In September 1982, at the height of the Lebanese civil war, Wadad Halwani’s life changed irreversibly. Her husband Adnan was abducted, setting her on a long and arduous search for answers. She soon realized she was not alone: hundreds of women were enduring the same ordeal.
Halwani began organizing meetings with the wives and families of the missing, transforming individual grief into a collective movement demanding truth and justice. From these efforts emerged the Committee of the Families of the Kidnapped and Disappeared in Lebanon (CFKDL), which she has led for more than four decades.
In this piece, Halwani recounts her personal journey with loss and explains how her search for her husband evolved into a sustained struggle to secure the right of thousands of families to know the fate of their loved ones.
Can you take us back to the beginning of your journey: What is the story behind your husband’s disappearance, and how did his brutal absence shape the course of your life?
The war that tore through Lebanon for 15 years, from 1975 until 1990, did not spare our small family, my husband Adnan, our two sons, Ziad and Ghassan (who were six and three at the time), and me. It marked our lives in two profound ways.
First, it forced a separation we never chose. Adnan remained in Beirut, while the children and I spent nearly two months trapped in the town of Chanay in Mount Lebanon, under Israeli bombardment. We had gone there for a summer holiday and found ourselves unable to leave.
Then, just as we managed to return to Beirut and reunite as a family, violence came knocking at our door. In broad daylight, Adnan was taken. Two armed men in civilian clothes, carrying official identification, led him away under the pretext of a brief inquiry into a traffic accident that had never occurred. “Five minutes and he’ll be back,” they said. He never returned.
It was on September 24, 1982, just one day after the newly elected president, Amine Gemayel, delivered his inaugural address to parliament, pledging to consolidate peace and safeguard Lebanon’s independence and the safety of its citizens.
Adnan’s abduction struck me like lightning. It shattered my balance and nearly took away my ability to stand or think. However, being a mother to my two children forced me to gather myself and remain composed.
I became many versions of Wadad. One wandered the streets, knocking on officials’ doors, recounting what had happened, denouncing it, and appealing to consciences to help bring back her life partner, who was taken without having committed any crime. Another built a protective wall around her children, concealing the truth of their father’s disappearance. To sustain that illusion, I trained myself to smile as though everything were normal.
A third version of Wadad began searching for other women like me. Every official I met repeated the same phrase: “There are others like you.” I came to understand that collective action, alongside those “others”, might be more powerful than individual appeals in demanding the return of those abducted, detained, or missing.
I approached a local radio station near my workplace and asked them to broadcast a call inviting anyone who had lost a loved one to attend an introductory meeting. I set a date, time, and location that would allow me to go straight there after work.
What I encountered on November 24, 1982, was overwhelming. Instead of the two or three women I had expected, hundreds arrived, many accompanied by their children. I struggled to process the scale of the injustice before me. It was clear that a response equal to this tragedy was needed. Drawing on the strong voice I had developed as a teacher, I urged the women to stop crying and begin thinking about how to bring their loved ones home.
We decided to march to the prime minister’s office. We were met with security forces who attempted to block our way to the government headquarters under the pretext of the state of emergency declared in the country. After a tense standoff, a small delegation was allowed to meet the prime minister, on the condition that the protest disperse. He appeared visibly moved as he listened to our testimonies. But what he said at the end of the meeting, “the eye sees, but the hand is powerless”, undermined his promises and served as a stark warning that we would have to persist in our struggle.
I became a wife suspended in uncertainty, neither widow nor divorcee. Yet I remained a daughter, a sister, a mother, a daughter-in-law, a grandmother, a friend, a teacher, and eventually a department head.
And so, our cry rang out with the announcement of the formation of the Committee of the Families of the Kidnapped and Disappeared in Lebanon. This came exactly two months after Adnan’s abduction.
There also was a fourth version of Wadad: she was a geography teacher at Fakhr al-Din Public Secondary School for Girls, who continued to show up to work every day. She tried to leave her suffering at the school gates, even when she walked into the classroom straight from a protest. She found herself leading a growing group of women, each marked by a similar loss, yet each carrying her own story. She moved constantly between demonstrations and the classroom, and life carried on: she became a grandmother, and the journey continued.
Yet none of these versions erased the first Wadad, whose life had been shaken, though it had not come to a halt. I became a wife suspended in uncertainty, neither widow nor divorcee. Yet I remained a daughter, a sister, a mother, a daughter-in-law, a grandmother, a friend, a teacher, and eventually a department head. In short, I remained human, without needing to define whether I was a fourth, or even a fifth, version of myself.
Over many years of struggle alongside the families of the kidnapped and disappeared, what were the main challenges you faced? Did you feel the state responded, even partially, to your demands at any point?
