Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  SEPTEMBER 27, 2002. When I rose that morning I had made two decisions: I would call the Canadian Embassy in Tunis and Michael Edelson, Maher’s lawyer, in Ottawa. I began with the embassy. I located the telephone number on the Internet. It was still too early to call Canada. I would have to wait until three o’clock that afternoon, when it would be nine o’clock in the morning in Ottawa. I counted the hours almost by the minute. I wanted the time to pass quickly, to make Ottawa and Montreal time my own. The voice at the Canadian Embassy had an accent that sounded a bit Québécois, a bit French, and a bit Arabic. The lady’s name was Thérèse Laatar. She asked me some questions: Where do you live in Canada? What is your telephone number and your address in Tunis? I explained that my husband, a Canadian citizen, had not contacted me since leaving Tunisia two days earlier.

  “He was scheduled to arrive in Montreal last night and was to call me right away, but he didn’t,” I told her. There was a long silence, as if Madame Laatar was taking notes or did not really understand the matter. She didn’t seem convinced but promised to contact the Consular Section in Ottawa. She would call me on Monday.

  I hung up. I was discouraged; waiting till Monday seemed like an eternity. Time seemed to have frozen, the minutes passed like hours. I stared at the big clock in the living room and had a sudden urge to grab the hands to change the time. I tried to get a hold of myself. Thou sands of thoughts were racing, jostling in my head, but I didn’t know what to do. I waited for offices to open in Ottawa; I had to tell Mr. Edelson about my husband’s disappearance. I wanted to make sure it was not connected with the visit by the police in January.

  I picked up the telephone and called Mchael Edelson’s office. I got straight through to him. I explained the situation. He remembered Maher’s story. I felt like a drowning woman, flailing about in desperation. The lawyer, the embassy official, and my family were the hands that I would cling to with all my strength to keep from being swept away. Edelson promised to call the Crown Prosecutor’s office to see if they knew anything about Maher’s disappearance. Once again, I would have to wait; things were not going as I had hoped. The message was the same: patience was a virtue. I called my mother the same day and told her that there had been no word from Maher. She recounted that she had dreamed of me, that in her dream I was as pale as death, gesticulating that things were not going well. My mother’s heart sensed evil looming. A fit of sobbing overcame me. I could no longer hold it back. At last someone was sharing my pain.

  The next two days dragged by. I went out each afternoon, once the worst heat of the sun had passed, for a walk with the children. Across from the house there was a big parking lot surrounded by a fence. It belonged to the residents of two large buildings next door and was used more as a playground than as a parking lot. When I was a child, I used to spend hours on end riding my bicycle in this space. Neigh bourhood children would come and bicycle or play ball, hide and seek, and even tennis. Now I was bringing my own children to the places I had played as a child, walking about, lost in thought, with Houd in his stroller and Barâa on her bicycle. The local children came and went, playing for a while, then running off; sometimes a mother would put her head out a window high up in one of the buildings and call her children to come in. I wouldn’t stay outside for long, afraid that I might miss a call from Canada, any kind of call. Let it be a comforting voice or good news telling me that Maher was safe and sound and back in Ottawa, I thought. But the call never came. When I returned to the house, the same silence haunted the rooms and filled my heart with grief. During these two days, I spoke to my mother-in-law and one of my brothers-in-law. Maher’s entire family was living in Canada since they had all emigrated from Syria. My brother-in-law, Taoufik, told me they were trying to contact American Airlines, but the agent refused to give any personal information. Taoufik was trying to find out if Maher had arrived in New York or was still in Zurich. But it was fruitless, nobody knew anything, or nobody wanted to say anything. Taoufik went to report Maher’s disappearance to the Montreal police, but everything was at a standstill. Again and again, our requests were met with silence.

  Monday finally came. I was dying to know if the Canadian Embassy official would call or if I was going to get some news from Michael Edelson. Since the previous Wednesday I had been completely in the dark about my husband. I didn’t know where he was or if he was even still alive. I was living each moment in the hope of learning that everything was back to normal, that life would go on as before. I attempted to convince myself that soon everything would be fine. I had never been fond of change, and I was not about to accept it now. I wanted nothing more than to get back my quiet, normal life, divided between my family and my career. There had been a balance; now this incident had changed that and I was feeling the impact day and night. In fact, I was in a state of denial of this drama, as I tried to assure myself that everything would soon work out for the best.

