Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  But when I learned that Time magazine was going to write an article on Maher, I immediately considered that it was a step in the right direction. I was under no illusions, of course. In the world of journalism, things are not as innocent as they appear. When I asked Mark Rykoff if he could send me a copy of the article, he seemed to hesitate, then said he would try but that he did not have the last word. Finally, he promised to call me when the issue appeared. It never occurred to me that I could be used. In my excitement, I promised to send him the picture. As soon as the call was over, I sat down at my computer, found the picture in .jpg format, and sent it to him, reassuring myself that our conversation had been a good omen; soon things would start moving on the American side. The feeling of success had gone to my head; I’d forgotten that the Canadian consul’s visits to Maher had stopped, that I hadn’t heard a word from my husband for several weeks now.

  Two weeks after that call, I was still waiting to hear from Mark Rykoff, but nothing came. Perhaps they had changed their minds and were not going to publish the article. I was disappointed. Little did I realize the shock that was coming. One day when I was talking to Ahmed, he alluded to the article.

  “Have you seen it?” I asked with curiosity.

  “Yes, it’s on the newsstands,” he told me, but he said no more about it.

  I understood from his tone of voice that the article was not great. I went at once to the newsstand at the Bayshore shopping centre and found Time. I opened it with trembling hands, not knowing what to expect. It was an article entitled “The Challenge of Terror.” (“The Challenge of Terror,” Steven Frank, Time, January 27, 2003.) Of the beautiful picture I had sent, all that was left was Maher’s face with his radiant smile. No Barâa, no Monia, no birthday cake. Just Maher the suspected terrorist. His picture was shown alongside those of others suspected of terrorism in Canada. The article was not about Maher; he had been used as an example to show that Canada too had a terrorism problem, that our country had become, according to an expert, “a way station” for terrorists. I knew the theory of course and didn’t believe it for an instant. It was a mixture of arrogance and throwing blame on others. But this time the message concerned me personally. I felt betrayed. I was revolted to see how far the search for sensational headlines would go to hide the truth. What was on offer here was not a magazine of news and ideas or a forum for discussion, but a propaganda outlet. In my hands I was holding the perfect example of the theory that “the end justifies the means.”

  Sick at heart, I returned home. How could I possibly show the article to my mother? Feelings of guilt began to gnaw at me; what a fool I had been to send the picture. It was as if the article had been written with my consent; I had been trapped. How was I going to defend myself? I decided to send the journalist an email. His response was cold. It was not his fault, he wrote, his editor made all the decisions. He sent me the editor’s name, and I fired off an email to him. He was more arrogant still. He didn’t have any problem with the article, he said, telling me, in effect, to get lost. On top of my feelings of inability to help Maher were regrets at having shared our lovely family photograph with people who didn’t deserve it.

  On more than one occasion, I had the distinct impression that Mr. Pardy was trying to humour me. He would try to make me think that things were moving in the right direction to keep me quiet, and to get me off his back. But that was overlooking my nature never to give up. Oh, I would accept things with a certain resignation at first, but I never let despair get the better of me, or accept defeat. Perhaps I had unintentionally made Mr. Pardy feel that I believed what he was telling me. But after I’d taken a moment to look back and analyze the situation with a cool head, I promised myself to keep right on doing exactly what I’d been doing until Maher was back.

  For some time I had been thinking about writing an article for the newspapers. I was waiting for the right moment to do it. One day as I was reading the Globe and Mail, I was startled to see one of my family pictures. It had been taken in Tunisia, at El-Haouria, a tiny, remote village on the northeastern coast; I was holding Houd in my arms, Barâa was proudly displaying a fish a fisherman had just given her, and Maher was sitting with brows knit against the rays of the sun. I had given the picture to a Globe and Mail journalist earlier, but it had never been used. Now, the same newspaper had published it alongside an article on another person arrested in Ottawa on a national security certificate, even though that had no relation to our story. It was a grave error; the paper apologized and promised to give me space for an article when I had written it. I was delighted and decided to write as soon as possible. My article would be factual, it would speak about me and my husband, but it would also inspire people to act, to do something. I didn’t want to look like the weepy victim lamenting her fate; I wanted to write of hope and action. I needed solitude, time by myself, to do it. In the apartment there were always other things to be done: a bottle to prepare to soothe Houd’s crying, homework to help Barâa with, dirty laundry to take down to the washing machines in the basement. I made up my mind to go to the library nearby where I took the children every week to borrow books. This time I went alone. I found a table on the second floor near a window and thought. First I wrote in French, then translated my words into English. After several attempts, this is what I wrote:

  GLOBE AND MAIL, JANUARY 18, 2003. Barâa, my eldest daughter will be six in one month. Yesterday, she told me that she is going to travel to Syria by helicopter: “I will open the door of the jail where Dad is being kept and get him back to Canada. If I cannot take him out of there, then I will ask the guards to keep me there with my Dad in the same room. You can join me with Houd (my little one), Grandma, and Grandpa …”

  I was amazed by her imagination and her logic. Unfortunately, she does not understand how far removed the world of adults is from her innocence.

