Amnesia: The Forgotten Casualties of War

 
The disappeared do not rest. Their absence lingers in the lives of their families, in the silences of official histories, and in the landscapes of cities that have tried to move on without them. In the wake of war, societies often face a difficult choice: whether to confront the past with honesty or to bury it in the name of stability and progress. Remembering the disappeared—those abducted, killed, and never accounted for—is not only an ethical obligation, but also a political act that challenges narratives of power, denial, and amnesty. Yet forgetting remains a tempting escape, offering comfort without resolution and peace without justice.
​
This essay explores the tension between memory and forgetting in the aftermath of civil conflict, focusing on two cities that bear the weight of unresolved histories: Valencia, Spain, and Beirut, Lebanon. Both places witnessed periods of brutal violence and mass disappearances, yet both have struggled—and in many ways failed—to fully acknowledge the scale and trauma of those losses. In Valencia, the legacy of the Spanish Civil War and Francoist repression was long silenced by a national “pact of forgetting.” In Beirut, the end of the Lebanese Civil War was marked not by truth and reconciliation, but by a sweeping amnesty law that left thousands of families without answers. Through these two case studies, the essay argues that forgetting the disappeared is not a neutral or natural process, but a deliberate political choice that avoids accountability and perpetuates harm. At the same time, it highlights how local memory work, civic activism, and emerging legal frameworks offer fragile but meaningful steps toward recognition and closure. Remembering the disappeared is not simply about the past—it is a vital part of building a future grounded in justice, dignity, and truth.
 
Why Memory Matters
To remember the disappeared is to resist erasure. It is to insist that lives cut short by violence are not lost to oblivion, and that history must be told in its fullness—even when it is painful, divisive, or politically inconvenient. Memory matters because it is inseparable from justice, identity, and the possibility of healing after conflict. At its core, remembering the disappeared is a human rights issue. Families have the right to know what happened to their loved ones, to bury them with dignity, and to grieve in peace. The unresolved status of the disappeared creates a state of perpetual limbo for their relatives, who are denied the emotional and legal closure that comes with knowledge and acknowledgment. This denial extends beyond individual grief—it is a societal failure to uphold the basic rights of its citizens.

Memory also plays a central role in shaping collective identity. Nations are built not only on shared triumphs but also on shared wounds. To confront the disappeared is to confront the darker chapters of a country’s history and to integrate them into the national narrative, rather than leaving them in the shadows. This act of integration is crucial for fostering an honest civic culture, one that does not rely on myth or denial but is rooted in truth and responsibility. Moreover, memory is a political tool. In societies emerging from conflict, remembrance is often the first step toward transitional justice. It creates space for truth-telling, the acknowledgment of wrongdoing, and the potential for reparations or accountability. Without memory, there can be no reckoning—only repetition. The unaddressed traumas of the past are rarely forgotten; they resurface in new forms, feeding cycles of mistrust, marginalization, and violence. In this way, remembering the disappeared is not merely a sentimental or symbolic act. It is foundational to building a just society. It challenges impunity, honors the humanity of the lost, and affirms the dignity of those left behind. As the examples of Valencia and Beirut will show, the fight for memory is often led not by institutions but by ordinary citizens—those who refuse to accept silence as an answer and who understand that remembrance is a form of resistance.

The Temptation of Forgetting
While remembering the disappeared is an act of moral and political courage, forgetting them is often the path of least resistance. In the fragile aftermath of war, when societies are desperate for stability, unity, and forward momentum, the temptation to forget can be overwhelming. Forgetting offers the illusion of peace—it silences uncomfortable questions, avoids blame, and allows former enemies to coexist without confronting the truth. But this silence is rarely neutral. It is a form of amnesia that protects perpetrators, erases victims, and rewrites history to suit those in power.
​
Governments often justify forgetting as a necessary sacrifice for national reconciliation. In practice, however, this “reconciliation” usually comes at the expense of justice. The desire to maintain political order and avoid reopening old wounds leads to blanket amnesties, the destruction or concealment of archives, and a lack of political will to investigate disappearances. In this way, forgetting becomes a strategy—one that privileges the stability of institutions over the needs of citizens and denies the country a chance to fully heal. Societies themselves may also collude in this forgetting. Collective trauma is exhausting, and in the aftermath of violence, there is often a desire to put the past behind and focus on the future. Public discourse turns to reconstruction, economic growth, and national pride, while memory work is left to the margins—led by grieving families, human rights groups, and a handful of activists and artists. For many, forgetting becomes a coping mechanism, a way to avoid the pain of remembrance and the shame of complicity.

