Waiting for Justice: The Tragic Legacy of Lebanon's Missing Jewish Leaders
Israel negotiates the return of the remains of Lebanese Jewish community leaders kidnapped in the 1980s. The wife of community head Shlomo Djamous passed away after decades of waiting.
In early September, reports emerged that as part of negotiations with Lebanon, Israel is attempting to secure the return of the remains of the leaders of the Lebanese Jewish community—victims who were kidnapped and murdered in the mid-1980s by terrorist organizations in the neighboring country. Behind the names of the 12 community members are families who have been waiting decades to learn the fate of their loved ones. One of these families is the Djamous family. Miriam (Maro) Djamous, the wife of the head of the Jewish community in Lebanon, Shlomo Morad Djamous, will not live to know her husband's fate. Miriam, who lived with him in Lebanon until he was kidnapped in August 1984 and later immigrated to Israel, passed away this past Yom Kippur.
In a conversation with Ynet and Yedioth Ahronoth, her son Moshe Djamous recounts that his mother's life story and heroism stand on their own. Born in Damascus, Syria, Miriam lived and grew up in a synagogue in one of the city's neighborhoods after the community allowed her family to reside there on the condition that they maintain the site. Over the years, she grew close to Rabbi Nissim Andibo, the chief rabbi of Damascus. According to her son, Miriam worked multiple jobs in Damascus, including serving as a nurse who made house calls to administer medical injections, which gave her a special permit to move around at night. Djamous explains that she eventually became an operative who helped smuggle young women from the Syrian Jewish community to Israel. "She would roam the nights under the guise of a nurse, and work as a seamstress by day," he says.
Escape from Syria and a New Life in Lebanon
This group of women, which now included Miriam, successfully reached Lebanon and eventually Israel, though Miriam and a few others remained in Lebanon. Her son adds: "My father fell in love with her, and she decided to stay. From there, my mother's life took a glamorous turn. She met a man, one of the leaders of the Jewish community, who was supposed to take care of her, and so he did. She was blessed with a lavish wedding and an upgraded status, all while a bloody civil war raged in Lebanon." The wedding took place in 1975. Later, the family lived in Beirut with their three children: Moshe, Moti, and Shalom. The family notes that Miriam also played a role in smuggling Torah scrolls from Lebanon to Israel. According to reports, Shlomo was a textile and real estate merchant whose office was located inside the synagogue in the Wadi Abu Jamil quarter of western Beirut. When he was kidnapped, his office was torched and the word "Jew" was sprayed on its walls.
Taking Charge During the Civil War
"When my father was abducted, my mother immediately stepped into his shoes as the wife of the leader of the Jewish community," Moshe described. "Everyone turned to her, including terrorist organizations. Every time a body was dumped near our house, the person responsible for arranging the burial and identifying if the deceased was Jewish was my mother." At a certain point, Miriam realized she had to get her children out to Israel. They were smuggled across the border in October 1986, two years after her husband's abduction. The mother entered Israel with the children, left the two older brothers in the country, and returned to Lebanon with the youngest son. According to a report by the National Insurance Institute, she permanently immigrated to Israel in 1989. When she finally arrived and chose to close the chapter on Lebanon, she lost her identity and status, struggling with hard physical labor and financial hardship while her children grew up in boarding schools.
The Ongoing Struggle and Final Days
As negotiations with Lebanon progressed and her husband's name was finally placed on the agenda, Miriam began to sink into deep longing. She fell ill and passed away on Yom Kippur. "In her final moments when I was with her, she said for the first time, 'Moshe, I can let go. I'm tired,'" her son recalls.