  OCTOBER 2, 2002. The idea of returning to Canada alone with the children had never occurred to me. I had expected Maher to come back to Tunis and that we would return home together. On Tuesday, my mother called from Ottawa. She had been living with me in Canada for years and was helping me to raise the children.

  “Maher just called,” she said. My heart was pounding, I waited for what was coming. “He’s being held in the United States. I’ll spell the name of the prison for you. Federal Bureau Prison, Brooklyn,” she repeated slowly.

  The words echoed in my head. Now I understood why Maher had not called. He was in prison. He was behind bars. I was expecting anything except prison. That had never crossed my mind. “What did he say?” I asked.

  “He wants a lawyer. He’s afraid he’ll be sent back to Syria, that’s all he told me,” she said.

  “Didn’t he tell you why he’s in prison, what he’s charged with?”

  “No,” she replied with a long sigh. “No, he hung up right after that.”

  I kept talking to her. My throat was constricting. I didn’t know how to handle the news. Part of me was relieved to know that he was alive, but a great sadness swept over me. I tried to imagine Maher in prison; I couldn’t. Before he married me, he was his mother’s baby, her youngest child, the only one to have graduated from university, her pride and joy, “a gift from heaven to light my final days,” she would say. Now her beloved, cherished, coddled child was in prison. Barâa’s papa, who often took her to the park to play, run, and swing was now a prisoner. Houd’s patient papa, who would hold him in his arms and rock him, trying to calm him, was now behind bars. My whole life seemed to be crumbling, my dreams collapsing. I sat at the living-room table with my head in my hands and cried.

  The same day, I telephoned Mchael Edelson to tell him the news. He explained that because Maher was in the United States I would have to find an American lawyer. He promised to give me names of lawyers who could help. The questions tumbled through my mind. Should I go to the United States to see my husband? What lawyer would accept this case? Apart from a few trips I had made as a tourist, I knew nothing about the United States. I had no idea how the American judicial system worked. Try as I might, I could not imagine how Maher was spending his days in prison. Not knowing what he was charged with, I kept wondering how to help set him free. Maher’s family, my own, and Michael Edelson now knew that Maher was in prison, but no one else. I didn’t want to tell anyone else; I felt embarrassed, ashamed, ill at ease. People might make fun of us. Everything would soon be all right, I tried to convince myself.

  I was startled when Maher’s friend Ahmed called me in Tunis. Ahmed lived in Ottawa with his wife, Racha, and their two children. We were good family friends, often going on picnics together and exchanging invitations to the evening fast-breaking meal during the month of Ramadan. Ahmed was also an engineer. He and Maher had met at McGill and had both found high-tech work in Ottawa. My mother had told Ahmed about Maher’s arrest. He was deeply concerned; I could sense it over the phone. He promised to call Riad Saloojee, the head of the Canadian Counci
l on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR-CAN), to see what could be done to have Maher released. I had heard of Riad Saloojee and his organization but had never met him.

  Ahmed’s telephone call was like a gift from heaven. In my de pressed state, I needed information like this to help me forget how low my spirits were. Day by day, I was becoming more aware of the new turn my life had taken. I felt so tiny before the immensity of the task ahead. With each passing day, I saw my hopes being crushed, but gradually now I felt a strength growing in me, a strength I had not expected to find. My despair was great, but greater still was my determination to find my way out of the labyrinth I had barely entered. My inborn naivety and optimism would help see me through.

  OCTOBER 3, 2002. I was no longer in contact with Thérèse Laatar; it was now Maureen Girvan, consul at the Canadian Consulate in New York, who was giving me news of Maher. The first time she called me was to describe her visit to Maher at the Metropolitan Detention Center (MDC) in Brooklyn.*

  “He was disoriented, he cried a lot and wanted to know how you all were,” she told me. It tore my heart to hear those words. It was as if I could see Maher, downcast, alone and in shock, with no one to talk to, and here I was, thousands of kilometres away and unable to help him.