This pattern is evident in both Valencia and Beirut. In Spain, the transition to democracy after Franco’s death in 1975 was marked by the pacto del olvido—a “pact of forgetting” designed to suppress confrontation with the crimes of the dictatorship in the name of national unity. In Lebanon, the post-war political settlement was sealed by an amnesty law in 1991 that pardoned all war crimes, effectively silencing demands for justice for the over 17,000 people who were kidnapped or disappeared. In both cases, forgetting was institutionalized—enshrined in law, reflected in public discourse, and embedded in the very architecture of the state.
Yet this forgetting is never complete. It leaves behind gaps, silences, and a persistent unease. The unresolved fate of the disappeared continues to haunt their families, and the absence of accountability corrodes trust in public institutions. Over time, the pressure to remember builds—from below, from the margins, and from the very spaces where silence was once imposed. As the following case studies will show, even decades after the violence ends, the disappeared continue to demand to be remembered—and the structures of forgetting begin, slowly, to fracture.

Case Study: Valencia, Spain
In the Spanish city of Valencia, the legacy of the disappeared during and after the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939) is etched into the soil—sometimes literally. Thousands of civilians were executed and buried in mass graves during the Francoist repression that followed the war, many of them in places like the cemetery of Paterna, just outside the city. For decades, however, these graves remained unmarked, undocumented, and unspoken of—a testament to Spain’s post-war commitment not to memory, but to silence. Following Franco’s death in 1975 and the country’s transition to democracy, Spain’s political leaders enacted what became known as the pacto del olvido, or “pact of forgetting.” This unwritten agreement, supported by both left- and right-wing parties, was intended to ensure a peaceful democratic transition by avoiding direct confrontation with the crimes of the past. In practice, it meant that thousands of disappearances, executions, and imprisonments were never investigated, and those responsible were never held to account. This approach to “reconciliation” was built on collective amnesia rather than truth or justice.

In Valencia, this silence lasted well into the 21st century. Families who had lost loved ones were left with no official support to locate or exhume the remains of the disappeared. Mass graves, including the enormous burial sites at Paterna and Valencia’s own municipal cemetery, remained untouched. The city’s physical landscape—its streets, statues, and public spaces—continued for years to honor Francoist figures while ignoring the victims of the regime. However, recent decades have seen a slow but persistent shift toward memory and accountability. In Valencia, grassroots memory movements led by civil society organizations such as the Asociación de Víctimas del Franquismo have pushed for the exhumation of mass graves and the identification of remains using forensic methods. Local governments, especially after the 2015 elections that brought left-leaning coalitions to power in the Valencian Community, have begun to support memory initiatives more openly. Plaques and monuments now commemorate victims, and projects are underway to rename streets and remove Francoist symbols from public spaces.

Despite ongoing resistance—particularly from right-wing political factions and sectors of society invested in the old narrative—Valencia has become one of the leading regions in Spain advocating for historical memory. Yet progress remains fragile, and legal obstacles persist. The national framework, until very recently, continued to lack comprehensive mechanisms for justice or reparations. Still, the efforts in Valencia reflect the growing recognition that memory cannot be indefinitely suppressed. The families of the disappeared have demanded, and continue to demand, answers—not only for the sake of the past, but to ensure a more honest and humane future. Valencia’s experience demonstrates that while forgetting may have been a convenient choice in the short term, it left deep wounds that only now are beginning to be addressed. The work of remembrance here—often painstaking, painful, and politically contested—is a model for what happens when civil society refuses to accept silence and insists on confronting history, no matter how long it takes.

