Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  My MP, Marlene Catterall, paid us a visit in our little apartment. At first I thought there might be something new, but that was not the case. She had come simply to visit and get to know us a bit better. Her visit also roused Barâa and Houd’s curiosity. Barâa began talking to her and showing Marlene her toys and the gifts she had received for Eid, but Houd, who was not talking yet, stayed sitting on my knee, smiling shyly now and then. When Marlene talked about her grandchildren, I felt my children were reminding her of them. I would have liked her to talk more about the case, but she was very careful to give me no false hopes.

  “Have confidence in Mr. Pardy,” she told me. “He’s been a diplomat a long time. He can slither through the intricate paths of diplomacy like a snake.”

  “Yes, but I don’t see any concrete results. There are practically no visits any more. We’ve put ourselves at the mercy of the Syrian government. I don’t see any way out.”

  Marlene listened but said nothing. Houd was now on her knee, I don’t know how she had wooed him, but he was clearly happy and not complaining. My mother brought us green tea and biscuits; Marlene served herself. The discussion was no longer about Maher, we were talking children and families. Barâa demonstrated her new crayons that were like glue tubes that gave out a kind of gelatinous fluid full of sparkles.

  “You’ve given me a fantastic idea, Barâa. I’m going to buy some crayons like that for my granddaughter.”

  Barâa looked proud. She loved to discover new kinds of coloured crayons and would sing their praises to her friends and relatives. Marlene spent an hour like this; her natural way with the children and her manner of speaking about her family made me forget that many people saw us as a family suspected of terrorism. For an hour I forgot how we were perceived and thought only of the present moment.

  When she stood up and prepared to leave, she said, “The minister, Bill Graham, has read your article. Everybody thinks it’s very moving.”

  Flustered and without thinking, I said, “Thank you,” as if I needed to say something in reply. I would have liked to ask some more questions but held back. Marlene’s expression had told me the visit was over.

  The FreeMaherArar.com website was up and running now and I was logging on daily. I continued to gather documents for the brochure that would present Maher not as a terrorist but as a successful engineer. When I had worked on my doctoral thesis, I had spent whole days reading articles, writing programs, finding recent articles, and understanding their implications for my subject. At the time I thought that once I was a professor I would continue this work. I never thought that one day I would be searching for articles and gathering documents, pictures, and statements attesting to my husband’s innocence. When I had radio interviews or was talking to journalists, the most difficult question to answer was “Yes, but why do you think your husband is innocent?” It was a difficult question not because I doubted his innocence but because no wife, mother, or other relative of a prisoner can possibly give an objective answer. How could I convince people around me that my husband was not a terrorist? Would my words be enough, my love, my confidence? Why would they believe me, especially when he, Maher, was not here to defend himself, when he had been arrested and then deported in mysterious circumstances? How should I answer? As a faithful, loving wife, and risk having people scoff at my naivety and simplicity? Or as a good tactician, replying with shrewdness and cool judgment? Is the truth all that hard to put across? I found myself busy stacking up Maher’s diplomas, displaying his business cards, unearthing all the articles written in support of him so that people would at last listen to me. I was convinced it would be more effective for people to listen to me in person, to meet me, to pay attention when I told them loud and clear that my husband was not a member of al-Qaeda, not a terrorist, and had never plotted anything against anyone. But that would be forgetting how the world we live in works. Still, I was not giving up my way of seeing things. In fact, the moment I came before a camera or microphone, I would forget all my arguments and feel as if another person were speaking in my place, and it would be my heart, a voice more profound than mine, taking over and expressing itself; whatever I had inside me would come out, naturally. So what if my English sentences were grammatically correct or not. My despair and sadness were equalled only by my enthusiasm and faith once I found myself in front of a microphone, voicing my bitter disappointment at the government’s efforts, and my hopes of seeing my husband back with us in Canada.

  — 4 —

  THE SILENCE OF WORDS

  hold on tight, I’m going to do all I can to get you out of there …

  FEBRUARY 5, 2003. Every day on the news, the invasion of Iraq was drawing closer and closer. War had spared my homeland; conflict had always seemed far away. People’s suffering was something we saw on television, or read about in newspapers and books. But this time, it was different. Maher’s arrest had brought home to me just how close events happening far away could be; my interest in the Middle East had taken on a personal aspect. Even though today’s wars couldn’t be called “world” conflicts, they affected far more people than those who lived in the countries directly involved.

  After the invasion of Iraq, would Syria be next? Could Maher possibly become a political hostage, trapped by the flames of war that now threatened the entire Middle East? Those were the questions that kept running through my mind as I lay on the living room sofa watching Colin Powell, the U.S. secretary of state, addressing the United Nations General Assembly, lecturing like a university professor, with a slide presentation to make his point.

  Closing my eyes, I saw myself as a newlywed in our little apartment on Place Decelles in Montreal. My doctoral studies at McGill had just begun; I divided my time between my lectures and studying at the library or at home. The work was demanding; I had to submit reports and summaries, program econometric methods, and make oral presentations. Maher was also a McGill student, completing his B.A. in computer engineering, while selling computers he would assemble himself. At home, we each had our own study space, he in the kitchen, I in the living room. The upstairs neighbours would often play loud, hard-rock music or come in late at night and tramp around noisily. To get some relief from the stress of our studies and the noise of the apartment, we would often go for walks on Mount Royal, strolling in silence, hand in hand, taking in the natural beauty around us.