  “Have the Americans given a reason for his arrest?” I asked.

  Maher had showed her a sheet of paper explaining the Americans’ refusal to allow him entry to the United States on account of his belonging to the terrorist group al-Qaeda. The news hit me like an icy blast. I had not yet overcome the first shock of knowing that Maher was in prison; now I was hearing that he was a suspected terrorist. This was the worst accusation they could throw at him. Practically all chances of my seeing him again seemed to vanish once more.

  “But he’s innocent. Maher doesn’t belong to al-Qaeda or any terrorist group!” I declared.

  There was a long silence, then Ms. Girvan explained that the Americans had made that decision. A lawyer must see Maher as soon as possible and start to work on his case. And as if to change the subject, she said, “You can write him a letter. Here’s the address.” I took the address and promised to write.

  “Can he talk to me on the telephone?” I continued.

  “He can telephone you if you send the money to his account in prison.”

  “I’ll arrange to send him the money,” I said, fighting back the tears.

  I needed to talk to Maher on the telephone, to ask him how he was, to hear his voice, to know how he was being treated. That evening, my brother-in-law Bassam and Maher’s friend Ahmed called me. CAIR-CAN had suggested an American woman lawyer by the name of Amal Oummih. Ahmed also promised to send a $200 money order in Maher’s name to the detention centre. Things were happening so fast that my head was spinning, but I also felt useless where I was. I couldn’t send money or talk constantly on the telephone. Never had physical distance weighed so heavily as during those days. I longed to cross the ocean to be close to Maher, to let him know I would not fail him.

  OCTOBER 5, 2002. Amal Oummih’s voice surprised me. I had expected a female voice with an Arabic accent, but the voice I heard over the telephone was a firm, almost masculine voice with a New York accent. Oummih was an immigration lawyer of Moroccan origin. I didn’t meet her in person, but I placed my husband’s fate in her hands. She had visited Maher in prison; he had told her the Americans wanted him to sign a document authorizing his deportation to Syria, which he refused to do. He had received the money for telephone calls, she said, but the guards would not give him the code to make a call. I felt my blood run cold. Why would they do that to him? Why was he being held in prison? Oummih told me that he cried all through their conversation, that he was very confused and disoriented. I held back my tears and let her talk; I didn’t want to miss a word. At the end of our conversation, she said she would find another, more specialized lawyer and would keep me informed of developments in the coming days.

  Maher still didn’t call me in the days that followed, although I had received confirmation that Ahmed had transferred $200 to his prison account for long-distance calls. I couldn’t understand why, and told Maureen Girvan about my worries. She told me that prisoners’ accounts took time to be activated; I should wait.

  “Wait, wait! I’ve been waiting for weeks and haven’t got anything!”

  I burst out. Everyone wanted me to be the exemplary patient woman, the subservient woman who takes her knocks and doesn’t react. It was less upsetting if I waited and kept my mouth shut than if I spoke up and made noise. “I’ve been waiting long enough, I want things to happen!” I said.

  “I’ll go to the prison tomorrow to see how he is,” she promised.

  I kept hoping that in a few days I would hear my husband’s voice. I counted the days, but no call from Maher broke the silence of our house in Tunis. Time dragged on, monotonous and gloomy. Barâa kept asking me questions. She wanted to know where her father was, why he was in prison, and what he had done to get arrested. Each time I answered her, I found words of hope. I didn’t want her to share my distress; things were going to change, her father would be back soon, I told her. But she wasn’t convinced; looking into her eyes, I could see her innocence shadowed by a veil of sadness, and I felt a burning inside me because there was nothing I could do.

  OCTOBER 8, 2002. Maureen Girvan called me to tell me that she had gone to visit Maher in prison; the guard had told her he was no longer there.

  “It could be good news. The MDC is the worst prison for people suspected of terrorism. If he has been transferred to another, it’s because things are not so serious any more.”

  “But where is he then?” I said.

  “In some cases, it takes us six months to find out where a Canadian prisoner is being held, the Americans can transfer him from one prison to another as much as they want, but we’ll find out in the end.”

