Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  I had long suspected that the Canadian police and intelligence authorities were involved in some way in Maher’s arrest and deportation. Surely their visit to our house and their insistence on meeting Maher were more than simple coincidence. After Maher had made it clear to the agents that lawyer Michael Edelson would be accompanying him, they had never set up a meeting. As for the RCMP file on Maher, I had no idea of what it might contain. For all I knew, they wanted to ask him about the investigation they were conducting. And if they really wanted to ask him questions, they surely could have done it in Edelson’s presence.

  MAY 9, 2003. Bassam, my brother-in-law, and I were scheduled to meet Gar Pardy. It would be a “routine” meeting like all the others. I would ask if the government was working on a strategy to bring Maher back to Canada, while Mr. Pardy would assure me that it was doing everything it could.

  Sometimes Mr. Pardy would tell me: “I don’t have the slightest doubt that Maher will be set free one day.” I would hold my breath in anticipation of a surprise announcement, but he would quickly continue: “But I can’t tell you how or when.”

  Bassam arrived from Montreal, and we drove off together to the Department of Foreign Affairs, where Myra and Mr. Pardy were waiting for us. I immediately mentioned my brief encounter with John Manley and my follow-up letter. Mr. Pardy seemed pleased, and I promised to keep him informed. As expected, the department had no more news of Maher than I did since Marlene Catterall’s trip. But Mr. Pardy seemed worried that the Syrians would actually bring Maher before a military tribunal.

  “They’re saying that Maher went to Afghanistan in 1993,” he said.

  “But he never went to Afghanistan! Who’s claiming that?”

  “The Syrian authorities say so,” he answered.

  “But didn’t they claim that Maher belonged to the Muslim Brotherhood, then to al-Qaeda? Today it’s Afghanistan. What will it be tomorrow?”

  As the meeting was ending, Mr. Pardy informed me that Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs Gaëtan Lavertu would be travelling to Syria at the end of the month. While not wishing to reveal the purpose of the deputy minister’s trip, he led me to understand that he was preparing a letter on Maher’s case for the Syrian authorities. He would have to discuss it with people from the Solicitor General’s office for permission to use certain terms. Both of us knew that it would take an official document to establish that Maher had no connection with terrorist activities in Canada. Last fall, Mchael Edelson had not been able to convince the RCMP brass to give him such a letter. This time, Gar Pardy was trying the diplomatic route, by adding a sentence that would clear Maher of all suspicion in the eyes of the Syrians but that would not irritate certain people in the police and the Canadian intelligence services.

  I didn’t get it. On the one hand, some members of the Canadian government recognized that Maher had suffered an injustice, but on the other hand, the police refused to co-operate. Why? Their refusal left a dark cloud hanging over Maher’s head. No one could tell me why the RCMP was acting as it did. If they believed that Maher was innocent, what was to stop them from giving me a letter that said so? But if they believed that he was guilty of something, why hadn’t they arrested him right here in Canada? As for me, I was certain that Maher was no terrorist; he’d never belonged to any terrorist group, had never gone to Afghanistan. Where did these accusations come from, and, more crucially, how could they be disproved? Mr. Pardy knew that the letter idea might fail, but he was still hopeful. I couldn’t help thinking the same thing.

  Bill Skidmore hadn’t forgotten me. As promised, he had contacted Kerry Pither. It had become clear to me that I needed help in finding my way through the social and political complexities of the case. Up to now, I’d been getting short-term, occasional assistance, and relying a lot on the availability and goodwill of my friends, or of Alexa’s office. But it wasn’t enough.

  Kerry and I met for the first time in the tiny downtown Ottawa office of the non-governmental organization (NGO) network she worked for. She showed me in with a broad smile that won my confidence. If you were to judge by appearances, we had nothing in common. She was an atheist, I, a believer; she was tall; I, small in stature; she came from an English-speaking background, mine was French-speaking and Arab. But it didn’t take us long to find common ground: she was well aware of Maher’s situation, and believed it was time to put an end to the injustice. She listened attentively as I explained what steps were already being taken, without committing herself to our working together. First she would need permission from the board of her organization. But I left her office with a light step.

