Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  “If that turns out to be true, it’s good news,” she said.

  Jordan was indeed more open to the West than Syria; the country maintained good relations with Canada. If Maher were in Jordan, there would be a greater chance of obtaining his release than if he were in Syria. But were we sure he was being held in Jordan, was this nothing but rumour, or was it true? Both she and I were building up new hopes to cling to, while up there, the people who knew where Maher was must have been chuckling at our foolishness. Ms. Girvan promised me that the Canadian ambassador in Washington, Mchael Kergin, would speak to well-placed people in the American administration to find out where Maher had been sent.

  The days that followed reminded me of the first days after Maher’s disappearance. The minutes passed slowly, the telephone didn’t ring, and I felt disoriented, torn between hope and despair. Every time I called the consul, she told me that her inquiries had produced no results, and the only reply from American officials was: “You won’t find him in the United States.” It was a clever manipulation of words to say that they didn’t have him any more but weren’t going to reveal where he is, leaving me to twist in the wind. It was as if I didn’t deserve to know my husband’s location.

  The same day, Riad Saloojee from CAIR-CAN phoned. I detected a mixture of optimism and discomfort in his voice. I sensed that, deep down, he understood the seriousness of the matter. After all, Maher was a practising Muslim arrested in the United States after the events of September 11, 2001. Everything was against him. The secrecy surrounding his arrest combined with the almost tragic circumstances had given the case a whiff of mystery, but at the same time made it as critical as it was sensitive. Riad was in direct contact with the press. It was his job to communicate with journalists on matters relating to Islam and Muslims. We agreed that we would let things cool down. Our strategy was to allow diplomacy to do its work before talking to the press. We didn’t want to hurt Maher’s chances of being freed in any way, because we thought it only reasonable that he would soon be released. Even without any promise or concrete action, our conversation buoyed my hopes. One word was enough to plunge me into despair, another was enough to give me an almost joyful air, a lightness of heart that surprised me and allowed me to go about my day-to-day tasks.

  Barâa kept asking me questions: “Do you think Baba will come home? Are we going to go to Canada soon?”

  My answers were always the same: “Yes, of course he’ll come back, of course we’ll all go to Canada together.” Then, as if correcting myself, I would murmur, “Inshallah … God willing.”

  The day after our talk, Riad called to tell me that the New York Times had published a small article on Maher’s arrest. I was caught off-guard. I didn’t know if it was a good or a bad thing, but I knew there would be consequences and the news would soon be spread in Canada. It didn’t take long. Riad phoned me back later in the day to ask if I was ready to give my contact information in Tunis to Canadian journalists. Without a moment’s hesitation I replied, “Certainly!” I could not have known that my decision to speak to the media that day would broadcast my husband’s story to the whole world, and that my life would be changed forever.

  Reporters began to call me in Tunis. Their growing interest was like having friends to talk to. I spoke to them about my fears of never seeing my husband again and my disappointment with the Canadian government for not doing enough for one of its own. Never before had I talked to the media, but every time I hung up the telephone I felt better. These sessions were like therapy: I talked, got things off my chest, and felt relieved. When the news broke in Ottawa, my mother phoned to say that she was attending her regular English class that day and by chance noticed a copy of the Ottawa Citizen. On page one she saw our wedding picture, Maher and me smiling. She almost fainted, she told me.

  “I wanted to hide all the copies of the paper so no one would see them,” she said. “I didn’t want people to know that my son-in-law was arrested and was in prison.”

  But for me, the media was my only hope of ever seeing Maher again. I had been robbed of my husband, and he had been robbed of his rights. I was not even allowed to talk to him or find out where he was. My response was simple: I chose to speak to the world, to be open and to denounce the way we were being treated.

  A few days later, Ms. Girvan called to inform me that she would no longer be in charge of the case. Was this the result of those damned little words, that Maher was no longer in the United States, or was it an indication that the case was getting serious and that more experienced diplomats were called for? I couldn’t be sure. There was probably some truth in both possibilities, but Ms. Girvan quietly dropped out of the picture.

  “Thanksgiving is coming in a few days and I’m leaving for the West Coast to visit my family,” she told me. “Mr. Gar Pardy will be your new contact. He’s the director of Consular Affairs in Ottawa. Here’s his number …” I jotted it down in my address book, sensing in my heart that a new page had just been turned.

  I decided to call the Member of Parliament for my riding. I knew Marlene Catterall by name, from brochures she had sent us, which showed her greeting senior citizens or attending community events, but I had never approached her in person. I wanted politicians to get involved in Maher’s case not only because he was my husband, but also because it was a case of flagrant injustice and the government’s reaction had been weak and timid. It was as if it were looking on from afar, waiting to see which way the wind would blow before taking action. I found myself talking to Kathy, Mrs. Catterall’s assistant; I explained the whole story and she promised me a reply. Several weeks went by before I was to speak directly to Mrs. Catterall. It was around ten at night in Tunis; the children had already been in bed for an hour when the telephone rang.

