Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  “Yes, we’ll keep in touch,” I told her.

  It was dark outside as I walked down the majestic white marble staircase and left the imposing walls of Parliament. An icy wind was blowing off the Ottawa River; I buttoned up my coat and quickened my pace to get to the parking lot.

  Michael Edelson had promised to call me back with the results of his meeting with the senior RCMP officers. All my hopes were riding on the letter he had requested; my anxiety was high. The month of Ramadan was almost over; perhaps with the celebration of Eid-al-Fitr, which ends the holy month, Maher and I would be reunited. Secretly, to protect myself against discouragement, I dreamed that the Syrians would release him as a goodwill gesture, that everything would return to the way it was before. Maher had been in prison for two months now, and I could see no end to the ordeal short of a miracle. Though I was fighting tooth and nail, doing everything in my power, there were no concrete results. At night I would go to bed tired, full of despair, but every morning I would wake up filled with hope and energy. It was as if the night erased my pain and revived my courage. Journalists would call to ask if anything was happening. For me, every hour and every day brought something new. But the journalists cared little about the challenges of my everyday life; my husband’s case was what interested them.

  “Have charges been laid against him?”

  How often had I heard the question? Yet I knew nothing more than they did: my husband was in a Syrian prison, suspected of terrorism, of belonging to the al-Qaeda network. That was what Gar Pardy kept telling me on the telephone. Were those words that came from Maher’s mouth? I asked.

  “No, the Syrians are telling us that Maher is a terrorist,” he replied.

  “But why would the Syrians know anything about Maher when he hasn’t lived in the country for seventeen years? What is Canada’s role in this? Why isn’t it doing anything? Don’t you think Canada should have information about Maher; shouldn’t it be up to Canada to bring him to justice? Why are we leaving Maher to the Syrians?”

  In a way, this was the same dialogue of the deaf I had been having with Mr. Pardy from the start: me trying to get him to talk and he trying to convince me that Canada was working diligently on Maher’s case. But when this particular discussion with him had ended, I had a strange feeling. I had the impression I had convinced him – but I was not sure he was going to be heard by others in his department. It had begun to occur to me that decisions were being taken at other levels, in other departments.

  Ottawa, November 22, 2002.

  Dear Maber,

  It is now nine days since I returned to Ottawa with our two children. I cannot describe to you my sadness to see our home and know this time that you are not with us. But don’t worry, I am confident that, with the grace of God, we will be reunited and will be able to resume our lives with our two children. Barâa is well and keeps asking for news of you. She says she loves you and sends you a very big kiss.

  Houd was a little upset by all the changes, but has been calmer the last few days. I am doing everything I possibly can to see you back here in Ottawa and am confident that you will be soon. Keep up your spirits, I’m proud of you, and I will never let you down. All our love and all our prayers are with you. Your parents and brothers send their greetings. Monia, Barâa and Houd.

  NOVEMBER 26, 2002. This morning I spoke to Myra, Mr. Pardy’s assistant. She told me earlier that the Canadian consul to Syria, Leo Martel, was scheduled to visit Maher again, and I was anxious to know what had happened. She had not yet received the report of the meeting, she told me, but promised to send it to me as soon as she did. Where exactly were those visits being held, I wanted to know. Myra told me the consul himself didn’t know where he was being taken. He would arrive at a meeting point, where he would driven by the Syrian secret service in a car with curtained windows so he could not determine the route. Was the place a prison or a house or a detention centre? I wondered. Everything was shrouded in mystery.

  When I turned on my computer the next morning, an email from Myra was waiting in my box. She wrote:

  Monia,

  We received the report of the meeting this morning. Maher was very grateful for the visit from the consul. Your letter was delivered to him. He dictated the following response for you:

  “I would like to thank you again for keeping me up to date on your situation of the kids. I see hope in the words you write me. One thing I would like to say. I miss you and the kids and I miss the good time together. You are the most wonderful wife in the world. Lastly, I would like to teach Barâa the story from Joseph. Even though he was innocent, he was put in prison. I want Barâa to stay proud of her father. Last issue, I wish to know about the health of my mother. I love you all.”

