Lebanese man who spent 32 years in Syrian prisons welcomed home
Suheil Hamwi was arrested in 1992 in the town of Chekka in northern Lebanon – it would be years before his family even found out what had happened.
A man who spent 32 years in a Syrian prison has finally returned to his home in Lebanon after an offensive by insurgents toppled the government of Bashar Assad.
In 1992, Suheil Hamwi worked as a merchant, selling various goods in the town of Chekka in northern Lebanon. On the night of Eid il-Burbara, or Saint Barbara’s Day – a holiday similar to Halloween – a man came to his door to buy some whiskey.
Mr Hamwi said he handed his 10-month-old son, George, to his wife and went to his car to fetch the whiskey and make the sale.
As he approached his vehicle, a car filled with men pulled up, he said, forcing him inside and taking him away.
It would be years before his family heard from him again.
Mr Hamwi was one of hundreds of Lebanese citizens detained during Syria’s occupation of Lebanon from 1976 to 2005 and believed to be held in Syrian prisons for decades.
On Sunday, freedom came to him and others unexpectedly – prisoners who had heard rumours about Syria’s opposition forces and their sweeping campaign found that guards had abandoned their posts.
Mr Hamwi and other prisoners left, he said, and he would soon be among the first from Lebanon to re-enter the country.
“I’m still scared this might not be real,” he told The Associated Press in an interview Tuesday from his home – the same one he left more than three decades ago.
This new reality feels fragile, but, he said: “I found my freedom.”
For years after the night of his disappearance, Mr Hamwi’s family did not know where he was. It was not until 16 years later that his wife discovered he was imprisoned in Syria. Even then, the reason for his detention remained unclear, Mr Hamwi said.
It took another four years before authorities finally told him the charge, he said: He was detained because he was a member of the Lebanese Forces, a Christian political party that also functioned as a militia during the 15-year Lebanese civil war that ended in 1990.
The party fought against Syrian forces and remained opposed to Syria’s military presence in Lebanon afterward.
Mr Hamwi said prison interrogations were cryptic.
“They asked for my name, my parents’ names, my age, and where I was from. That’s all,” he said. Then he would be sent back to his cell. “There was no lawyer, no nothing.”
He said he spent his first years in Syria’s notorious Saydnaya prison before being transferred to other facilities, eventually ending up in prison in Latakia. Torture marked his early days behind bars, he added, “but that stopped after a while”.
For years, he said, he lived in nearly complete isolation. He was alone in a small cell, surrounded by other Lebanese detainees as well as Palestinians and Iraqis.
In 2008, he said, his wife was able to visit him for the first time. Then she came about once a year.
Last week, there was some buzz in the prison about what was happening outside. “But we didn’t know the dream would reach us,” Mr Hamwi said.
Early on Sunday morning, chaos erupted as prisoners discovered the guards were gone.
“The first door opened,” Mr Hamwi said, describing how rebels stormed the prison and started opening cell gates. “Then others followed. And for those who couldn’t open their gates, they started coming out through the walls.”
The prisoners left “walking toward the unknown”, he said. “And I walked with them.”
Strangers on the street helped guide him back to Lebanon, Mr Hamwi said. He came into the country through the Arida border crossing in northern Lebanon, where his family waited on the other side.
As Mr Hamwi walked through his door, it was his two grandchildren who greeted him.
“This is the first time I met them,” Mr Hamwi later told AP, his voice tinged with disbelief.
In the living room, Mr Hamwi took in photos of moments he’d missed: George’s graduation portrait; George with his wife; Hamwi’s own smiling wife, Josephine, with granddaughter Tala.
Grandson Chris clung to Mr Hamwi’s hand, giggling as he called out “Jeddo!” — Arabic for grandpa.
Mr Hawmi has visited a hospital for tests to assess the toll of 32 years in captivity. And he has to relearn life outside prison walls.
He hoped one of the best moments was yet to come: his reunion with only son George, an engineer working in the Gulf.
In their first phone call, Mr Hamwi said, George told him the words he’d been longing to hear: “I miss you. I love you. I’m waiting to see you.”
