 1976, fighters took refuge in the mountains while civilians were evacuated towards West Beirut. Everything was in disarray. We were with thousands of people attempting to get on the buses, to get away from the danger. Unfortunately, there were not enough vehicles to move everyone so we had to squeeze in tightly inside. My wife Tamam was carrying our 6 months old Silvana in her arms. Our other four children, aged between 3 and 7 were hanging onto me, trying to stay still in the middle of this bustle. But people kept climbing onto the bus. We were barely able to breath. On that day, many children died due to suffocation. Among them were my son Wissam, aged 3 years old, and my daughter Sawsan, who was 5 at the time.

Our nightmare was supposed to come to an end at the museum area. There was one last checkpoint before arriving to West Beirut. Once there, armed men ordered us to step out of the truck, putting men on one side and women and children on the other.

My name is Khalil Menshawi. Do not let my story end here.