  But the message had a new element. Now Maher was asking me to send him money; he wanted $300 American for his personal needs. I was shocked. Not only had he been thrown into prison, but I had to send him money too. I smiled, remembering a story I had heard about a dissident killed by a repressive regime: to add to the family’s woes, the government had demanded that they pay for the bullet that had killed him. I didn’t know whether this was a true story, but I saw a similarity with what was happening to me. What was Maher going to do with the money? Pay baksheesh to the guards, perhaps? Buy his prison uniform and soap? All these questions remained unanswered. But I couldn’t refuse his request, knowing that Maher was in need and that whatever money I could send him would certainly help him in prison. Myra explained the procedure for transferring money. With a mixture of resignation and despair, I made the transfer.

  Michael Edelson had still not called. I called his office and made an appointment. He met me in the same conference room as our first meeting. He did all the talking. He told me he had met a Mr. Michel Cabana of the RCMP, and asked him for a letter stating that Maher was not linked to terrorist activities in Canada. Mr. Edelson did not seem very happy; I sensed that things were not moving in the right direction.

  “Here is what I received,” he said, handing me a letter. I opened it and read:

  Mr. Edelson, your letter dated October 31, 2002, to Me Ann Alder in the matter of Maher Arar refers. While I sympathize with the present situation of Mr. Arar’s family and your plight in securing his release and return to Canada, I am not in a position to acquiesce your request at this time. As you can understand, the RCMP, as a matter of course, does not involve itself in subjects of foreign policies. Furthermore, it would be improper for me to comment on Mr. Arar’s present situation relative to our ongoing investigation. At this juncture, I can only confirm that the RCMP did not play any role relative to Mr. Arar’s present situation. The RCMP was only advised of Mr. Arar’s transfer to Syria after the fact. I can also confirm that Mr. Arar does not have a criminal record in Canada. I apologize for not being of more assistance and recommend that you pursue diplomatic channels…

  I didn’t want to read the letter to the end. I couldn’t believe my eyes; I almost wanted to burst out laughing. I smiled, but I felt like crumpling the letter in my hands. I restrained myself.

  “Why have they refused to give us the letter we wanted?” I asked.

  “Because, according to them, they never write such letters.”

  “Even if my husband was kidnapped by the Americans and is languishing in a Syrian prison?” I said without looking up.

  “That is their position and I couldn’t convince them otherwise.”

  At that moment I realized that Mr. Edelson could do no more; he had done what he could do and, like me, he felt he had come up against a stone wall. I muttered some almost inaudible words to thank him for his help and his effort. Inside, I knew I had lost another battle.

  By the end of November, I could feel that the journalists’ interest in our case was dwindling. There was no fresh information; they couldn’t keep reporting on me repeating the same story. For years I had been reserved, attached to my quiet, peaceful life; but now I was praying for something, anything, to happen. Something had to
give, something new had to turn up: a letter, a comment, a politician with something to say. But wherever I turned, there was only silence. Was it the calm before the storm or was it the perpetual silence I must henceforth live with, having learned to master my anxiety? I wrote letters to the prime minister that I didn’t send. I read them and reread them; they weren’t right. My writing in English struck me as awful. I had written plenty of technical articles in English but had zero experience writing to politicians. Sometimes I would turn on my computer and read the different versions I had saved. But I could never make up my mind to send one. In Tunisia I was convinced that, once back in Canada, I would be able to work miracles; I could meet people, mobilize public opinion, make demands, and get results. But I was living in the clouds, caught up in a case that was too complex for me.