  When I got home, my mother told me that a gentleman called Irwin Cotler had called, and that he would call again. Cotler, a McGill University professor and now a Member of Parliament for a Montreal-area riding, was well known as a defender of human rights. I’d heard of him when he took the case of a Canadian of Tunisian origin from Montreal who had been arrested and jailed while on a trip to Tunisia. Cotler had won the case, and the man had been released. I’d already attempted to reach Cotler at his Ottawa office or in Montreal. Each time I called, he was either away from his office or busy; he never called back. Now I would be speaking with Irwin Cotler himself.

  Later that day, he called again: he was determined to take up Maher’s case. And what’s more, it would be without charge, pro bono. It was all I could do to contain my excitement. This was more than I’d ever expected. His was a name to reckon with in the legal world. I couldn’t have hoped for anything better. I had just won significant new support.

  But my joy was short-lived. When I checked my mailbox a few minutes later, I found a letter from the American Embassy. In it, Ambassador Cellucci’s secretary affirmed that as Maher was a Canadian citizen, the United States had no authority to intervene on his behalf with either the Canadian or the Syrian authorities. That last sentence puzzled me: after all, the Americans had deported him in the first place without taking account of his Canadian citizenship. It just didn’t make sense.

  LATE MAY 2003. I phoned Myra to ask if Gaëtan Lavertu’s trip to Syria had taken place, and if Mr. Pardy had given him a letter absolving Maher of any connection with terrorist movements. Myra seemed embarrassed. Mr. Lavertu had indeed left for Syria, she said, but without the letter.

  “Mr. Pardy couldn’t get authorization to write what he wanted,” she explained, and then added that he would be taking up the matter with his Syrian counterparts “in the context of human rights.”

  I was disappointed but not surprised. Certain people were doing all they could to block Maher’s release. Still, there was the off chance that Mr. Lavertu might raise the matter with the Syrian authorities. Myra promised that she would keep me up to date. But I’d forgotten to make sure that Mr. Lavertu would bring back news of Maher. I hadn’t heard a word since April, when Marlene had returned from Syria. According to Mr. Pardy, the Syrians no longer authorized consular visits since they had announced their intention to put Maher on trial.

  A few days after our conversation, Myra called to tell me that Mr. Lavertu had met the Syrian authorities, but that Maher’s case had not come up. My heart missed a beat.

  “Why was that?” I said.

  “We’re told that Mr. Lavertu didn’t have time to raise the matter.”

  I didn’t get it. Myra had to be joking. Yet I knew that she was quite serious.

  “What does that mean, ‘didn’t have time’? What could be more important than a Canadian rotting in prison?” I asked.

  By now, Myra knew the ropes after months of working on the case. She was only telling me what was in her notes; there was nothing else she could do. As usual, I regretted having believed for an instant that Mr. Lavertu’s trip would amount to anything. I didn’t know who to believe or what to do: trust Mr. Pardy and the Department of Foreign Affairs or go about my business on my own.

  Fortunately, Kerry Pither called a few days later to tell me that the more she studied Maher’s case, the more certain she
was of its political implications. She was determined to help, and the board of her organization had given her the green light to go ahead. We began to meet and to talk by phone regularly.

  Together we drew up a timeline of the events related to Maher’s case, with all the key dates, beginning with the RCMP visit to our house in Bayshore, and including all the consular visits and my meetings with political figures. The object was to prepare a factual document that would clearly illustrate what had happened, without passing judgment on the facts themselves.

  For months I’d been requesting that Mr. Pardy arrange a meeting with Bill Graham, the minister of Foreign Affairs. But each time, he sidestepped my request with the aplomb of the wily diplomat that he was. “The honourable minister is very busy right now,” he would tell me. “He’s travelling constantly. He’s on holiday.” Still, I kept on pressing the issue every time we met.

