Mohamad Mustafa

My name is Mohammad. If you were to ever visit my house in Tripoli, you will see that it is filled with pictures of me. This is how my wife maintains my presence at home. She is the most courageous woman I know. During our time together, she bore me six children, but unfortunately two of them did not survive. She dedicated her time to raising our two sons and two daughters. She had to do that mostly on her own, since I was working between Oman, Qatar and Riyadh as a construction engineer and only saw them once every few months.

After a while, I decided I wanted to spend more time with my children and see them grow up, so in 1987, I returned. Sadly, I was only allowed to enjoy three months with my family. In November 1987, a group of armed men stormed into our house at 3am, and took me away. As they blindfolded and handcuffed me, I could hear my wife shouting. I could still hear her voice as they put me in a truck, and beat me with sticks.

Since that day, my wife has been looking for me, going to detention centers in Syria and in Lebanon; she even received threats… but she never stopped. I am lucky to have such a courageous wife.

My name is Mohamad Mustafa. Do not let my story end here.