We believe survivors’ testimonies.
I used to sleep with my cell phone under my pillow, set to vibrate, afraid of being awakened by a midnight call: a missing boy or girl, a young woman or man being sexually assaulted, or another suicide attempt.
These weren’t just workdays: they were my daily reality as the director of an organization that served children who had been forcibly removed from their families and communities. When I decided to take on this responsibility, my goal wasn’t just to lead an entity, but to deeply understand the reality of institutional care, as a child protection professional and as a mother. I knew that violence leaves deep scars on the soul.
Then I came face to face with the truth: the fairy tale image of these institutions does not reflect the reality. Inside, children live with a “gratitude syndrome,” where they’re expected to say thank you for what they’re given, even if the food is served with humiliation, the care tainted by violence and deprivation. They’re told to be grateful to the institution and the donor behind it…whoever that may be.
These donations are often conditional, driven by personal and political interests, and used when it suits certain agendas. We still remember the televised flattery of donors, the glorification that served clear purposes. Millions of dollars are pumped into institutions that have proven to be failures worldwide, yet we continue to prioritize the interests of the institution, then the religious entities affiliated with it, then the donor, all at the expense of the child.
Even we as individuals sometimes fall into the trap of gratitude syndrome, afraid to believe the testimonies of survivors of violence. How can we believe a young man who tells of repeated rapes? How can we trust a girl who tells of being dragged or kicked? So many testimonies have been documented, and yet we demand concrete proof. Even when it exists, we look away.
It’s as if we’re afraid to acknowledge the truth – so we elevate the institution, the religious group, the politician – while the wound in the survivor’s heart continues to bleed.
What happened in Lebanon is not so different from what happened in Canada. There, in residential institutions established by the Catholic Church for Indigenous children, the mission ended in betrayal. In 2022, Pope Francis issued an official apology, calling what happened a “catastrophic, unforgivable error” and acknowledging that the structures and policies in place contributed to the violence.
Strikingly, the Pope did not ask for medical reports or physical evidence; he believed the testimony of survivors, honored their pain, and acknowledged that a survivor’s word is testimony enough.
This long overdue apology reminded us that justice begins with listening to pain, with honestly acknowledging collective wrongdoing. According to Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, more than 6,000 survivors testified to physical violence, harassment, and separation from their families, languages, and identities.
The damage was not temporary, it created generations scarred by trauma and unleashed a new cycle of violence, with many children who left care ending up in prison or exploited simply because no one reached out to save them.
Despite calls to reduce the number of children in institutional care in Canada, governments have preferred to reinforce these systems rather than invest in safe social, educational and cultural supports. Lebanon is no exception; instead of developing alternatives that empower families, we have clung to a model that has proven its failure, simply because it serves patronage interests.
Today we hear painful testimonies from young people who have left institutions: physical abuse, sexual harassment, emotional neglect. The truth is, this model produces nothing but pain.
If the testimonies of 6,000 survivors in Canada weren’t enough to condemn this model, then let the mass graves that have been discovered be further proof. The world believed their cries without asking for proof.
In Lebanon, we can no longer ignore the truth. It is time to listen to the young men and women who have experienced the care system. We must respect their voices and restore a measure of justice.
Through my experience as the director of a residential care facility from 2002 to 2009, then through my work to reform child protection systems in several countries, and now from my position in Canada, I have learned to trust the words of survivors. It takes extraordinary courage to come forward with a story of abuse, and we have no right to ask for more proof.
Our responsibility today, in Lebanon and everywhere, is to face the truth, to do our duty to those who left these institutions wounded, and to protect those still inside. As Pope Francis unconditionally believed the survivors, so must we; for justice begins with believing the survivors and ends with justice.