  I had been brought up to believe that a solid academic background was the key to success in life. It had been my father’s constant refrain, and it was to become my mission: to be successful academically, to make my parents proud of me. Life in Canada had given me the opportunity to finish what I could not in Tunisia. When I completed my B.A. in commerce at the Institut des hautes études commerciales, I had come first in my class, which normally would have made me eligible for a Tunisian Government scholarship to study in Canada. But the Tunisian Ministry of Higher Education never approved my application, pretending that one document or another was missing from my file. One day, while I was waiting to see the head of the institute from which I had just graduated, the secretary, a kindly looking woman, cast a maternal eye on me and said, “My dear girl, don’t you realize it’s your head scarf that upsets people? Don’t you realize your scholarship file will never be completed in time?”

  I looked at her, wide-eyed with astonishment. Official policy in Tunisia discouraged the head scarf, and deep down I knew that wearing it would hurt my prospects, but I had pretended that everything was normal. The secretary’s straightforward words shook me out of my state of denial.

  If they wouldn’t grant me a scholarship, my mind was already made up: I would go to Canada and find some other way to pay for my studies. My brother helped me financially through my master’s program at Montreal’s École des hautes études commerciales; then I won a J. W. McConnell scholarship for academic excellence from McGill for my doctoral studies. As the years passed, I gradually reached my goal. Receiving that doctorate was the greatest joy of my life. I saw the doors open
ing before me; the future was bright. Then suddenly came Maher’s arrest and imprisonment, and our lives were turned upside down.

  Here I was, still sitting in front of the television; Colin Powell was still talking, but I could no longer understand a word of what he was saying. But I could feel the fear. War was coming. I shivered.

  At last, my letter to Prime Minister Jean Chrétien was ready. I was counting on Alexa McDonough’s good offices to get it into his hands, which she promised to do during question period in the House of Commons. I was naive enough, and optimistic enough, to believe that he would read it himself and give me an answer. Up until then, the prime minister had mentioned Maher only once, in Beirut, at the 2002 Francophonie Summit, stating that there was little Canada could do to help him. “We cannot go and pick him up and bring him back.” (“Canada can’t help Ottawa man the U.S. deported to Syria, PM says: While officials have protested the U.S. action, they still have no idea where Maher Arar is,” Ottawa Citizen, Mike Trickey, with files from Patti Edgar, October 18, 2002.)

  With my letter, I hoped to get him personally involved in the case. When I’d asked Gar Pardy if Prime Minster Chrétien could intervene and call for Maher’s release, he had replied:

  “He can’t do it for two reasons:

  “First, all diplomatic channels must be exhausted before getting the prime minister involved. If President al-Assad says no to Mr. Chrétien, it will be a definitive no, which will be very difficult to get around later.

  “Second, Mr. Chrétien has already intervened in the past, in the case of Ahmed Said Khadr when he was arrested in Pakistan as a suspect in a bomb attack. Pakistan agreed to free Khadr, but the United States then accused him of terrorism. The Canadian intelligence agencies have never forgiven Chrétien for getting involved. They certainly don’t want him to be involved again.”

  Always the same old arguments. I knew them by heart. But I wasn’t going to let that get me down. I was obsessed with the idea of getting through to Mr. Chrétien. Mr. Pardy knew all the ins and outs of diplomacy, but in my mind, I would find a way. I wanted to open doors on all fronts: politics, public statements, the media, letters, public personalities, the Internet, diplomacy: I had to try everything.

  Barâa and Houd were both born in February: Barâa would soon be six years old and Houd, one year old. I wanted to have a little party for them, to let them know that life went on, that even though their Baba was not there, they were growing up. Meanwhile, January had gone by and I hadn’t found the time to organize a second vigil. I decided to hold it in February, on the same day as my children’s party. This second vigil was easier to organize. I alerted all my acquaintances and asked Alexa’s and Marlene’s offices to help spread the word. Unfortunately, the relative silence on the media front over the last few weeks had created confusion. In chance encounters I would hear people say, “Oh, your husband is still in prison? I hadn’t heard anything. I thought the whole thing had been settled.”

  I was counting on the vigil to get our story back into the news.

  FEBRUARY 24, 2003. I chose the same place: the Eternal Flame, in front of the Canadian Parliament. The day was cold, but not the –20? Celsius of the previous vigil. I got there at around six o’clock with my mother, Barâa, and Houd, and found several people already waiting.

  The day before, I had baked two cakes: a chocolate one for Barâa (she had chosen the recipe herself from of one of my cookbooks) and a simple white cake with cream icing, decorated with tiny coloured candies arranged in a rainbow. They had taken some time to make, but the thought of the children’s pleasure at seeing their respective cakes was uppermost in my mind. Cake baking was one of my favourite hobbies; I enjoyed making them and discovering new recipes. I had been baking cakes since age twelve. When I was making and decorating a cake, I could put my worries aside, a kind of culinary escape that recharged my emotional batteries.