  One day in early June, I was at home when the telephone rang. Foreign Affairs Minister Graham’s office was on the line: the minister was prepared to meet me on June 13, at one o’clock. I couldn’t believe my ears! There must be some mistake, I thought at first. But I took hold of myself and agreed to the meeting then and there.

  I didn’t inform the media of the meeting. Mr. Pardy may have had the impression that I spent most of my time talking with journalists, but it just wasn’t so. From the start, I preferred to give the government and the civil service the time they needed to act and do their job. But when it became clear that nothing was happening, that I was getting nowhere, I would let the media know.

  Even though my mother didn’t utter a discouraging word about my upcoming meeting, I could tell she didn’t really believe it would change anything. She wasn’t alone. Several of my friends and family members felt the same way. They’d already made up their minds that Maher would not be coming back, but when they saw me fighting on against insurmountable odds, they didn’t want to let me down. I was convinced they felt sorry for me. It was as though everyone else knew something I didn’t – that Maher would not be coming back – and they were hiding the truth from me. But I was learning to be patient; even with the emotions of others.

  I called Kerry to tell her the news. Without missing a beat she switched into “operational” mode: “You’ve absolutely got to bring people with you; you’ve got to have witnesses, and support.”

  We agreed that Riad would be present as a representative of the Arab and Muslim community, Alex Neve of Amnesty International as a human rights representative, Paul Purrit, an official of the Canadian Labour Congress, and of course Kerry. We wanted to convey the impression that Canadian public opinion was on our side.

  JUNE 13, 2003. The meeting was to take place at Mr. Graham’s office on Parliament Hill. Kerry and I were the first to arrive at the main entrance, where we waited for Riad Saloojee and Paul Purrit. Alex was travelling but had insisted I tell the minister that he would have liked to be with us. We passed through the security check without incident and made our way upstairs to Mr. Graham’s office. It was impossible to predict who would be present with the minister, but I was curious to see the expression on “their” faces when they saw me walk in with my “support committee.” The first person I saw in the waiting room was Marlene Catterall. I had no idea she would be there, and I don’t think she was too happy to see me there surrounded by a delegation. Instead of a friend, the friend had brought the whole family along!

  Then Mr. Graham arrived, shook my hand, and showed us into his office. There were already three other people waiting there: his personal secretary, another adviser, and Myra, who was probably filling in for Mr. Pardy. Luckily I was not alone; five against one would have been tough. This was the moment I’d been waiting for; I would not get another chance. It was a battle I had to win.

  The minister opened the meeting by thanking Marlene Catterall for organizing it. I just about fell off my chair. Marlene had never breathed a word to me. Then, without missing a beat, I handed Mr. Graham the fact sheet I’d prepared about Maher and his career; I also gave him Alex Neve’s two appeals to the members of Amnesty International along with the U.S. ambassador’s answer to my letter. Then, in a soft voice, I began to speak. I was baffled by the Canadian government’s position, I said, before slipping in Mr. Pardy’s remark that not everybody in the government was in agreement with our efforts to repatriate Maher.

  The time was ripe to use what amounted to inside information. Better that Mr. Pardy was not present. He might have interrupted or tried to explain his words away. I glanced at Myra; she was impassive. For fear of compromising Mr. Pardy, I added how much I appreciated his frankness and the quality of his work. With a nod, the minister acknowledged the compliment.

  I was determined to stick to my plan, to put the minister on the defensive, and to throw every possible argument I could at him to prove that there was sharp disagreement within the government over Maher’s case: that on one side, the Department of Foreign Affairs was working for his release, and on the other, some government agencies, such as the intelligence services like CSIS, and the RCMP, were doing everything they could to derail it.

  “Look at this example, your Excellency. Last month, the deputy minister, Gaëtan Lavertu, went to Syria. In the beginning, when Myra and Mr. Pardy told me about his visit, we discussed a letter that would help liberate Maher. At the time, they told me that they would make every effort to coordinate their efforts with the Solicitor General’s office. One week later, to my great dismay, the whole idea had fallen through. Apparently the intelligence services wouldn’t authorize it,” I told him.

