It is noon at the entrance of the Faculty of Medicine at the University of Aleppo, in the North-West of Syria. Two students enter wearing their white coats, the heat leaving marks of sweat on their foreheads. “The faculty looks strange today. Why are there so many families and elderly people?” says one to the other. Indeed, on this September 30, in the square opposite the entrance, the white coats of medical students are mixed with the traditional clothes worn by people from the rural areas of Aleppo.
Going to the university grounds, there is a covered passageway that leads to a wide and high staircase. From it, four narrow and long stairways branch off. Students sit scattered across the stairs. Some carry cups of coffee, while others have their laboratory coats in their hands. Smiles can be seen on their faces, and from time to time they break into laughter.
Meanwhile, three separate groups of elderly people move among them. Each group has between two and five men and women. They move with clear difficulty but also with a sense of urgency. Their faces show confusion and concern. A few minutes later, two of the men find their way to the staircase leading to a large auditorium. They tell the other groups to follow them. The groups then start moving as quickly as their aging bodies allow towards the long staircase. Some begin helping one another climb the steps. Up the stairs, the crowd gathers in front of a small glass and aluminium door to catch their breath. This is the door to the auditorium. And this is where the National Commission for Missing People (NCMP) has decided to hold a meeting to listen to their demands, as families of the missing, and introduce them to the “Athar” programme, which it recently launched to report missing people.
They are welcomed by young men and women working for the commission, all wearing khaki vests with “NCMP” written on them. Through a wide white hall, which is slightly cooler than outside, the commission staff guide the elderly crowd towards a wooden table placed by the entrance of the auditorium. There, two female employees begin taking down the families’ information, one after another. When each person finishes, volunteers lead them into the large wooden auditorium, where they sit down. The venue has several rows of orangey seats that fold up and down like cinema seats. They are divided into three sections, separated by four rows of stairs that gradually rise towards the back of the auditorium. For a day, this huge lecture hall traditionally used for scientific lectures and exhibitions is where a part of the violent and unresolved past of the country is beginning to be addressed.
“We are here to listen to you”
“Today, we will have with us Dr. Mohammad Reda Jalkhi, head of the National Commission for Missing People; Mr. Ali Honora, deputy Governor of Aleppo; Dr. Mohamed Osama Radon, president of the University of Aleppo; Mr. Ayman Shamo, a representative of parliament and head of the Victims Committee; and Mr. Anwar al-Rushdi, the commission’s legal adviser,” announces Hanaa al-Khader, the NCMP coordinator in Aleppo, introducing the guests sitting on the wooden podium. “We will first hear from the commission, and then we will move on to listen to your views and suggestions.”
The NCMP is one of the two commissions created by the new authorities of Syria to address serious crimes that have been committed over the 54 years of Assad dictatorship (1970-2024), including 13 years of civil war between 2011 and 2024.
“The commission has two main tasks,” first explains the head of the NCMP. “The first is to determine the fate of missing people, and the second is to support the families of missing people,” says Mohammad Reda Jalkhi. Its plan for the next three years is divided into five stages. “The first stage is to build this national institution administratively and legislatively. The second stage is to establish a national database of missing people in Syria. The third stage is to build specialized Syrian teams in this field and provide them with the necessary equipment. The fourth stage, which is the most painful, is to open the mass graves, recover the remains, and match them with the samples collected from the families. The fifth stage is to support our families, the families of missing people, with psychological and solidarity support, in addition to other forms of support that we are working on.”
But to start with, “we are here today to listen more than to speak,” he says.
“You have to take care of those who have lost their memory”
“My son is one of those who have lost their memory. I am sure of it,” says Suha al-Akaad, a retired teacher who came to the meeting with her husband. Her son was a hardworking engineer, she says, who was arrested by the government’s Political Security Branch in 2011 because of a false report made by one of his colleagues.