  “It’s Marlene,” she said, “your Member of Parliament.” My heart began to beat furiously, I was expecting the worst. She told me that the Canadian government was looking into Maher’s case and that the minister of Foreign Affairs, Bill Graham, had made inquiries. She would try to give me some news as soon as possible. The first thing that came to my mind was to thank her; I liked the fact that she had taken a personal interest and was calling to tell me where things stood. Gradually, I was learning to be patient, learning to live with misfortune while hoping for better days.

  OCTOBER 15, 2002. I wanted to speak to politicians. I wanted to speak directly to Prime Minister Jean Chrétien. I didn’t realize that this is not as easy as one might think. First of all, I was in Tunisia, and the highest-ranking government figure I could meet was the ambassador. Besides, I had no idea that even in Canada, ordinary people rarely get to meet the prime minister. But I was determined to deliver a message. I called Madame Laatar and told her that I had a message to present to the Canadian government. She set up an appointment. The day before, I asked my brother, Mourad, to mind the children. In my notebook I jotted down some notes:

  Message I am sending to the Canadian government, to its head, Mr. Jean Chrétien.

  My husband, a Canadian citizen, is a good family man. He has worked in Canada, paid his taxes and has always behaved like a good citizen. He was arrested by the American government, then deported to Syria, the country of his birth. As his wife and mother of his two children, as a Canadian, I ask the Canadian government to give me in writing the reasons for this unjust and brutal deportation. I ask that my husband be returned to Canada and that his documents be returned to him. I think that what has happened is very serious and could lead to undesirable consequences for ethnic communities living in Canada. Henceforth, any citizen of other than Canadian origin is under threat of deportation to the place of his or her birth.

  I have confidence in our government and expect an explanation from it regarding the hitherto unknown fate of my husband.

  I intended to deliver this message verbally when I met with the embassy staff. I attempted to learn the words by heart, repeated them over and over in my mind. It was no use.

  My children had become
accustomed to seeing their uncle. He would visit us as often as he could. The school year was just beginning and Mourad was busy again teaching courses. But he would find the time to make the trip between Hammamet and Tunis. Maher’s arrest and imprisonment had drawn us even closer. I felt him beside me, supporting me with his thoughts, his attitude, and his words. When I had telephone interviews at the children’s dinner hour, he would take Houd in his arms and amuse him so that I could talk uninterrupted by an infant’s cries. Mourad was more than a brother to me; he was a friend who was always there when I needed him.

  I set out for the embassy, passport in hand to be sure they would let me in. The building was much different from the one where, at age twenty, I had had my first interview before I emigrated to Canada. Twelve years had passed and the place had become bigger and more modern; now it had the look of a fortress. Guards with walkie-talkies searched visitors with metal detectors, airport-style. I was admitted and spent a few minutes in a waiting room, which I barely recognized.

  Madame Laatar came to fetch me and together we took a small elevator to the next floor. There, in a huge office, I met the first secretary of the embassy, Luce Doré; Madame Laatar stayed with us. In a corner of the room I noticed a television set tuned to the CNN worldwide news, and I wondered if Maher’s case had been reported. Madame Doré was civil and polite. She said practically nothing; it was mostly Madame Laatar who responded to my comments and tried to keep the conversation going as a dialogue instead of a long monologue on my part. Effortlessly, the words I had prepared the day before came out; I could no longer hold back. The two faces across from me remained almost impassive; it was as if each of my comments brought only silence. I was deeply disappointed by their coldness. I was being naive; this was my introduction to diplomacy. Yet I was not angry, I was not insulting; I spoke calmly, attempting to explain the troubles that had beset my family, I was calling out for help. But I couldn’t help feeling that the Canadian government was not taking me seriously or sharing my concern. Indifference and bureaucracy seemed to be the rule. In order to survive and overcome the problems I faced, I would have to learn this new language. I returned home; the children were happy to see me, but I felt like shutting myself in my bedroom and wailing my distress at the top of my voice. I didn’t do anything like that; I choked back my tears, swallowed a glass of water as if to wash down a knot in my throat, opened the refrigerator, stood there for a moment looking in, then took out a package of meat and began to prepare the children’s evening meal.

  OCTOBER 16, 2002. “Why don’t you call Amnesty International?” said Mourad. “Perhaps they could help you.”

  I liked the idea. My first contacts with the Canadian government had been discouraging; it was like banging my head against a stone wall. I wanted a human approach. I found Amnesty International’s Ottawa telephone number, hoping to talk to Alex Neve, its secretary general. I had expected that I might get through to his assistant or his voice mail; instead, I found myself speaking to him directly. His voice was warm and reassuring; he listened as I explained the whole story. Amnesty had decided to launch an emergency campaign calling on its members around the world to write to the American, Canadian, and Syrian governments, he told me. Mr. Neve could not free Maher with the wave of a magic wand, but I felt certain that he was taking the matter seriously. He promised that his organization would continue to monitor the case actively. After you’ve taken a nasty fall, sometimes all you need is a helping hand to get you back on your feet. My phone conversation with Mr. Neve had that effect. No promises were made, but now I felt I existed, that my story was having an impact, and that together we could make things happen.

