A life in limbo: Sarah’s search for truth and survival

The recent and historic change of government sent ripples across Syria. While some families embraced the hope of returning home, others remained hesitant – caught between relief and the fear of the unknown. But for those searching for loved ones lost in Syria’s prisons, this change in government has sparked a fragile flicker of hope.

Aman Soufi, Humanitarian Advocacy Advisor at Islamic Relief, shares one of the many heartbreaking stories she has encountered.

For years, families were too afraid to speak openly about their missing loved ones. But since December 2024, they have dared to believe that answers may finally come.

In 2021, the United Nations estimated that more than 130,000 people had disappeared during the war. Each name represents a shattered family, a life suspended in painful uncertainty.

Sarah is one of those left behind.

The day everything changed

On 6 January 2013, Sarah’s world collapsed. That morning, her husband left their home in Latakia, tasked with transporting solar panels from Homs in his van. It was routine – just another day of providing for his family.

“I remember watching him leave at 8am,” Sarah recalls. “Our eldest son was 4, our daughter was 3, and our youngest was only a month old.”

But that evening, he never returned. Hours turned to days, then weeks. The silence was suffocating.

“At first, I was sure he would walk through the door any moment,” she says. “But as the days stretched into months, that certainty turned into desperation. There was no news. Nothing. Just a void.”

The struggle to survive

Left alone with 3 young children, Sarah sought refuge with her family but the financial strain became too much to bear. After 3 years, she had no choice but to return to the home she had once shared with her husband.

Sarah holds a diploma in Business Administration, but in a country where jobs are scarce, and the economy is collapsing, she had no other choice but to take whatever work she could find just to provide for her children.

“Moving back was the hardest thing I ever did,” Sarah confesses. “I had no income, no support. I had to take any job I could find – cleaning staircases, washing floors – just to buy milk and diapers for my baby.”

Her eldest son, barely a child himself, took on responsibilities beyond his years. He walked miles to school to save money on transport, often arriving exhausted and hungry.

“He goes straight from school to work, then comes home at night exhausted, only to wake up early and do it all over again.” 

“We had to choose between breakfast and lunch,” Sarah says. “We couldn’t afford both. Most days, it was just enough food to keep them going.”

Despite their struggles, Sarah remained determined to give her children an education.

“No matter what, I wanted them to succeed,” she says. “My eldest is in his eleventh grade, ranked first in his school last year. He works after school to help out, but he still excels in his studies. My daughter is in tenth grade and youngest son now in seventh grade are just as determined, despite everything.”

Sarah’s sacrifices have taken a toll, however. Years of stress and hardship have ravaged her health.

“I’ve developed over 20 illnesses,” she says quietly. “I feel like I raised my children with my tears. It has been an incredibly difficult journey. Sometimes, I wonder how much longer I can keep going.”

An endless search for answers

In recent months, as detention centres have opened and prisoners have been released, Sarah’s children have clung to hope that their father’s name might appear on a list. But each time, they are met with silence.

“We submitted his name so many times,” Sarah says. “No response. Nothing. He is neither among the living nor the dead.”

For the last 13 years, Sarah has been trapped in a bureaucratic nightmare. In Syria, without proof of disappearance, families face legal hurdles in property rights, inheritance, and obtaining IDs for their children.

“Authorities told me to get a death certificate,” she explains. “But how can I, when I don’t even know if he’s dead? In the records, he is still listed as ‘alive’, which means I can’t claim any support or even secure my children’s legal rights.”

Sarah no longer dreams of her husband returning. She only wants closure.

“I used to pray for him to come back,” she admits. “Now, I just pray for a grave. Somewhere to go, to grieve, to tell my children: ‘This is where your father rests.’”

A call for protection

Across Syria, thousands share Sarah’s pain. The search for the missing is tangled in political red tape, lost records, and destroyed evidence. As detention centres are emptied, human right organisations warn of an even greater crisis – without careful documentation, the fate of thousands may remain forever unknown.

Islamic Relief and along with other humanitarian groups is calling for the protection of potential grave sites and legal frameworks to ensure that families like Sarah’s can finally find peace.

On 10 February 2025, the Independent Institution on Missing Persons in Syria (IIMP), an UN-backed body, completed its first visit to the country. Everywhere they went, they heard the same refrain: “Everyone in Syria knows someone who is missing.”

For Sarah, justice is not a lofty ideal – it is a desperate plea for recognition, for truth, for an end to the limbo that has stolen over a decade of her life.

“I don’t know how I survived those first years,” she says, tears in her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I just kept holding on, waiting for news that never came.”

Now, she waits for a different kind of answer. Not a hope of return, but of acceptance.

“Graves have become our biggest dream,” she whispers. And that in itself, is the greatest tragedy of all.

Sarah’s story is far from over. She continues to navigate financial hardship, balancing her job as a cleaner while her eldest son works after school to help make ends meet. Burdened by debt and monthly instalments, she and thousands like her all share the same struggle – living in uncertainty, yet refusing to give up.

*Names have been changed to protect confidentiality