Case Study: Beirut, Lebanon
In Beirut, the scars of Lebanon’s 15-year civil war (1975–1990) remain embedded not only in its physical ruins but in its unresolved grief. More than 17,000 people were kidnapped or disappeared during the conflict, yet their fates remain unknown. In the chaotic aftermath of the war, no truth commission was established, no comprehensive investigations were launched, and no formal reconciliation process took place. Instead, in 1991, Lebanon’s government passed a general amnesty law that pardoned all war crimes committed by militias and political factions during the conflict. As a result, many warlords became politicians, and the culture of impunity hardened into national policy.

This institutionalized forgetting extended to the disappeared. The Lebanese state treated them not as victims of crimes that required investigation, but as ghosts best left in silence. Families were encouraged to move on, even as they clung to hope for answers. Government efforts were minimal and largely symbolic: two commissions were formed in the 2000s to study the issue, but they produced no actionable results. Official archives remained closed, and the locations of mass graves, though widely suspected, were neither confirmed nor excavated. For decades, Beirut, a city of fractured memory, functioned in denial of its own unfinished mourning. Yet as in Valencia, silence did not go unchallenged. Civil society and families of the disappeared became the custodians of memory. Organizations such as ACT for the Disappeared and The Committee of the Families of the Kidnapped and Disappeared in Lebanon tirelessly advocated for truth and recognition. The symbolic space of the Garden of the Disappeared—a makeshift memorial on a central Beirut street—became a site of protest, mourning, and remembrance. These acts of grassroots memory kept the issue alive even when official discourse refused to acknowledge it.

A significant breakthrough came in 2018, when, after years of lobbying, the Lebanese Parliament passed Law 105 on the Missing and Forcibly Disappeared. The law established the right of families to know the fate of their loved ones and mandated the creation of an independent commission to investigate disappearances. While the formation of the commission has been slow and fraught with bureaucratic obstacles, the law represents a crucial, if long overdue, recognition of state responsibility.
Beirut’s postwar amnesia was shaped by the political structure that emerged after the conflict: a power-sharing system among former enemies that depended on mutual silence to function. Public memory became fragmented and sectarianized, with each group commemorating its own dead while ignoring its own crimes. In this landscape, remembering the disappeared became a radical act—one that called into question the entire foundation of the postwar state.

Today, the struggle continues. While there is growing recognition of the need to confront Lebanon’s violent past, the road to truth remains obstructed by political interests and structural weakness. The work of remembrance falls largely on families and activists, whose persistence has carved out a fragile space for justice in a country still shaped by the logic of forgetting. Beirut’s case reveals the high cost of erasure: the pain of families suspended in uncertainty, the erosion of public trust, and the perpetuation of a political system that values convenience over accountability. But it also illustrates the power of memory to endure. Even in the absence of state support, the memory of the disappeared refuses to fade—and with it, the demand for truth, however delayed, remains alive.

Comparative Analysis: Valencia and Beirut
Valencia and Beirut, though separated by geography, culture, and historical context, share a common struggle with the politics of forgetting and the enduring demands of memory. In both cities, the disappeared represent a wound left open by state-sanctioned silence—a refusal to reckon with the past that has had long-term consequences for justice, identity, and civic trust. Yet the ways in which each city has addressed, resisted, or institutionalized this forgetting reveal important differences, particularly in terms of political structure, the role of civil society, and the pace and visibility of change.

Institutional Forgetting and Legal Frameworks
Both Spain and Lebanon adopted legal mechanisms that prioritized political stability over accountability. Spain’s pacto del olvido and Lebanon’s blanket 1991 amnesty law were both designed to protect transitional governments and prevent renewed conflict, but they differed in execution and aftermath. In Spain, the pacto del olvido was an informal agreement, not codified in a single law but deeply embedded in post-Franco political culture. Its legacy, however, began to erode with the 2007 Historical Memory Law, which—despite its limitations—acknowledged the suffering of Franco's victims and encouraged institutional support for exhumations. In Valencia, this law enabled the regional government to allocate resources for historical memory projects and support families of the disappeared. In contrast, Lebanon’s amnesty law remains largely intact and unchallenged at the highest levels of power. Only recently, with the 2018 Law 105, has the Lebanese state taken formal steps toward addressing the fate of the disappeared. This law is more robust in its articulation of rights—recognizing the families’ right to truth—but its implementation has been slow and hampered by political instability and institutional paralysis.

