Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  Since the day Mr. Pardy told me that Maher was really, truly in Syria, I didn’t want to stay in Tunisia one day longer. During those last weeks, I had been comforting myself with the illusion that all the rumours would turn out to be false and Maher would miraculously reappear. Now there was no longer any doubt in my mind. I had to get back to Canada. Things were getting more complicated; it was becoming clear to me that Maher would not be back soon. Here, my hands were tied. Canadian journalists were interested in Maher’s case, but contact was limited by the six-hour time difference between the two countries. Six weeks had gone by since Maher’s arrest, and yet very little had changed. For people around me, the shock of his arrest and deportation to Syria had begun to wear off. Lives were getting back to normal. Except for mine. My life was shattered forever. I felt it every moment, while feeding Houd or while brushing Barâa’s long, silky hair. Everything I did reminded me of my life before; every day the look in my children’s eyes reminded me of my husband’s eyes. The month of Ramadan had begun several days earlier. As usual I was fasting, but this time Maher was not with us. At sunset I would hurriedly finish my plate, alone, and go to look after Houd, who would be getting bored in his playpen. Normally, our whole pattern of life would change with Ramadan, the house filling with the fragrances of the small dishes and special recipes that we would try only at this blessed time. This year it had a very different connotation for me: I was alone, my soul ached, and I was thinking every minute of Maher.

  Tunis, November 1, 2002.

  Dear Maher,

  Our vacation is ending on a dramatic note. In a few days I’m going home to Canada with Barâa and Houd. I would have so loved you to be with us as was planned in the beginning but destiny has willed it otherwise. Don’t worry, the Canadian government will assure our safety during the trip. I hope it will not be too long before you rejoin us. From there, I will be able to do all in my power to bring you the necessary support and see you finally back with us. Barâa will go to “Senior Kindergarten,” she is already very happy at the thought of seeing her little friends again. Houd has four little teeth and can already shake his head for “no.” He’s a caution, you won’t recognize him. These children are a gift from heaven. Just one word for you: COURAGE, and I know it’s something you have. I will support you till my last breath.

  We all love you.

  Monia, Barâa and Houd.

  FIRST WEEK OF NOVEMBER 2002. To return to Canada, I had to have a passport for Houd. Because of a long public sector strike in Ontario, we had been unable to obtain a birth certificate for him. After several attempts, we had succeeded in having a three-month temporary passport issued, which would enable him to travel to Tunisia. He was about four months old at the time. When Maher decided to return to Ottawa in late September, we had thought it was a good idea for him to take this temporary, now-expired passport with him and renew it in Ottawa so that we could all return together. He had put it in his luggage. But our carefully laid plans had gone awry, Maher never arrived in Ottawa, and I had no idea what had happened to the passport. I was stuck in Tunis without a passport for my son. I called Mr. Pardy and explained the situation. He said he would talk to Madame Laatar at the Canadian Embassy in Tunis and a travel document would be issued to allow Houd to travel from Tunis to Montreal.

  That same day I took the children to the shopping centre to get Houd’s passport photos. The early November weather in Tunis was more pleasant. The sun’s rays had lost their bite. In the evening I was careful to close the windows, and brought out the woollen blankets. My excursions with the children had become few and far between. I went out only for shopping; my life was spent in the house, ruled by the telephone calls I was making to, or receiving from, Canada. Once Houd’s photo session was over, I took the children to the amusement area to ride on the merry-go-round. Cotton candy, lollipops, and all kinds of goodies for children were sold. Parents watched their children climb aboard little cars, helicopters, or motorcycles and have their turn, which would end almost as soon as it began. I bought a few tickets for Barâa and kept Houd in his stroller because he was too young to ride alone. Standing there under that sort of miniature circus tent, I watched Barâa come by and then disappear behind the other toy cars and planes. Each time she saw me she would smile and I would make myself smile in return. With each passing day, I was coming to realize that life had not stopped with Maher’s arrest, that although Barâa was sad, she wanted to keep playing and growing and doing the things that other children her age loved to do. I marvelled at the joy that radiated from Barâa, at her enthusiasm. Gently, softly, she was giving me back my hope. When I smiled at Barâa as she rode round and round, it was almost as if I had forgotten my troubles.