“Until 2018, we knew that Salah was alive – and I am sure of it,” she says with very little emotion in her voice that did not match the amount of tears running from her eyes, her husband’s eyes, and the eyes of those in the hall. Then, in a stronger tone, she adds: “My son is alive. I feel it. So, I believe he is one of those who have only lost their memory!” Addressing the commission, she continues: “The memory comes back. I have seen many reports about that. You have to take care of those who have lost their memory, so that they remember us and come back to us.”
Two commission employees approach to record Mrs. Suha’s information. This is what happens throughout the session: the microphone moves from one family of a missing person to another, as they speak about their problems and needs, while commission employees follow up with them and collect their information.
The Athar project
A central concern of the commission is to inform about their Athar programme. “Athar” means a trace, a mark, or a remnant. The programme was launched on August 30, 2026, to mark the International Day of the Disappeared. “Athar is an electronic application that families can download to record information about missing people,” Hanaa al-Khader explains. “We have prepared a plan to visit all of Aleppo and encourage families to register in the program. The mukhtars of villages and towns in the Aleppo countryside are helping us with this.”
Brochures were distributed to the families as they entered the hall. They contain QR codes and hotline numbers to download the program and contact the commission for help with entering their information into the application. “The Athar platform is an Android application and a website for iPhone users,” says Yara Qarnafel, a data entry officer and engineer working on the Athar project. “The application cannot be downloaded from Google Play or the App Store. It must be downloaded directly from the website through the QR code provided by the commission in the brochures distributed today. For iPhone users, registration is done only through the website.”
Some families say they have already registered. But for the elderly families, it was not as easy, as most of them had never used such technology.
An age and technology gap
“We spent a whole week trying to register me. Every time, the program gave them an error,” Abu Naim says, before adjusting a red keffiyeh tied around his head and wiping his face with it. “I am a farmer from the village of al-Halabiya, and I do not have much experience using a mobile phone,” he continues. Abu Naim is here Because his son was arrested at their home in 2017. He was 16 years old. “They put him on trial in 2018, and the judge sentenced him against her will. Although she later told me that my son was innocent, she said there was nothing she could do. I told her: He is my only son.”
When Abu Naim leaves the table where an NCMP employee has taken down his information, given him a brochure and written down numbers for him to call for help, he says: “I could not hear anything because of the noise, and I did not understand anything. But at least I got someone’s number who might be able to help me later.” Then he leaves in a hurry.
“We always face some problems with families, especially elderly people,” Qarnafel reckons. “The lack of internet infrastructure and the fact that some families do not have mobile phones make communication with them difficult. Also, the lack of an email culture in our communities causes problems during the registration stage on the application.” Also, the form requires to take some time for it. “The form has between 160 and 165 questions, which may cause that some details are missed by families.”
To solve these problems, “we formed groups with a plan to travel around and visit all areas of Aleppo,” says al-Khader. “These groups help families register on the application. We have also dedicated quick numbers to communicate directly with the technical team, and we have a plan to distribute help points in different areas. We have also dedicated speakers for Kurdish and Turkmen, for families who are unable to speak Arabic.”
Reaching out to the Kurdish community
“I personally did not face any problems registering on the platform,” says a 22-year-old woman, the niece of Ahmed Khalil, who disappeared in 2021 on the road between Azaz and Afrin. She came to the meeting with her sister, and the missing man’s wife and their son. They had travelled from the predominantly Kurdish city of Afrin. “The registration was smooth. I only needed to turn on a VPN, and the application worked well,” she says.
“We faced some problems at the beginning in gaining the trust of the Kurdish community, but now we are seeing better participation, especially with people communicating with members of the community in their own language. There is still some hesitation, but things are moving forward,” says Suzana Ahmed, a member of the NCMP’s communications team and a Kurdish woman from Afrin. “It was very important to attend today’s session. For the first time, I felt that there was hope,” says Khalil’s wife.
After the meeting ended, everyone left the auditorium and made their way down the long stairs towards the exit gate. As they left, they divided into two groups. A small group at the front, made up of the younger people who had attended the meeting, reached the exit faster. It was followed by a group almost twice as large, moving slowly and unevenly. As they made their way out of the university campus, the students’ normal life gradually returned – smiles, laughter, and cups of coffee.
