The International Day Of the Disappeared: Memory Boxes - Gardens of Memories

Just like Rubik's Cube, where perseverance enables you to solve it one way or another, Abdul Razaq’s family clung to hope and kept searching for that one thread that might guide them to him.

He was born in Lebanon, but vanished without a trace in Syria, transforming his memory from that of an adventurous brother, ambitiously challenging his siblings, to an absentee whose name is lovingly mentioned on every occasion as a symbol of kindness and courage at times of crises. 

At the psycho-social support sessions, his belongings became alive, soothing his brother Abdul Munem and appeasing his trembling hand, as he finally dared to touch his brother’s eyeglasses, and even put them on, hoping at that moment to see the world through his eyes: adventures, boldness, and a persistence that inspires him to continue searching for his missing brother, no matter how long it takes. 

And then there was the bottle of perfume; he once sprayed some of it on those around him, filling the room with his brother’s fragrance, and reminding him that no matter how long his absence continues, he will always be present in the hearts of his loved ones. 

A decade of absence leaves a memory of with a face, a scent, and a presence that never fades, even in his absence.

Like a lighter, “Mohammad Hasan” lit up the life of Thuraya when they got married, when she moved from a house where she grew up as an orphan, to a home that embraced her with the warmth of family. But when the conflict broke out in Syria, Hasan disappeared, and all contact with him was lost; the flame that once warmed her life had faded with his absence. Thuraya left for Jordan, leaving behind even the home that Hasan had lovingly furnished corner by corner. She was far away from home, but never from memories. 

As she was fleeing, Thuraya gathered Hasan’s belongings before her own, to preserve them just as he left them, hoping to meet him again. Maybe, if he returned, he would find his nail clipper, his hair cream, and his perfume, which still lingers in her breath. Perhaps if he ever returned… but then even if he didn’t, his memory would still be her solace. 

Every letter has a story, and our letters were full of hope that we would finally get together, but outside the prison bars. 

Despite the anguish, Wafa’s heart had some solace because she knew the whereabouts of her son, Alaa, the apple of her eye and heart. During each visit, they would meet for a few minutes; he would hand her a painting that he drew with coffee leftovers and sand, other times he would hand her a written letter, and by the end of the visit, her heart would burn for the next one, while Alaa spends his time creating beauty inside the deaf walls, to give his mom as a gift in the next meeting. 

But… when will that meeting take place?

Alaa disappeared without a trace, just like many others, while his shadow continued to grip his mother’s heart; sometimes she imagines him in a shirt embracing her son’s body, at others she sees him through his handwriting, or the touch of his hair locks when she cut them for the first time, according to old Arabi tradition, when they used to cut a newborn’s hair to donate its weight in money for the needy. 

But whether he was a child snuggling in his mother’s lap, or a teenager entering the house calling “mom… are you there?”, or a young man deprived of his liberty, Wafaa still awaits the day when she answers him back: “yes my love, I am here”, hoping he would return home then, safe and secure.  

Twelve years ago, the hands of time stopped at the moment that Shahd’s father disappeared, when she was five years old. And now, at seventeen years of age, she listens to Asala’s song called “box”, while the rosary beads, scented with the perfume of her father’s hands, flow through her fingers, like grains of sand in an hourglass in the hours that passed without him. 

Shahed had kept some pictures whose colours were fading under the weight of years, but unlike colours, the longer the time passed, the more persistent Shahed became, and the more her love and longing grew. Unlike her little brother, Shahed had the chance to see her father, even for a short while… but it was enough to make her write to him on every occasion, as if she were chatting with him about his absence, as if he had never disappeared one day. 

Whenever Shahed misses her father, she writes to him a letter, as if asking him to “come back”. Her voice melts with that of [chanter] Ali Hojeyj chanting: “come back”, hoping that her father’s soul would listen to this call somewhere… bringing him back to her.