  Since my return to Ottawa I had realized that life didn’t revolve around Maher alone, that life went on – even without him. I understood more clearly now that over the past months I had been in shock, attempting to deny my new reality. In the last few days, I came to recognize the obvious: that Maher would not be coming home right away, that his case was going to take months, or years, or perhaps an eternity. Gradually, I was accepting my lot with a sense of resignation and serenity that I had not felt before. Admitting as much enabled me to continue my life in peace. I no longer strained to have it back exactly as it had been; I understood that it would never again be as it once was. But I promised myself to fight to have Maher treated with dignity and fairness. Ever since his arrest, I had been convinced of his innocence; what had upset me most was the way he was being treated, that he had been denied any form of justice. He had been robbed of his right to any form of trial or defence. And I, who had always believed in the rule of law and a just system founded on respect for the law, not on arbitrary decisions, was seeing my dreams being shattered. Doubt was gnawing at me; there was no way to know if Maher’s case was an isolated one or whether it was the beginning of collapse of the presumption of innocence, the principle of “innocent until proven guilty.” It was becoming vital for me to keep helping Maher, not only because he was my husband, the father of my children, my life partner, but also because I felt that our collective silence would be interpreted by those responsible for this tragedy as implicit consent to continue behaving as they were doing.

  EARLY DECEMBER 2002. Ramadan had come to an end; I was dreading the thought of spending the first day of the Eid holiday with Maher far away from us. Pretending that our life was normal, I bought gifts for the children and new clothes, and the day before Eid, my mother and I made some little cakes. On the morning of Eid, we all went to prayers. People had thronged into a large hall rented for the occasion. We sat in the section reserved for women; the noise was deafening, exacerbated by a sputtering sound system and the constant wailing of babies. I found a place near the door where we could all sit together. The children didn’t say a word. My mother scanned the faces of the women in the hope of finding an old acquaintance, but there was only a mass of well-dressed women practically scintillating beneath their jewels, greeting one another and talking and ignoring the male voice speaking and preaching at the microphone. The prayers were over quickly; I was eager to hear the sermon, looking for words of comfort, spiritual words to help me rise above the silence and fill the void in my heart. I held Houd on my knees, making efforts to hear through the noise of the women’s laughter and greetings. The words reached me fragmented, piecemeal, but I understood that, on this day of Eid, the imam was speaking of love and compassion: “Today is a day for joy, put aside your troubles and thank God for …” But this was not the message I wanted to hear. Hope was what I wanted, words about justice and patience. Many women were standing and continuing to talk together while others knelt, resting on their heels, trying to capture a few intelligible words in this chaos of noise. I was disappointed, not finding peace in the words I had come to hear; I waited patiently for the imam to finish, my thoughts elsewhere. I was thinking of Maher. Did he know this was the day of Eid? What was he doing?

  When it was over, I rose, kissed my mother, and wished her a happy Eid. We went home, but the atmosphere was gloomy and for some reason I was yearning to be alone. The children were happy with their gifts. We all played together and I didn’t realize how fast the time was passing. That night as I lay down to sleep, I felt my tears begin to flow and I silently prayed to God to help me find the joy the imam had spoken of that morning.

  Ottawa, December 6, 2002.

  Dear Maher,

  Today is Eid. A different kind of Eid this time, the first one since we were married that you are not with us. The children were beautiful in their new clothes. Barâa wore a mauve dress with a little lace vest sewn with satin flowers, and Houd a dark brown velvet jumper with a checkered shirt. I bought them some gifts. We miss you a lot, you know. All our prayers are for you, to see you back with us at last. Barâa has sent you a greeting card, I hope you will be able to read it. I have sent you $200 American, I presume that the Canadian consul will give it to you. I wish you much courage, and keep well. Your mother is in good health. She is praying for you. Monia, Barâa and Houd.

  The telephone rang. It was Anthony, Alexa McDonough’s assistant. He was passing on an invitation from Nazira Tareen. On the occasion of Eid, she was giving a little party at her house and inviting a large number of women, including Alexa and me.

