Milad Youssef

My name is Milad. I was born in Ein Majdelein in the Jezzine district, in 1965. I was a mechanical engineer working at the Volvo company. My family used to believe that I was in love with my cousin. I kept this a secret to myself. I was a fun guy that did not take life too seriously.

My sister Jeanette was my favorite game partner. We used to spend our time fighting. When the war battles would force us to find shelter in the ditches, we would kill time and overcome our fears by playing cards. One day, after losing a hand to my sister, I had this gruesome idea of throwing an apple to her face which hurt her and made her bleed. This had cost me a decent punishment from my father. Today, Jeanette remembers this moment as she examines the small scar near her eye, all filled with emotions. Today, her scar and the few photos she has of me are my only remaining traces.

August 30th 1983, aged 18 years old, I disappeared. I had just joined the Lebanese army and was positioned at the airport checkpoint, the one linking Beirut to Mecharafieh. It was there that armed men kidnapped me.

Last Friday, the International Committee of the Red Cross declared that it was collecting DNA from the families of the missing to be able to identify the human remains buried in mass graves. It is a very important step, yet it remains insufficient as long as the Lebanese authorities have neither located nor exhumed the mass graves. It is only at this point that my relatives would be able to know the truth about my fate and that they would be able to visit the tomb in which I will be laying in peace.

My name is Milad Youssef. Do not let my story end here.