  But standing there before the flame whipping back and forth in the wind, I forgot the cakes and creams and icings and began to wonder if more people were going to arrive, and if the journalists would turn up. My brother-in-law Bassam had come from Montreal. Shyly, a few more people joined us. Alexa was there, accompanied by Jack Layton, who had become the NDP’s new leader a month before. She introduced us; he was wearing a red beret and seemed open and pleasant. His party would stay focused on Maher’s case as long as it took, he assured me. His words were encouraging to me.

  There were around fifteen of us altogether, a few journalists came and took pictures. But this vigil was different; there was none of the emotion and warmth of the first one; people seemed gloomy and sad. Was discouragement getting the better of us? Still, I was grateful for the support, even if it was fragile and hesitant, and saw a great gift in it. My husband was accused of terrorism. I knew people were whispering, “Why take risks? Why help someone we don’t know? What if Maher Arar turns out to be a terrorist, then what will we look like? Better to keep our distance.” But the people standing there with me had ignored the cold, the rumours, and the prejudice. It was a magnificent display of courage and support that would remain in my heart. Words of gratitude came naturally and I thanked everyone for coming. Calmly, I repeated what had become our standing demand on the Canadian government: bring Maher home. The small crowd dispersed immediately afterwards and I went home quietly with my mother and the children.

  Back home, our party was simple and quick. The children were merry. I took photos: Houd, his face smeared with cream, and Barâa savouring a slice of chocolate cake. How I would have loved Maher to be there with us.

  The Canadian consul’s visits to Maher seemed to have stopped. The first had taken place on October 23, and three more had followed at one-month intervals. This time, almost six weeks had passed without a word. When I called Gar Pardy, he told me that diplomatic notes to Damascus were not being answered and he didn’t know the reason why. I was concerned that something serious had happened to Maher, but at the same time I took the opportunity to remind Mr. Pardy that the Syrians were not to be trusted. He didn’t appreciate my comments; he firmly believed that the forceful approach would never work, that we should use positive reinforcement by showing gratitude at the opportune time. I could understand his reasoning, but as far as I was concerned, my husband’s jailers wanted to show Canada that they could do whatever they pleased: Leo Martel’s visits to Maher Arar could easily become a kind of good-behaviour “carrot” they could dangle in front of our nose. I hated this situation; if only Canada would show more backbone.

  FEBRUARY 18, 2003. Myra, Gar Pardy’s assistant, sent me a message to say that another visit had taken place without any advance warning. The Syrian agents normally responsible for organizing the meetings had apparently informed the consul they hadn’t been able to organize a visit earlier because of a heavy workload and certain statutory holidays. At the end of Myra’s message, I once again found a few words from Maher.

  Dear Monia,

  I begin by wishing Houd and Barâa a happy birthday. Not a single minute goes by that I don’t think of you and the kids. Life without you and the kids is not worth living. I hope justice will be done as soon as possible and I hope we will soon be reunited. Please convey my salutations to my family. I love you all. Maher.

  I still hadn’t found work, and almost nothing was left of the savings that Maher and I had put aside after we’d finished our studies. My mother was helping out with her own social assistance, but things were getting more and more difficult. The apartment had really become too small for the four of us too. We needed a larger place, but I couldn’t afford it. Even though I felt scarred by my first experience, I applied again for social assistance. But what if they turn me down again? I wondered. What would become of us?

  The social worker I encountered at the Ottawa municipal welfare office was businesslike, but polite and smiling. As she put me through the same routine, my heart was pounding. Would there be a problem? What about the car? Was she also going to ask me to sell it? To my surpris
e she said not a word; things went better than I could have hoped. I told her my husband was in prison and far from the country, but her expression remained unchanged, as if everything were quite normal. When at last she told me I would soon receive my first social assistance cheque, I was suddenly overcome with joy. She continued: “You don’t have to look for work because you have a very young child. I’m giving you an exemption, which you can renew.”

  Touched, I thanked her for accepting me, and then explained that I might soon be changing my address.

  “Bring me the new lease, that’s all I’ll need,” she said.

  I left the building with a light heart and hurried home to tell my mother the good news.

  The next morning, I began looking for a new apartment, something with two bedrooms, within walking distance of a shopping centre where I could take the children when the weather turned cold. I began my search in the Bayshore district – where we used to live – which had a large number of apartment blocks. With my modest budget, I knew we would have to put up with simple lodgings and frayed carpets. Most of the neighbourhood buildings were managed by a firm called Minto. The Minto agent, a scrawny little man, took me to see several apartments. I followed him from one building to another, up and down elevators, down long windowless corridors with faded, threadbare carpeting and fluorescent lights that made the buildings look like cheap motels. I hoped to find something on the ground floor because I was afraid we might have complaints about the children from downstairs neighbours. When we lived on Van Horne Street in Montreal, our upstairs neighbours had two girls five or six years old. Whenever they came home, it was as if a tornado had struck; the floor shook and the windows rattled. I didn’t want to inflict a similar experience on our new neighbours.