  I had the same feeling a few days later when Alexa McDonough, the leader of the New Democratic Party, called me from her parliamentary office in Ottawa. I knew only her name and her party, and I was pleasantly surprised when she said she was watching the case closely and would do her very best to prod the government to do more. I knew nothing about what was going on in Parliament, or that the NDP was asking Minister of Foreign Affairs Bill Graham questions about my husband. I thanked God for this unexpected help. For me, it was like a gift from heaven that each day brought new indications that Maher’s case was not a simple one, and the fight was just beginning.

  OCTOBER 21, 2002. Gar Pardy called to tell me he had just spoken to the Canadian ambassador to Syria; according to Syrian authorities, Maher had only just arrived in Syria.

  “So where has he been all this time, then, sightseeing in some other country?” I replied with a touch of sarcasm.

  Mr. Pardy went on, his voice showing no reaction: “You know, it’s very rare that the Syrians admit to holding prisoners in their country, but in Maher’s case they have shown a great deal of openness and co-operation.”

  Since the day Maureen Girvan informed me that Maher had probably been deported to Syria, it was hard for me to imagine where he was being held. At first I thought he was still in New York, then Syria. But perhaps he had stopped in Jordan. In the end, there was total silence, shrouded in mystery. With every passing day, with every new rumour, I would tell myself that soon the nightmare would be over. But then the speculation would start up again and I would be overcome with a deluge of information, not knowing who to believe. Syria’s admission that Maher was now there was perplexing. When we had learned that he might be in Jordan, the Jordanian ambassador to Canada denied it; I then concluded that Maher must be in Syria. But the news that he had only just arrived in Syria made me think that he had been in Jordan all along. Who was lying and who was telling the truth? It was a preposterous story; I didn’t know who to believe. But one thing was certain: more than one party was hiding the truth. For a year, I was convinced that Maher had spent ten days in Jordan, while in fact he had stayed only a few hours in that country.

  On the day I heard the news from Syria, Amnesty International launched its promised emergency campaign. Even though I was certain Maher was being held in Syria, I took comfort in the Amnesty appeal. I no longer felt alone. How fervently I hoped that Amnesty’s members would begin to write letters asking for Maher to be returned to Canada! These were the small things that kept my hopes alive.

  The next day, Mr. Pardy emailed to inform me that the Canadian consul in Damascus had been granted permission by the Syrian authorities to visit Maher; I would hear from him again as soon as he had a report. This he presented to me as good news. As for me, I was at a loss to know how to react. Of course I had been worried sick about my husband, not knowing where he was, not knowing even if he was still alive. And here was Mr. Pardy, informing me that not only was Maher alive but that the Canadian consul was going to visit him.

  “Never have the Syrians allowed us to visit a prisoner. Usually they don’t even recognize that they’re holding a prisoner,” he said, his enthusiastic tone verging on pride. He was doing his job and was pleased with the progress made on Arar’s file. But where was I supposed to fit into all this? Was I supposed to laugh or cry at the news that my husband was being held prisoner in Syria, a country I didn’t know, on charges that were never spelled out but were probably in some way connected with terrorism? Should I show gratitude, express my thanks, laugh with peals of joy that my husband would receive a visit and some day, perhaps, might be released? My heart was not overflowing with joy; it was as if my feelings had vanished. How I wanted to believe that none of this was true, how I longed to escape.

  On October 23, I received a brief email from Mr. Pardy recounting this vaunted first visit:

  Dr. Mazigh, I have tried to call and will keep trying … In any event, the Canadian Consul met with Maher this morning. He is well and asked that his concern for you and the children be sent. We provided him with information on your concerns and he was most appreciative that you and the children are well and still in Tunis. He stated that his needs are all being looked after. The Syrian authorities indicated that he will remain at the present location in Damascus for some time yet.

  So, accordi
ng to the Canadian consul in Syria, Leo Martel, Maher was in good health and the Syrians were looking after him very well. I would not believe a word of what I was reading. I reread this message dozens of times; the aim could be to placate me, keep me in Tunisia, to make me think everything was for the best in this best of all possible worlds. Alas, I saw in it exactly the opposite of what these people were trying to put over on me. What my heart was telling me was that Maher was in a bad way. Reading between the lines, I saw only resignation, fatalism, humiliation. This was not the Maher I knew. He had always been a man with a will to overcome obstacles; the man I knew was ambitious, determined to become a top engineer in his field, never satisfied with mediocrity, and always working to improve himself. Yes, I knew him as a religious man, but he didn’t let himself be led. “We must seek the way, and God will guide us,” he would always tell me when he prepared business presentations to financial backers. He dreamed of developing and then selling software of his own design. He dreamed of becoming the head of a company; he was a man who never gave up. I didn’t want to hear anything more of that message. Could those words have come from Maher? Was this the same Maher I had married eight years ago? How could he have changed? In what circumstances? Why? Only later would I learn the truth.