  NOVEMBER 11 or 12, 2002. Houd’s travel document was now ready. I could pick it up at the Canadian Embassy. But, Madame Laatar explained, it was not enough to enable Houd to leave Tunisia. I would need authorization from the Tunisian Interior Ministry. Houd was a Canadian national, but since his passport was not in my possession, the Tunisian authorities would have to verify that he had really entered the country, and only they could grant him the right to depart. Leaving Barâa with our neighbour, an old friend of my mother, I took Houd in my arms in a taxi first to the Canadian Embassy. I didn’t wait long. Madame Laatar gave me Houd’s travel document and told me that all I needed now was the authorization from the Tunisian Interior Ministry. I left the embassy, Houd still in my arms, and took another taxi. The Interior Ministry was not far away. I arrived before this immense grey building, more like a concrete fortress. I had never set foot in it before. I entered by a small door, the one designated for the general public. There was a waiting room with some chairs and a reception desk. I explained to the official on duty that I wanted an authorization for my son to leave the country. I gave him my name. He told me to take a seat and wait. I sat down with Houd on my knee. He was happy and not complaining. People were coming and going, inquiring about their passport applications. I soon realized that these people were having trouble getting their Tunisian passports. The minutes ticked by, but the official didn’t call me to give me the document. Each time I went to ask him how much time it was going to take, he told me to wait. Finally, after about an hour, another official came into the room and called my name. I stood up and went over to him.

  “What is your husband’s name?” he asked.

  “Maher Arar,” I said slowly. “My husband is not Tunisian. He is a Canadian of Syrian origin.”

  Not waiting for me to finish what I was saying, the official turned on his heel and left the room. I stood there, looking a bit foolish, not understanding what had just happened. I went back to my chair and waited some more. Houd was beginning to get hungry. I had nothing to give him, so instead I stood up and walked about, rocking him in my arms. There was another person waiting along with me, a man of a certain age, polite in manner and well dressed. I didn’t speak to him, but from the look on his face I could see that he was sympathizing with me. I approached the desk officer again and explained that I had to go home, my daughter was waiting with a friend. But his only answer was to be patient. He took a candy out of his pocket and told me to give it to the baby. This act of kindness surprised me. I sensed in his voice that he was almost imploring me not to leave the building. What did all this runaround mean? I had no idea what was going on. Then the same official as before came back into the room.

  “When did your husband leave Tunisia?”

  “On September 25.”

  I had not finished speaking before he left, almost at a run. I saw him climbing a flight of stairs. Things were taking a new turn, and I began to suspect that I was not going to get the authorization for Houd. A sudden fear took hold of me: what was I going to do? I knew just how complex my situation was. My two children were Canadians, but I was trapped in Tunisia, with my husband imprisoned somewhere in Syria. I knew no one in the Interior Ministry who might be able to help me. Then my thoughts turned to my daughter; Barâa must be worried,
I said to myself. When I had left that morning I expected to be back by about noon. Now it was almost one o’clock in the afternoon and no document had been issued.

  Suddenly another official, a rather short man who smelled strongly of sweat, appeared and called my name. He had come in by the same door through which I had first entered the waiting room. He said, “Follow me.” I was relieved. I followed him, with Houd now dozing fitfully in my arms. He led me down a small lane in the same complex, opened a door, and motioned me in. I asked no questions, believing I would soon have my authorization. We were in a vestibule that gave onto a flight of poorly lit stairs. As I followed him up the stairs, the stench of damp concrete and urine invaded my nostrils. I shuddered with disgust. I wanted to hold my nose, but my hands were carrying Houd. The official was walking fast and I was doing my best to keep pace. We were moving through a labyrinth of stairs, long corridors, and closed office doors. Finally he came to a stop in front of a door, pushed it open, and left.

  I was now in a small office with two tables. Two officials were sitting behind the tables. There was a tiny window letting in a few rays of sunshine. Most likely these two men were waiting for me; I understood that I was there for an interrogation. My fear dissipated, I became calm, but I was curious and a little offended. The two officials didn’t look threatening. One had an old typewriter in front of him, along with some files and sheets of paper; to me, he looked thickheaded and browbeaten. The other was holding a pen and kept turning it over and over. I stood there, in the middle of this room, Houd still clinging to me, my arms almost dropping. I had been holding him for three hours now.