  I felt like telling her it sounded like a good thing she didn’t know, but I held my tongue. I wanted to believe what she was saying, because her words rang nicely in my head.

  Suddenly a dreadful thought popped into my mind: “What if they’ve deported him to Syria!”

  “Oh no, I don’t think the Americans would deport him to Syria. For two reasons: first, it’s less expensive for them to send him to Canada than to Syria, and even if they do decide to deport him, they would send him to Zurich, where his flight originated; and second, Maher was travelling with a Canadian passport and therefore they should send him back to Canada.”

  I liked the sound of her words. They had the power to soothe me, to reassure me that all was well. They calmed all the horrible thoughts that were tormenting me. Even if I was feeling worried, I told myself that Ms. Girvan was surely right. The discussion showed how completely both of us, living outside the post–9/11 mindset, still continued to believe in the same old “outdated” rules and principles while the American administration had cast aside international law and was operating according to its own rules.

  From that day on, the thought that Maher might have been sent to Syria began to haunt me. I had never set foot there, but from the stories Maher had told me and things I had read about Arab countries, I knew that Syria was a police state that made life hard for its citizens. Many communist, Islamist, and liberal opponents of Hafez al-Assad were rotting in prison. The Muslim Brotherhood, a political movement founded in Egypt but with a wide following throughout the region, had mounted a serious threat to al-Assad’s government; they might well threaten his son Bashar’s rule. Maher did not belong to the Muslim Brothers, I knew that, but as a practising Muslim, he would be seen as a sympathizer by the Damascus regime. Besides, someone who leaves the country of his birth and does not return is often considered a kind of political defector or even a traitor. But what worried me most was that if the Americans had sent him to Syria on charges of terrorism, the Syrians would have only one option: to show the world they did not trifle with terrorism. Maher would be a political gift, allowing them to demonstrate, to the American
s in particular, how sincere they were in the fight against terrorism.

  Again and again I asked myself: Why would he be sent to Syria? Why wouldn’t the Americans send him back to Canada? Wasn’t Syria a “rogue state” according to the American administration; hadn’t the U.S. State Department called Syria a “state sponsor of terrorism”? Why would Maher be sent there? Was it for the simple reason that he was Syrian and could be treated like all Syrians? And what if they threw him into prison there? No, that was something I didn’t even want to think about. Maher was in the United States; it would only be a matter of days before he would be returned to Canada and the whole nightmare would be over and forgotten. Why was I pessimistic? I was more than determined to forget the thought that Maher might have been deported. Each time the idea crossed my mind, I tried not to think about it. But deep down, I was afraid.

  OCTOBER 10, 2002. I was changing Houd’s clothes when the telephone rang. I put Houd gently in his playpen and then ran to the living room to pick up the phone. It was Maureen Girvan calling from the Canadian Consulate in New York. I was panting, trying to catch my breath. From her tone, I knew something serious had happened. Yesterday, she had been bright and almost jovial. Today, I could hear the tension in her voice.

  “Is there something new?” I asked.

  “There is,” she said. “I don’t know if your brother-in-law Taoufik has spoken to you, but we’ve learned that Maher has been deported to Syria.” I thought my heart was going to stop beating. My foreboding had been right all along; they had sent him to Syria. I would never see him again.

  “But I told you, I warned you, you didn’t believe me!” I lashed out. For the first time I was overwhelmed by anger. Anger at my own naivety, but also at the consul, at her assurances and the flawed reasoning she had fed me the day before. Ms. Girvan was embarrassed. She told me that never had she witnessed such a thing while working for Foreign Affairs. She swore she had sincerely believed Maher would be deported to Canada. But I was infuriated. Nothing she could say would stop me. When I had finished my tirade, she told me she would call me back and give me news. I put down the telephone slowly; all my dreams were going up in smoke. I had let myself be deceived by her arguments. I had convinced myself Maher would be deported to Canada because that was what I wanted to believe. Now, everything was destroyed. I would have to begin again, build a whole new imaginary structure. The next day, Ms. Girvan called, her tone optimistic again. Rumours were circulating that Maher was in Jordan, not Syria.