Syrian Journalist Wafa Mustafa: "I Will Bring My Father Home, Disappeared by Assad's Régime. That's Why I Survive"

 

 'The day my father was taken by police and disappeared is etched in my memory and will never leave me. It was July 2, 2013. At the time, my family was divided between my hometown of Masyaf and the capital Damascus. My father was in the family home in Damascus at the time because it had become too dangerous for him to stay in our hometown. My mother was on her way to visit him after months of separation, risking her safety to be with him. She was only 15 minutes away when she called him to say she was almost there. He told her he had cleaned the house and was waiting for her. But when she arrived, it was too late. The Assad régime’s security forces had already stormed the apartment and taken my father away. It was as if, in that single moment, my life had split in two: before and after. I felt helpless, as if everything had collapsed on me. The image of my mother arriving home, expecting to see her husband, only to find that he was gone, still breaks my heart.



 My father disappeared because he had the courage to speak out against Bashar al-Assad’s régime. He was a voice of the Syrian revolution, an advocate for freedom and dignity. Before his disappearance, he had already been arrested for daring to speak out about politics in a country that wants its people to have no opinions or beliefs. But my father refused to be silenced. By 2013, the revolution had taken hold and he was living in a régime-controlled neighborhood where many arrests were taking place. The régime could not tolerate his defiance, so they came for him. His best friend, Hussam, who was taken with him that day, is said to have died under torture. However, we have not heard from my father since. My father’s crime was to want a better and free Syria, and that is why he disappeared.



 That day marked the end of our old lives and the beginning of an endless nightmare. My father’s disappearance destroyed our family. It wasn’t just about losing him, it was about losing our entire sense of security, home and family. My father had always been our pillar of strength, resilience and hope. We had no choice but to flee. My mother, my younger sister and I fled Syria in the dark of night, carrying only our passports. We crossed the border into Turkey, terrified for our lives, leaving my father behind. In that moment, my life changed forever. I had always imagined that I would stay in Syria and continue to fight for justice, but after that day, nothing was the same. We became refugees, separated from each other and from everything we had ever known. That day destroyed the life we ​​had and we have lived in the shadow of that moment ever since.





Today I still live with the uncertainty that has dominated my life since my father's disappearance. I have not heard his voice or seen his face for over 4,100 days. Every day is a struggle, but I continue to move forward because I have no other choice. The pain of losing him has become part of who I am. It's as if a piece of my soul is missing. I spend my days fighting for him and for all those who have disappeared in Syria. This fight has become a reason for survival. There are moments when I look in the mirror and I struggle to recognize myself because the weight of this journey has aged me in ways I cannot describe. But despite the tiredness and the pain, I continue to move forward because I believe, with all my heart, that he is still alive and I cannot stop looking for him.



 I don’t see what I do as activism; it’s a fight for my father’s life. This fight is deeply personal, rooted in my father’s teachings and the values ​​he instilled in me. My father raised me to think about myself and community. Now, my fight is not just about him; it’s for the 150,000 Syrians who have been forcibly disappeared and their families who endure this unimaginable suffering. It’s not just about making noise or raising awareness; it’s about ensuring that my father and others like him are free and not forgotten. That’s my purpose, and I won’t stop until I find out what happened to him.



 Syria today is a country marked by years of brutality, ruled by a dictatorship that has obliterated lives, families and homes. For those of us who were forced to leave, it remains a country suspended in grief, haunted by the memories of those who disappeared, including my father. Syria is also a place of profound resilience, where people have dared to dream of a better reality. It is not only a land torn apart by war, but a reminder of what happens when global powers back dictators. Until Syria sees justice, the fight for freedom is far from over.



 It matters because the world has begun to forget. The régime that caused so much suffering is slowly normalizing on the global stage. But for those of us who have lost loved ones, who have been forced into exile, and who continue to live with the trauma of disappearances, the wounds are still fresh. More than 150,000 people have been forcibly disappeared and their families are still waiting for answers. The world could move on, but we cannot. If we stop telling Syria’s story, if we stop supporting the disappeared, we allow these crimes to be swept under the carpet. Syria’s story is not just a story of war; it is a story of resilience, of people who refuse to be silenced. We owe it to our loved ones to keep fighting for liberation and justice, no matter how long it takes.



 I live in Berlin, Germany today. I left Turkey for Berlin after three years of living there. It was one of the hardest decisions I have ever had to make: leaving my family. My mother and younger sister are now in Canada, while my other sister is in the United States. We have been separated since I came to Germany. It is a strange kind of existence, living so far away from home and the people I love. Exile is lonely and painful, but I continue my work here because giving up is a luxury I cannot afford.



 When I think of my father, I see the man who was my hero, the one who filled our home with music, politics and ideas. He was passionate about freedom, not just for Syria but for everyone. He fought for justice and I wanted to be just like him ever since I was a little girl. But I also see the man who was taken from us and is a nightmare I can’t escape. I imagine him in a dark cell and I wonder if he’s cold, hungry, sick, sad or lonely. I wonder if he thinks we’ve given up and forgotten him. These thoughts break my heart. I try not to let them consume me, but they’re always there, just beneath the surface. Despite it all, I hold on to the belief that he’s still alive. Many people have returned after years of being thought dead, and I hold on to that hope. I have to believe that one day I will find him.'