  “Where is your husband?” asked the official behind the type writer.

  “In Syria,” I replied.

  What is the purpose of this interrogation? I wondered. Who had ordered it? The Americans? The Canadians? Or did the Tunisians want their own file on Maher and me in order to look good in the espionage and information-gathering community? I knew none of this and continued to answer their questions. The official asked me what we were doing in Tunis and I explained that we were visiting, and that my husband had wanted to return to Canada on account of his work. Suddenly he sprang the name of a Tunisian.

  “Does your husband know a Mr. Lotfi?”

  The name didn’t ring any immediate bells, but as he continued to question me I recalled vaguely that Maher had in fact met someone of that name. Our neighbour, a friend of my father, had referred him to this person who, he said, could put Maher in touch with the local business community and help him obtain contracts in Tunis. Things were really serious, I realized. Were the Tunisians watching us too? Why? Was it on their own initiative or at the request of the American or Canadian intelligence agencies? Still, it was not surprising that we would be watched; Tunisia was a police state where most people spied and reported to the police on what they knew about their employees, their neighbours, even their own families. But as always, I had felt insulated from this surveillance, I felt different. Never had I felt I should not see such-and-such a person or refrain from saying something for fear of being arrested. I lived normally and naturally, unaware of what the police were doing to intimidate or frighten people.

  The official then questioned me about Canada: where I lived, what I had studied, at what university. In short, what he wanted was a detailed copy of my resumé. I kept my replies to a minimum, but the situation was beginning to exasperate me. Finally I exploded.

  “Aren’t you ashamed of what you’re doing?” I told them. “Do you realize I’ve been in this ministry for three hours with my baby and I must have my authorization so I can leave for Canada?”

  There was an awkward silence and I sensed that they were embarrassed. As if they were surprised to see me react, as if finally they were realizing how stupid they were. But I could understand that if you spend years doing this kind of work, your feelings and your sensitivities dry up; even if you are moved occasionally to react, you end up losing whatever compassion you might have had. My two interrogators were this kind. They were men incapable of reaction, they submitted and made others submit. But I, with my cheeky attitude, a baby in my arms, and a scarf on my head that contradicted my Tunisian accent and revealed my middle-class roots, had touched off a small revolution in the heads of these men who were used to seeing everything in black and white.

  “You will have your authorization, I promise you, but first you will have to stay with us a little longer.”

  “Would you like a yogurt for the baby?” added the second official.

  “No thank you. My son doesn’t eat yogurt. I want my documents and I want to go home,” I shot back.

  They wanted me to take them for nice guys now. But as if to contradict them, two or three more men burst into the office. I don’t know if this was a tactic used by the intelligence agencies, but the office was now full of men. They looked like small-time thugs, staring at me with a mixture of curiosity and threat. I didn’t move, and stared right back at them with a mock submissive look that enraged and infuriated them. For certain, they expected me to start crying. I did not do them that favour. One of them was dressed in a suit and tie. I could see the hatred glistening in his eyes. He wanted to break me down, I could feel it.

  “This isn’t a daycare. You shouldn’t bring your kid along.” This was the way he talked to his wife, I thought.

  “Who do you want me to leave my child with anyway?”

  I was surrounded by a pack of wolves doing everything they could to make me look weak, to intimidate me. But I was standing my ground, proud of who I was, reminding them of the baseness of their work and insisting on what I wanted. I was surprising myself, I was not letting go. They were losing the battle.

  The session was over. The official who’d been typing asked me to follow him, the others left by way of the stairs. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. My heart was aching; Houd had eaten nothing, Barâa must be very frightened to see that I hadn’t come back. Once again I was led to the same waiting room. It was now deserted. I waited another forty minutes, then the same official who had asked the name of my husband brought me the document I had been waiting for since that morning. It had cost me four hours, a failed intimidation session, and most of all sore arms from carrying Houd. But at last I felt free. I tried to forget the whole episode. Soon we would all be leaving for Canada.