The Role of Civil Society
In both cities, memory work has largely been driven from below. In Valencia, associations of victims' families, historians, and activists have played a crucial role in identifying burial sites, preserving testimonies, and pressuring local authorities to act. The presence of a relatively stable democratic system allowed these actors to form partnerships with municipal and regional governments, creating a patchwork of initiatives that collectively challenge the state’s long-standing silence. Beirut’s civil society, however, has had to navigate a far more fragmented and volatile political environment. With little to no institutional support, organizations such as ACT for the Disappeared and the Committee of the Families of the Kidnapped and Disappeared have sustained the memory of the missing through grassroots organizing, public protest, and international advocacy. The endurance of these efforts, often in the face of public indifference or hostility, is remarkable. However, without sustained state cooperation or access to classified information, their reach remains limited.

Public Space and the Architecture of Memory
The struggle over memory is also visible in the physical landscape of both cities. In Valencia, monuments to Franco have gradually been removed, and new memorials and plaques now honor victims of repression. Efforts to rename streets and reclaim cemeteries as spaces of historical truth have transformed parts of the urban environment into sites of recognition and reflection.
​
Beirut tells a more fractured story. The city remains a mosaic of sectarian symbols and conflicting narratives, with little consensus over what should be remembered—or how. The Garden of the Disappeared stands as a poignant but unofficial memorial, maintained by the families themselves. Meanwhile, suspected mass graves remain untouched, and former detention centers from the war lie in ruins or have been repurposed without acknowledgment of their past. The absence of a unified public narrative has reinforced Beirut’s fragmented memory and hindered the formation of a shared national story.

Political Will and the Culture of Impunity
A critical difference lies in the willingness of political institutions to engage with the past. In Valencia, even conservative governments have faced public pressure to support or at least not obstruct memory initiatives. In Lebanon, however, many former warlords remain in power or wield influence behind the scenes, creating a deep conflict of interest that undermines truth-seeking efforts. The same individuals responsible for wartime disappearances are often the ones deciding whether or not to investigate them. This has fostered a pervasive culture of impunity in Lebanon, in which accountability is not only avoided but actively discouraged. In Spain, while full accountability has yet to be achieved, the discourse around memory has moved into the public mainstream in ways that are still unimaginable in Lebanon.

In comparing Valencia and Beirut, we see two very different trajectories shaped by the same foundational struggle: how to remember the disappeared in societies where forgetting has been both convenient and codified. Valencia has begun to make tentative progress toward remembrance, supported by evolving legal frameworks and public dialogue. Beirut, despite heroic efforts from civil society, remains mired in silence and systemic denial. Yet in both places, memory persists—not only as a source of grief, but as a call to justice.

The End?
Remembering the disappeared is not simply an act of mourning—it is an act of resistance. In both Valencia and Beirut, the absence of truth about those lost to political violence has left a profound moral and emotional void. Forgetting, whether through silence, legal amnesia, or public indifference, has often served as a strategy to maintain political stability or avoid discomfort. But such forgetting is neither neutral nor harmless. It denies victims and their families the dignity of closure, and it corrodes the foundations of justice, trust, and civic responsibility.

Valencia’s slow but steady progress in confronting its Francoist past, despite the legacy of the pacto del olvido, shows that change is possible when civil society is supported—or at least not obstructed—by political will. The exhumations of mass graves and the re-inscription of historical memory into public space have offered a measure of reckoning, even if still incomplete. Beirut, meanwhile, continues to grapple with a culture of entrenched denial, where the very people responsible for past atrocities remain in power. Yet even there, memory refuses to die. The families of the disappeared, their advocates, and the fragile legal breakthroughs they have achieved point to a deep and enduring desire for truth.

Ultimately, remembering the disappeared is not just about the past—it is about shaping the future. Societies that fail to confront their histories risk repeating them. Justice delayed may be justice denied, but silence guarantees impunity. The fight for memory is therefore not only a personal struggle for those who lost loved ones; it is a collective responsibility, a moral obligation to acknowledge what was done, to name the lost, and to ensure that they are not disappeared from history as they were from life. In both Valencia and Beirut, the path toward justice is long and uncertain, but it begins with the refusal to forget.