When we first came together in 1982 to demand the release of our loved ones and their safe return, none of us imagined that our struggle would stretch over months and years, or that we would face an array of obstacles both during the war and long after it ended.
During the war, we were largely alone, operating under fire in the near-total absence of the state, while most people were preoccupied with protecting themselves and their families. Our love for those who were taken from us pushed us to confront the machinery of war and the warring factions themselves. We faced every form of intimidation, threats, inducements, and both financial and emotional blackmail. Some among us paid the ultimate price.
At the official level, our cause was met largely with indifference. Authorities deflected responsibility, citing the weakness of the state in the face of powerful militias and political factions. At times, we were given promises that led nowhere. The highest level of official “engagement” came in the form of successive committees, none of which met even the minimum international standards expected of such bodies.
The media played an important role in covering our activities during the war, but attention to our work was inconsistent. Our cause was often sidelined whenever a more sensational development emerged.
After the Taif Agreement was signed in 1989, the war was officially declared over in October 1990. As a committee of families, we were among those who most welcomed its end. We prepared ourselves—collectively and as individuals—to receive the loved ones who had been taken from us. But, unfortunately, that peace passed us by without acknowledgement. We were among the first to expose its fragility and illusions.
The official post-war policy can best be described as “let bygones be bygones.” Leaders of the former warring factions came together and agreed to divide power, decision-making, and the country’s resources along sectarian and political lines. The key to the success of this arrangement was to close all war-related files, including that of the missing, without opening them for accountability or resolution. They agreed to draw a thick curtain over the war, as if it had never happened. A general amnesty law was swiftly enacted, absolving those responsible for wartime crimes.
They resorted to suppressing freedoms, silencing dissent, and imposing strict control over the media, often through co-optation and financial influence. Reconstruction policies followed the same logic, openly promoting the erasure of the past and discouraging any reckoning with it. It is not unlikely that reconstruction efforts themselves disturbed mass graves and the remains of the dead.
By 2000, we had come to understand that the issue of the 17,000 missing was not limited to their families alone, but was a responsibility borne by society as a whole. We succeeded in building a broader support network that brought together individuals and institutions from across different sectors. Together, we launched the first national campaign under the slogan “It Is Our Right to Know.”
This pressure forced the state to respond, at least in part. It established an official commission tasked with investigating all cases of kidnapping and disappearance and determining the fate of the missing, our primary demand. The commission’s only meaningful acknowledgment was the existence of mass graves.
Subsequent committees were formed, and their mandates repeatedly extended. Yet they remained bodies without real authority, and none succeeded in uncovering the fate of a single missing person.
The Committee of the Families of the Kidnapped and Disappeared in Lebanon succeeded in securing legal recognition of victims’ rights through Law 105 of 2018. What does this achievement mean to you personally? Has it opened new prospects for families? And what remains to be done to achieve justice for your cause?
The lack of seriousness demonstrated by successive governments—through the creation of numerous non-specialized committees with no real authority—combined with our exposure to the experiences of other countries that had endured war and addressed the issue of the missing, made it clear that we needed to fight for the adoption of dedicated legal framework to deal with our case.
A draft law on missing and forcibly disappeared persons was prepared by a small group of lawyers who supported our cause, with backing from the International Center for Transitional Justice. The draft was discussed and revised through numerous expanded meetings that brought together activists, civil society representatives, and international partners. It was formally launched in 2012, submitted to Parliament in 2014, and ultimately passed following three successive national campaigns we organized with our partners in 2017 and 2018.
Securing the law on missing and forcibly disappeared persons was a major achievement for the Committee and its allies. Its central significance lies in enshrining the right of every family to know the fate of their missing relative. The law also mandates the establishment of an independent national commission, endowed with broad powers, tasked with tracing the missing and forcibly disappeared and determining their fate. This body, the National Commission for the Missing and Forcibly Disappeared, was formed in July 2020.
This achievement came at the cost of 36 years of sustained struggle, and we are now working to ensure that its implementation does not require a similar passage of time. Proper enforcement of the law is not only about alleviating the suffering of families, important as that is, but also represents a necessary pathway to genuine reconciliation. It can help the state restore its credibility, regain institutional integrity, and fulfill its responsibilities.
By committing to the search for the missing, the state is, in effect, searching for its own people, recognizing them as equal citizens or residents, without discrimination along sectarian, religious, or regional lines. In doing so, it contributes to safeguarding society against a relapse into violence and renewed conflict.
In your view, what do the families of the kidnapped and disappeared need at the psychological, social, and legal levels? How can civil society, the media, legal actors, and local communities provide meaningful support to this cause?