  The minister listened, apparently with interest. His expression gave me courage. I continued.

  “Even the Americans have insinuated that the Canadians are behind Maher Arar’s deportation,” I said, looking toward Riad.

  Marlene Catterall, who was sitting opposite me, broke her silence:

  “That’s not exactly what I’ve heard …”

  Speaking calmly, Riad joined the discussion, recounting what the American ambassador had said: “One of my colleagues heard the ambassador state that certain people in Canada wanted Arar deported,” he said calmly.

  Marlene disagreed with him. For her, it was a case of “certain people in Canada looking the other way when Arar was deported.”

  I added, “Whatever the words they used, it looks as if the U.S. has put the ball in Canada’s court, and it’s time for our government to take a stand.”

  The minister picked up on my remarks, admitting that the world of intelligence was a murky one, and that getting to the bottom of things and learning the truth was no easy matter. Not only did he give me his assurance that he would keep on working on the case, he also stated that he was prepared to write a letter to his Syrian counterpart to ask for Maher’s release. It would include a sentence to the effect that “there is no obstacle to Arar’s return to Canada.” I suggested that it should include a few phrases to indicate to the Syrians that Maher had no connection with terrorist activities in Canada.

  “After all,” I said, “a police state wouldn’t put much credence in diplomats; it would be more inclined to listen to what its police colleagues had to say.”

  The minister seemed convinced, but he was not prepared to commit himself to the famous letter. He was all for it, but he didn’t know if “everybody else” would agree to co-operate. Still, the meeting ended on a hopeful note.

  My friends and I left Mr. Graham’s office together. We all felt that it had gone well. Kerry and I would go over the notes she’d taken later. I thanked the others for coming, and we all went our separate ways.

  The trees were all green by now, new grass had grown up, and the gardeners were busy planting red, purple, and white flowers in front of their buildings. What a contrast with the white, miserable winter that had just ended. With every early summer, I marvelled at the transformation of nature in Canada. There had been precious little green in Tunisia. Even Belvedere Garden, which had been established during the French
protectorate, was no longer as green as it was when I used to play there as a little girl. The last time I’d seen it, just before Maher’s arrest, the grass had turned yellow; many of the majestic trees I remembered from my youth had been destroyed either by lightning or sickness. In the past, the residents of the capital called the garden “the lungs of Tunis.” My father would bring us there several times a week. The garden changed with the seasons. In the springtime, thick green grass, poppies, and chamomile covered the ground. I would turn somersaults and run this way and that until I was out of breath. There was a tiny merry-go-round with rusty old yet brightly painted cars that I just loved to ride in.

  Later, when I grew up, parks and public gardens were no longer a part of my life. Promoters in the suburbs where we lived were more interested in building stores and shopping centres. But when I began my university-level studies at the Institut des hautes études in Carthage, I struck up contact with nature once more. The institute, which had once been a church painted blue and white, was situated on a verdant hillside overlooking the Mediterranean. Between classes my friends and I would stroll through the trees, listening to the songs of the many birds that lived there. Now, these images from my life in Tunisia would often enter my mind, and mingle with the ones that every early Canadian summer would bring to me.

  At home, life went on. Barâa had made great progress in reading and writing, and was busy learning a song that she and her friends would sing for the year-end ceremonies. As for Houd, he was still not talking; he would make strange sounds when he saw a squirrel or a cat, but I knew what he was saying. By keeping our expenses under tight control, we were able to get by on my monthly social assistance cheque. For the children’s new clothes, we shopped at the second-hand clothing store; the outfits were still in good shape, and prices were low. Every so often Ammou Jalal’s wife, Wanda, would send us a sack full of children’s clothing she would pick up in neighbourhood bazaars not far from her house. She would buy anything she thought we could use: dresses, skirts, and blouses for Barâa, and shorts or jumpers for Houd. The kids just loved trying on their new clothes: they turned our house into a costume party, dancing around holding on to the table, running off to look in the mirror, then coming back, laughing.