On the streets of Beirut, art has once again become a language for memory, grief, and justice. On Wednesday, August 19, 2026, the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) unveiled a powerful new mural in Beirut’s Hamra district, created by Lebanese mural artist Spazuno, also known as Spaz. Titled “الآلاف مفقودون، ويُفتقَدون” (Thousands Remain Missing, and Missed), the work seeks to keep one of Lebanon’s most painful unresolved chapters in the public consciousness: the thousands of people who disappeared during the country’s civil war and whose families continue to wait for answers.
The mural is more than a work of public art. It is a reminder that, for thousands of families, the Lebanese Civil War did not truly end in 1990. Its consequences remain alive in unanswered questions, empty chairs, fading photographs, and generations of relatives who still do not know what happened to their loved ones.
When Absence Becomes the Subject
Spazuno’s artistic concept centers on the fragile boundary between presence and absence. From a distance, the image appears recognizable and almost immediate. But as the viewer moves closer, the image begins to dissolve into a seemingly chaotic dust of colors. That transformation is central to the meaning of the work. The closer one looks, the less certain the image becomes. What initially appears clear begins to disappear. In this way, the mural reflects the experience of families searching for missing loved ones: every possible clue can seem to bring them closer to the truth, only for certainty to disappear once again into the darkness of the unknown. It is an especially poignant metaphor for families who have spent decades trying to reconstruct stories from fragments—an old photograph, a witness account, a rumor, a document, or the faint possibility that someone, somewhere, knows what happened. The mural therefore does not simply depict absence. It makes the viewer experience it.
A War That Never Fully Ended
Lebanon’s civil war lasted from 1975 to 1990 and left behind a legacy of political, social, and human suffering that continues to shape the country. Among its most enduring unresolved issues is the fate of the missing and forcibly disappeared. Estimates commonly place the number of people missing from the conflict at around 17,000. For their families, these are not statistics. They are fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, and friends whose stories remain unfinished. Death, as devastating as it may be, can eventually bring a form of certainty. Disappearance offers none. Families are left suspended between hope and grief, unable to properly mourn because they do not know whether their loved one died, where they died, or what happened to them. That uncertainty can be inherited. Children and grandchildren can grow up carrying questions that began decades before they were born.
The Promise of Law 105
The unveiling of the mural also coincided with the anniversary of the adoption of Law 105 of 2018, an important milestone in Lebanon’s efforts to address the issue. The law recognized the right of families to know the fate of their missing relatives and established the National Commission for the Missing and Forcibly Disappeared Persons, tasked with investigating the fate of missing people and addressing the rights of their families. Yet the existence of a law does not automatically bring closure. Years after its adoption, families continue to demand that the law be fully implemented and that meaningful investigations be carried out. The gap between legal recognition and tangible answers remains one of the central frustrations surrounding the missing-persons file. For families who have waited decades, every year without answers is another year added to an already extraordinary burden.
Why a Mural Matters
The decision to place the mural in the heart of Beirut is significant. Public art occupies a different space from a courtroom, government office, or archive. It encounters people where they live their everyday lives. Thousands of pedestrians can pass it without intending to engage with the issue, only to be confronted by a visual reminder that the story of Lebanon’s missing has not ended. That is perhaps the mural’s greatest strength. It refuses to allow disappearance to become invisibility. The missing may no longer be physically present, but their absence continues to occupy Lebanon’s collective memory. By putting that absence on a public wall, the artwork transforms private grief into a public question:
Where are they? What happened to them? And when will their families finally know?
The event brought together representatives from the human rights, media, and artistic communities, including representatives Takla Shimon and Carmen Labs, underscoring the importance of bringing together different sectors of Lebanese society around an issue that has remained unresolved for generations.
The Families Are Still Waiting
Organizations representing families of the missing and kidnapped have spent years campaigning for truth, accountability, and the implementation of the law. Their demands are not complicated: they want to know what happened to their loved ones. For many families, justice does not necessarily begin with punishment. It begins with truth. The truth about where someone disappeared. The truth about whether they survived. The truth about where they died. The truth about where they may have been buried. And, above all, the right to stop living in uncertainty. The mural in Hamra gives those questions a physical presence. Its colors, shapes, and disappearing forms echo a reality that words sometimes struggle to communicate.
Keeping Memory Alive
There is a danger that, with the passage of time, unresolved tragedies become historical footnotes. The people directly affected grow older, younger generations inherit different concerns, and public attention moves elsewhere. But disappearance does not become less painful simply because it is old. For the families of Lebanon’s missing, August 19, 2026, was not simply the unveiling of another mural. It was another attempt to ensure that their loved ones remain part of the country’s collective memory—and that the demand for answers does not disappear along with them.
“الآلاف مفقودون، ويُفتقَدون” stands as a reminder that absence itself can be a form of presence. The faces may fade. The photographs may grow old. The witnesses may disappear. Memories may become fragmented.But the questions remain.
Thousands are missing. And their families are still waiting.
No Comment