At the psychological level, there must be clear recognition of the suffering endured by families as a result of not knowing the fate of their missing loved ones, along with sustained support to help them cope with this prolonged uncertainty. Within the Committee, we run an ongoing program to accompany families through regular meetings, offering a space for them to voice their concerns and experiences. We also support them in producing artistic works that preserve the memory of the missing. Among these are Empty Chairs, Waiting Families, Suspended Time, and the Mural of Names. Families have also been trained in creative writing, resulting in the publication of Windmills of Our Hearts, authored by 15 women from affected families.
At the social level, the Committee works to break the isolation experienced by families by keeping them regularly informed about developments in the case, both regarding the Committee’s efforts and the work of the National Commission for the Missing and Forcibly Disappeared. The aim is to engage families as active rights-holders rather than passive victims, and to involve them, as much as possible, in decision-making processes.
At the economic and legal levels, there is a significant need for financial support, particularly for families who have lost their primary breadwinner. This includes providing official documentation recognizing a person as missing, which can grant access to administrative and financial relief, such as easing daily living costs and facilitating legal procedures, such as property management for example. Law 105 of 2018 also affirms the right of families to both moral and material compensation.
How do you see the issue of the kidnapped and disappeared within Lebanon’s broader path toward justice? And what role do families play in this process?
In countries emerging from war or authoritarian rule, transitional justice mechanisms are typically put in place. In Lebanon, however, justice remains largely absent. The clearest indication is that the legacy of the past has yet to be addressed, foremost among its unresolved issues is the case of the war’s missing, which now spans five decades. Moreover, the conditions necessary for implementing Law 105 of 2018 are still not adequately in place. In other words, there remains a lack of genuine political will to enforce it.
As a committee of families, however, we will neither relinquish our right to know the truth about the fate of our loved ones nor our demand for justice.
Only by confronting that history can society prevent the repetition of past crimes and lay the foundations for a safer future
Our vision of justice is rooted in reconciliation. We deliberately ensured that Law 105 of 2018 does not include punitive measures for past violations, because we do not seek to reignite conflict. The accountability we call for is not directed at those who, in the context of war, were driven to harm us and our loved ones. Rather, it is directed at those who today deny our rights, those who ignore the legally enshrined right to know, obstruct access to information, provide false data, or otherwise hinder efforts to trace the missing.
Our strategy is to persist through all forms of peaceful advocacy in order to break the wall of silence and denial. This struggle must not remain confined to the families of the missing; it must expand to encompass all segments of Lebanese society, especially younger generations, many of whom are unaware of what occurred in the past. Only by confronting that history can society prevent the repetition of past crimes and lay the foundations for a safer future.
After all these years of patience and sustained effort, what gives you the strength to continue? And what message would you like to convey to the Lebanese people, particularly younger generations?
My strength has always come, first and foremost, from my deep love for Adnan, for my two sons, and now for my three grandchildren. That love extends as well to the families of the missing, to those who are still unaccounted for, and to all of Lebanon’s people.
The generations that came after the war, fortunately, did not experience its horrors firsthand. Yet they have inherited its enduring consequences, which continue to affect every aspect of life and the country’s institutions.
By chance, I found myself at the origin of the Committee of the Families of the Kidnapped and Disappeared in Lebanon. But I never imagined that it would remain active for nearly 44 years. Nor did I foresee becoming its spokesperson, following every detail of its work, or coming to be known as “Wadad of the Missing.” I never imagined taking on the responsibility of supporting the women, guiding them through meetings and protests, listening to their concerns and personal struggles, even within their own homes.
Silence in the face of injustice is complicity
I recall a question once posed to me by Layla, the mother of the abducted Simon Gadeah: “We all lean on your shoulders and place our burdens on you, do you have someone to lean on?” I smiled and embraced her kindness.
Endurance along this long and arduous path does not mean that I am not tired. I do grow weary, because I am human, but I persist. We are rights-holders, and we will neither relinquish our rights nor negotiate them away. This is both a moral and national duty, one I strive to uphold and to pass on to those who share this difficult journey with me.
Silence in the face of injustice is complicity. Recognizing the right of families of the missing and forcibly disappeared to know the fate of their loved ones is, above all, a moral stance grounded in human dignity. It is essential to continue working to place the issue of the missing at the center of broader reflection on collective responsibility, human rights, and the role of justice in building lasting peace.
Equally important is transforming schools and universities from mere sites of instruction into spaces of memory and awareness, places where younger generations can come to understand that justice and the pursuit of truth are not matters of the past, but prerequisites for a secure and stable future.
Wadad Halwani is the director of the Committee of the Families of the Kidnapped and Disappeared in Lebanon, which she founded in 1982.