Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  The room where the press conference would be held was packed with journalists: the case had now begun to draw serious attention. Alex, representing Amnesty International, followed me to the rostrum, as did Svend Robinson of the NDP. We emphasized that a whole year had passed since Maher’s arrest and demanded, once again, that the Canadian government do whatever it took to repatriate him. Then I answered questions from the journalists, never missing a chance to denounce the government’s inaction.

  Afterwards, I went outside to join my family for the march. Kerry and Svend joined us, and our little procession set out. Perhaps a dozen people fell in behind. My mother-in-law and I held the giant passport open: on the first page was a photograph of Maher, a smile on his face. Barâa, with a serious look, marched along directly in front of me. Suddenly, I felt a shiver running through my body; it was all I could do to hold back my tears. Journalists were scurrying this way and that, filming us from different angles. Our little group came to a halt in front of the U.S. Embassy, and I pulled the first letter out of my handbag. Alex asked the security guard if someone from the embassy would come outside to accept the letter, and we waited for a few minutes in front of the wrought-iron main gate. No one came. Then one of the demonstrators had the idea of taping the letter and a copy of Barâa’s picture to the black bars of the gate. As luck would have it, someone had brought a roll of tape, and in a matter of seconds the letter and picture were firmly attached to the gate, fluttering there gently in the breeze.

  The Prime Minister’s Office, located in the Langevin Block, was our second stop. When we got there, Houd, who’d been quietly seated in his stroller during the first part of the march, began to whimper. My mother decided to let him stretch his legs, and he toddled forward toward the steps that led up to the entrance. At that moment a government employee stepped forward to take the letter. When I handed it to him, I noticed that his hand was shaking. He promised me that he would hand it to those responsible for the case and quickly vanished inside. I turned to run after Houd, who was trying to negotiate the steps, and put him back in his stroller. He understood that recess was over and didn’t utter a peep.

  No more than fifteen people were marching with us. One of Bill Skidmore’s students was handing out leaflets, and another chanted through the loud-hailer: “Bring Maher home!” Some people stopped to ask us what it was all about, while others went about their business without even pausing to throw us a glance.

  The Syrian Embassy, our last stop, was not far from the Langevin Block. The demonstration had begun with the United States and ended in front of Syria, stopping off at Canada on the way. For me, it represented Maher’s involuntary wanderings, from the United States until his detention in Syria, with Canada playing a central role. Next to the building that housed the Syrian Embassy was a small parking lot; our little procession stopped there. A police officer who had been accompanying us volunteered to deliver the letter to the embassy, which was located on one of the upper floors. A weatherworn Syrian flag hung from the façade, and everybody looked up at the windows. Then people began to drift away. But before they did, I thanked every one of them warmly.

  One year before, on this very day, I had been in Tunisia, alone, not knowing what to think, unable even to imagine the tribulations that would be inflicted on our family. Today, in front of that dark, gloomy building I no longer felt alone: around me were people who believed in the same Canada I did, the democratic country of justice and equality where I had come to live twelve years earlier. A flush of optimism filled my chest. I was more determined than ever to keep up the struggle. Nothing, I vowed, was going to stop me.

  * This 2002 Report was replaced by a 2003 Report. See http://www.state.gov/p/nea/ci/80195.htm.

  — 8 —

  HOME AT LAST

  I held him by the hand; his face was pale, there was distress

  in his eyes, and he looked at me like a sad-faced puppy …

  LATE SEPTEMBER 2003. I hadn’t forgotten the look of concern and the sense of determination I’d seen on the faces of the MPs when I’d spoken to the House of Commons Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs. For the first time since Maher’s arrest, I’d met with a true and sincere response from politicians of all political parties. And when I sat there among them, I had the feeling that his case was no longer an issue that only the NDP wanted to talk about or that a handful of Liberal backbenchers were prepared to support. Instead, it was an affair that concerned all Canadians. Now MPs from the Bloc Québécois, the Conservative Party, and even the Canadian Alliance were asking questions and promising that this would not be swept under the rug.

  Although I’d been terrified of speaking before all these people, I had done it and I realized it had given me a boost of courage. Now I was ready to forge ahead.

  “You know what I’m going to do,” I told Kerry. “I’ve made up my mind to visit all the MPs in their parliamentary offices …”

  “What a great idea! I love it! You can give them a copy of the timeline and ask them to put pressure on the government,” she said.

  “I’ll start with the MPs I saw when I testified before the committee, but little by little, I’ll knock on all their doors.”

  “More than three hundred MPs, that’s a big order. But if you ask me, it’s worth it.”

  She promised to help me; the two of us were as happy as schoolgirls who’d just learned a new game. I began right away by calling the offices of the MPs and making appointments with them. The first reactions were encouraging and filled me with enthusiasm and hope. I wanted my mother-in-law to join me on this new round of meetings with the honourable members. Our message, coming from the prisoner’s wife and mother, would be even stronger than if I were going alone. We agreed that she would come to our apartment on Sunday, October 5, and that starting the next day we would begin visiting MPs who’d agreed to meet us.