  NOVEMBER 14, 2002. As planned, Mourad came to our house early in the morning. The sky was overcast. A mixture of cloud and pollution hung low on the horizon.

  The day before, I had spent four hours at the pediatrician’s office. Houd had had a high fever, so I decided to take him to see a doctor. Our flight was the following day and we had a long journey in front of us. I was worried about him, I wanted to be sure he was not in danger. The doctor’s waiting room was full to bursting. Anxious-looking parents glanced often at their watches. A secretary with dyed-blonde hair stepped into the room to tell us the doctor had been delayed by an emergency operation and we would have to wait. A deathly silence reigned, sometimes broken by a baby crying. Houd, limp with fever, would start each time a child cried and begin to cry too. I would rock him in my arms and whisper softly that everything was all right and Mama was with him. My words soothed him, and he would fall back into a troubled sleep. Our turn finally came. The pediatrician examined Houd. “I see nothing to worry about,” he said. “Give him aspirin.” I explained that we were leaving the next day for Canada. If the fever persisted, he advised me, have a urinalysis done as soon as we got there.

  Back home, I gave Houd his medicine, but his fever continued to rise and fall. I went to fetch Barâa from our neighbour and began to pack for the journey. I stuffed clothes, toys, and books higgledy-piggledy into big duffle bags. I wanted to pack the essentials and get this journey over with as quickly as possible. As every night, I read Barâa a story, then we said our prayers together. This night, before closing her eyes, she whispered, “Mama, I’m happy. I feel Baba will soon be back.” I smiled at her, kissed he
r on the forehead, and left the room after turning off the light.

  The next morning, we were having our breakfast in the old kitchen for the last time. I looked at our house lovingly – but with a sense of hurt. I liked our family home. It was a modest place with nothing extravagant about it. An unpretentious house in a fast-changing neighbourhood facing invasion by the nouveaux riches of Tunis, a symbol of resistance against the tidal wave of hideous, cumbersome new buildings. It was where I had spent much of my childhood and the years of my youth. But to my dying day this same house would remind me of that morning in September when my life turned upside down. It was as though the house was telling me, in a mocking voice, that I would never forget it even though I had emigrated to Canada, even though I had chosen other houses and other places to live in.

  Mourad loaded the duffle bags and Houd’s stroller into the trunk of his car. We all got inside. Even Houd seemed calm this morning. I didn’t know if it was still the effect of the fever or if he understood what was happening. Our house was not far from the airport. The trip was silent. I looked at the tall palm trees planted along the highway to the airport and thought about Maher. What was he doing? Did he know that we were going back to Canada? When would I be able to see him again?

  “Here we are,” said Mourad. I jumped, I had been lost in thought. We got out of the car and started toward the terminal building. In the departure hall I saw two people waiting for me: Thérèse Laatar and another embassy official. I knew they were going to be there. I needed them to be on hand because I was not sure the Tunisian authorities would let me leave without causing problems. After the incident at the Interior Ministry building, I no longer wanted to leave anything to chance. I had learned my lesson; never again would I play with fire. Thérèse seemed pleasant enough that morning. Perhaps the sight of the children made her change her attitude. She was usually too businesslike for my tastes. She gave me her card and told me to call her as soon as we cleared Tunisian customs to let her know if everything had gone all right. She came with me to the Tunis Air counter for the luggage weigh-in. I felt reassured; at last I had help. My Canadian passport and Barâa’s were in order; for Houd I had only a travel document, just a sheet of paper indicating his place and date of birth with his photograph above. I also had that wretched document authorizing him to leave the country, the one I’d obtained two days earlier at the Interior Ministry. At last I was ready to go through Tunisian customs and on to begin a new stage of my life in Canada. Mourad kissed us all and asked me to call him as soon as we arrived in Montreal. The customs officer who examined our papers barely glanced at me. I gave him all the documents; he entered the names on his computer, and I waited there in front of him, wondering what the verdict would be. Houd was swinging his little feet, he looked happy in his stroller, and Barâa waited too, impatient to get onto the plane. She had begged me to order a children’s menu for her and was as anxious as I was to get through customs. Slowly, the officer checked all the papers, then gave them back to me, scratched his chin, played a bit with his big black moustache, and said, “Bon voyage, madame.”