  “Don’t forget, next Monday around noon or one o’clock. Alexa will be there and is looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Yes, I’ll be there,” I replied.

  It would be a great opportunity for me to win support and tell Maher’s story to more people and ask them to take action. Ever since the first days after Maher’s arrest, I had made up my mind not to ask for help from private individuals unless they wished to give it. I knew that some people were afraid to be associated with me or with my husband; I didn’t want to embarrass them or make them feel obliged to help me. But when someone held out a hand, I never refused it. The hand that Nazira was extending meant a lot to me. I didn’t know this woman; I had heard from Alexa that she was president of a Muslim women’s organization in Ottawa and that she was active in the community. She didn’t know me but wanted to help. I was very happy to go to the party and promised myself to make good use of the opportunity.

  DECEMBER 9, 2002. Monday finally came. Barâa was at school, I left Houd with my mother, took my car, and left for Nazira’s. She lived not far from me in a fine residential neighbourhood with big, beautiful houses. I knocked at the door shyly. A middle-aged lady with sparkling eyes, dressed in an Indian sari, opened the door with a big smile.

  “Oh, it’s you, Monia, I recognize you from TV. Come in, come in, I’m Nazira. Alexa’s not here yet, but she’ll be here soon.”

  And so, as if we had known each other for years, as naturally and easily as could be, I stepped inside Nazira’s house. The other guests had already gathered in small groups. I was ill at ease, not knowing anyone. In the dining room, tables against the wall were laden with food: meatballs, morsels of grilled chicken, sauces of every colour, different kinds of rice, dishes I had never seen before but that looked appetizing; fruits, exotic pastries – a feast, in short. I sat down on a sofa and looked at the women around me. They were of diverse origins: South Asian, Arab, Western … Many knew one another and were talking together. Nazira was very busy in the kitchen, bringing some last dishes out to the dining room. Then she came to invite all the guests to take plates and cutlery and go and serve themselves. It was like a buffet, each waiting her turn and, with her plate filled, going to sit in a chair or on the sofa in the living room. I did as all the others and went to the living room to sit and enjoy this food. Alexa arrived with her press secretary. She came to greet me and ask about my news. Nazira would come from time to time to ask if everything was going all right; she introduced me to several women.

  “This is Monia Mazigh, the wife of Maher Arar, the Canadian in prison in Syria. We have to do somet
hing to help her,” she would say.

  Sometimes the woman knew about the affair, expressed her indignation, and I stayed with her to talk a while, but other times she knew nothing about it or showed little interest and the conversation would end abruptly. When all the women were seated in the living room, Nazira stood up and gave a little speech. After wishing everyone a joyous Eid, she introduced all the distinguished persons present; there were doctors, diplomats’ wives, and of course Alexa McDonough. Near the end, she turned toward me and said, loud enough for everyone to hear:

  “I’d like to present a courageous woman who is fighting to see her husband again. We have to help her today and I want you to hear her story. Meet Monia Mazigh, the wife of Maher Arar.”

  I was caught off guard; Nazira was asking me to speak before all these women. There was a lump in my throat, but I remembered that this was my chance and I must make good use of it. Suddenly the words came to my rescue and I spoke of my life since Maher’s arrest. The disappearance, the anxiety, the imprisonment, the deportation, the appalling silence and the government’s foot-dragging, the way my family’s life had been turned upside down, the uncertainty. I spoke looking straight ahead of me, staring at an invisible point the better to concentrate, though once in a while I would look at the women around me and see some who, minutes before, had been carefree, happy, and laughing now blowing their noses and wiping away tears. What had I done? Was it my words, my story, or my expression that had moved them? I remained standing a minute, then sat down. Alexa thanked me, spoke of the importance of preserving human rights even at the most difficult times, and told the gathering of women that they must do something together. Nazira agreed and asked, What could they do? Someone spoke of a march by women and children, then the word vigil was heard.