  It has been now more than three months since the children and I have seen Maher. The last time I saw him was September 25th. One week later, he called from the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn, New York, to let us know that he had been arrested. He asked for a lawyer. One week later, I received a call from an official at the Canadian Consulate in New York … I have sad news for you,” she said, “Maher has been deported to Syria.”

  However, I failed to receive any official notification about the whereabouts of Maher. For thirteen days, he disappeared from the planet, vanished from the world of myself and my children. Then, on October 21st, he appeared in Syria, the land of miracles.

  Every moment since has been one question after another: Will I be able to see him again? Will our children ever enjoy his presence and feel his affection?

  When I came to Canada twelve years ago, I dreamt of a country of freedom and democracy. On September 26th, 2002, I woke up to live a daily nightmare.

  I feel bitterly deceived. Every day is a new adventure for me. I have to be the caring mother for my children, answer the probing questions of my eldest and pamper my ten-month-old baby, Houd. I have given countless interviews to journalists and pressed the Canadian government for answers about my husband’s situation. In the past, I had only heard of the “Superwoman ideal;” today, it seems I live a distorted image of it.

  It is terrible to live in uncertainty. I had been taught early on during my graduate studies in business that planning and strategy form the core of a sound company. Later, I applied many of these principles to my life. I realize now that I was too idealistic. I have to introduce what we call in financial mathematical models, a “stochastic element” to capture all the unknowns of my current state.

  This new life has taught me of the fragility of our most precious human assets. One day, Maher was a loving husband, a devoted father and a brilliant engineer. Then, he was turned into a file number. I still cannot accept that a Canadian citizen, who left Syria at 17– whose unused Syria passport still shows the face of an adolescent, can be thrown into jail, interrogated at length, threatened with deportation, denied proper acces
s to a lawyer, denied a transparent trial, and then deported to the country of his birth.

  Furthermore, he had been “sent” from the U.S. to Jordan, then to Syria, without his consent.

  For days, we labored in Syria to find out where he was. But the U.S. authorities refused to offer us even that courtesy. Maher ceased to be as a human being in the eyes of some. Instead, he was regarded as a parcel sent to whichever country would accept him.

  When I read Voltaire’s “Candide” for the first time at the age of 17, I did not really understand the beauty and depth of this novel, Voltaire criticized the government for its illusory security and intolerance. Two centuries later, it seems that a few governments have failed to heed his words of advice.

  Maher has done [a lot for] his country Canada. He studied in Canada, founded a family, raised his children, and established his business. Unfortunately for him, the U.S. authorities did not judge all this sufficient proof of his loyalty to Canada his country. Instead, they decided to send him elsewhere…

  If these are the conditions surrounding this very strange case, how can we still believe in countries claiming to be defenders of democracy? How can we still trust their legal system and at a first place their Justice?

  I am always proud and happy to present myself as a mother of two children. Children are our eternal source of youth, energy and hope. Every day through my deeds and my words I would like to raise good and proud citizens. I do not like them to live in shadow or with bitterness. When my daughter Barâa, shares her thoughts with me, I feel that I am strong. In her eyes, I can read innocence – and I can still believe that one day our family will reunite.

  When I had finished, I was emotionally drained; it was as if my soul had become part of the words, as if it didn’t want to return to my body. I gathered my papers, stuffed them into my briefcase, and went home.

  Translating the text took me another few days, then I sent the English version to Riad Saloojee at CAIR-CAN for his opinion. His comments came back quickly and I was able to send the article off to the Globe and Mail on time. I had learned that I could also send the French version to La Presse, which would definitely publish it. Our story would not be forgotten; I was succeeding in sharing my dreams and my disappointment with the country’s readers. I very much liked the idea of communicating with the public; it reminded me of the vigil we had organized the previous month. It also made me want to keep up the contact, not sporadically but regularly. That was when the idea of a website popped into my mind. Yes, why not create a site where I would talk about Maher’s case? It would be a way for me to keep all the people I knew informed about the case, but it would also be a window to make the case known to more people, and to seek their help. It could include all new information along with articles and coming events. As I didn’t have a clue about how to set one up, I began by organizing all the information I wanted to put on the site. I found the published articles, saved the photographs — in short, I gathered all the material together before finding someone to help me. Websites were an unknown field for me; I knew next to nothing about them but was eager to get involved. This new stage of my life was teaching me a precious lesson. It was not enough to reflect and observe: now I was learning to act.

  I was in constant contact with Ahmed and his family. I spoke often to his wife, Racha, and I visited them from time to time. I kept them up to date on the case and Ahmed was always ready with suggestions. He knew more people in the Muslim community than I, and did all he could to win support and urge organizations to put more pressure on the government. He didn’t always tell me what he was doing, but I quickly figured out that he was doing a great deal without making much noise about it.

  I sensed that people were forgetting about Maher, however. The best way for me to overcome my fears was to get my teeth into something. There was nothing worse than feeling useless and doing nothing. So I made up my mind to share my plans with the people around me, and proposed to Riad and Ahmed that we meet to find a way out of the impasse. The meeting was set for Riad’s office in Kanata. We all arrived on time at around six o’clock and went to the conference room. My plan was to float my idea of a website and get their opinion, but also to see if they were ready to help me with the project. The meeting was businesslike and the atmosphere was very fraternal; I came away happy. There I was with two men, one who had known Maher for years and the other who barely knew him, but both were moved by a thirst for justice and each was offering his help in his own way. Both had their professions, their own lives and families; the job would only make life more difficult for them. But when I brought up the idea of a website, Riad and Ahmed liked it.

  “We know a website designer in Toronto,” Riad said. “I’ll speak to him. He might help you set up the site.”

  Ahmed had another idea. He wanted me to prepare a brochure that would outline all of Maher’s accomplishments to date: “You can include copies of his diplomas, testimonials from his former colleagues, letters of support from prominent people, everything you can find in Maher’s favour.” It was a wonderful idea, but I had trouble imagining what such a brochure would look like. “You can take the pamphlet with you any time you go to see a politician or other important person,” Ahmed said. “It will be an important document for the work we’re doing.”

  We all agreed that I should work at the two projects, and both men were ready to help. So I threw myself wholeheartedly into them. They would take me an enormous amount of time, but I felt relief to know that, in spite of the diplomatic silence, I was doing everything I could to have our family reunited.

  A few days after our meeting, Mr. Ramzi called. He was the Toronto website designer who would help me create Maher’s site, which he agreed to do without compensation. He asked me to send him all the material I wanted to appear on the site. We would call it “FreeMaherArar.” Although I have always preferred direct contact over virtual presence, I will never regret this idea. When I saw a preliminary version of the site, I was very moved; I felt I had reached out my hand toward another world. Since the website’s launch, I have received emails from Canadians all over the country. I don’t recall getting a single hateful or doubtful message; all have been from people shocked by the Canadian government’s slowness to act and especially generous with their words of support and encouragement. We feel the need for an extended hand like this in our most vulnerable moments; the website made me realize that I was no longer alone in this fight, that I had many new friends by my side. The messages of support I received helped ease the doubt that was welling up in me and reestablished the equilibrium I needed to survive and get on with my life with a semblance of normalcy.

  My article for the Globe and Mail was published in both English and French, but it had no effect. There was neither comment nor reaction. Still, I was not discouraged. Writing it had given me a chance to be alone with myself, to draw on the best within me, on my deepest thoughts and emotions. This time of inner peace and self-examination brought me the calm I had been seeking. Since Maher’s arrest, I had been deluged with news, one report after another; I had been taking blows, one after another. Day and night I dreamed of a miracle; it was the only way I could pull myself out of the pit. How I wanted things to get better fast! My faith was strong; my relationship with God had helped me to survive, to keep my head up. But this time I was caught short: the wave was too big and I was swept off my feet and into a new life. Everything happened so fast. Every day I prayed to God, but I was not finding any time for reflection, to be alone with myself, to concentrate on my spiritual life. My days were too full; I was always carrying out my tasks in haste for fear of not finishing, always getting back to work on Maher’s case because I was afraid he might never return.

  The day I sat down in the library, I looked deep inside myself and saw that beside the person I had become, I still existed. I had feelings, hopes, and above all I had my faith. Before Maher’s arrest, my life had been a relatively easy one. I had no major problems to disturb or upset me and I kn
ew how privileged I was; I could only thank God for giving me everything. But the sense of continuity, the wellspring of happiness had suddenly dried up on September 26, 2002. Of course, as a believer I saw a sign from God in what had happened. I found consolation in the thought that God was testing me, but I no longer had time to meditate or think deeply. The opportunity to write was like taking a fresh look in the mirror; I was learning to know myself again, taking the time to nourish my faith and recreate the deep, intense, spiritual bond I had been neglecting or failing to see. Yes, I was being tested, but my reaction to the test was going to change. I wanted to learn from this new life as I had learned from the old; in this test I wanted to see myself not as a victim but as an active participant. I would accept the new role that had been assigned to me and would pray fervently to learn. When I was still a child, I always wanted my father to give me more responsibility; my parents had spoiled me a bit, and I was always anxious to prove to everyone around me that I could be independent and strong. Those were just a young girl’s wishes and dreams, of course. Then, suddenly, I had lost my stability, my happiness, my family life; all I could dream of was to return to peace and quiet again. But I understood that I could not pick my dreams to suit my wants. Today, I had to confront my new life with patience and conviction, sure that my faith would accompany me along this road in spite of all the obstacles.