  No sooner said than done. I called the office of Conservative MP Bill Casey. As a member of the Foreign Affairs Committee, he was first on my list. My plan was to explain Maher’s case and ask for his help. I didn’t know him; I was concerned that he might just ignore me. I had no idea what influence political principles had on MPs’ interests. So when we met, I was pleasantly surprised. His attitude was attentive, concerned; he was interested in finding out more about Maher’s case; he would interrupt to question me about details. I handed him a copy of the chronology and asked him to help me in my efforts by putting questions in the House of Commons, by following up on the case in the Foreign Affairs Committee, and simply by keeping an eye on the file. He seemed quite open and gave me the distinct impression that my words were not falling on deaf ears. I didn’t know what Bill Casey might do, but I was confident that I’d gained a strong ally in my ongoing battle.

  Slowly, autumn was settling in. The trees were changing colour; the once-green leaves that had soothed our eyes all summer were giving way to masses of red, yellow, orange, and brown. No sooner had the leaves drifted gently to the ground and formed little heaps than they were carried off by a wind that quickly picked up and grew stronger. The weather was fine and warm. Not far from our apartment was a recreation centre with an indoor pool where I took Barâa for her swimming lessons. She’d learned a lot since she’d begun. She didn’t flail about and bob up and down any longer, but moved with steady, rhythmic movements. One day while I was waiting for the lesson to end, I saw that there would be regular free swim sessions for women only.

  “I’ll go for sure,” I promised myself. For me, it would be an ideal way to forget what an abnormal life I was living, and to dive into another world that would remind me of the sun-filled days I used to spend on the beaches of Tunis. My father had taught me to float on my back. “There’s no better way to learn to swim,” he’d drummed into my head. Later, I learned how to get around in the water on my own by watching the swimming competitions broadcast on television, and attempting to copy the champions. Of course, my efforts were modest ones, but over time and with hard work I learned to
swim better and better. It had become one of my favourite sports. Now I was anxious for the sessions to begin, so I could rediscover the feeling of water and forget my daily cares.

  OCTOBER 4, 2003. I was in the kitchen preparing dinner. I wasn’t working that day, and I wanted to give my mother a rest. Even though she never complained, and enjoyed cooking, I knew her health was not that good and that she needed some rest. With the start of the new school year, she had decided to register for the English courses for immigrants in our neighbourhood. Our apartment was only a few minutes by foot from the school; it was easy for her to get there. She’d begun learning English last year, but when Maher had been arrested and then imprisoned in Syria, she’d dropped everything to help me. Houd was still a baby then and we were a good deal farther away from the school. But now Houd had grown; he was easier to handle, our apartment was nearby, and I could arrange to stay with him while she attended her two hours of class every day. I did all I could to encourage her; it was a way for her to be exposed to new ideas, new people, and to learn a new language. Even though my mother spoke French, she felt ill at ease not knowing English. She dreamed of learning enough words and sentence structures to get by on her own in her daily life.

  The phone rang: it was Marlene Catterall. We hadn’t spoken since the meeting of the House Foreign Affairs Committee. There was something strange about her tone of voice; I couldn’t tell whether it was likely to be good news or bad. She told me that an announcement was expected soon, and to be ready.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” she said in the same tone of voice. “All I know is that there’s going to be an announcement about Maher’s case, and it’s going to be soon.”

  For me, her words were worse than some kind of guessing game. They’d awakened my curiosity and at the same time thrown me back into uncertainty. I hung up and sat there for a moment, lost in thought. The Supreme State Security Court is probably about to hear the case; soon they’ll be judging Maher, I thought. Maybe Marlene is trying to warn me that things are about to take a new turn; but why didn’t she tell me everything? But then again, maybe that’s all she knows, maybe she didn’t want to give me any false hopes; you never can tell what the Syrians are likely to do at the last minute.

  Houd came toddling into the kitchen, pulling a little plastic dog along behind him. When the dog walked its tail wagged, which made it look almost real. Houd loved this toy; he would take it with him into every room in the apartment. I snapped out of my daydreaming, forgot Marlene’s cryptic words, and stood there watching Houd and his noisy little toy with a smile on my face.

  A bit later I called Kerry and brought her up to date.

  “Funny! Whatever could be happening? What aren’t they telling us?” she wondered aloud.

  We were both convinced that the announcement had to do with the opening of the trial in Syria, and that Marlene had wanted to send a signal without causing undue alarm. Was the government afraid of the media attention that the trial would bring? Maybe they were worried that I would stir up a row in the press, knowing perfectly well that the trial would be held in the absence of the Canadian ambassador to Syria, and without the presence of James Lockyer, the legal observer whose visa application for Syria still seemed to be pending. Maybe they were trying, in a roundabout way, to calm my fears and leave me to stew in uncertainty. There were no answers and my teeth were on edge.

  OCTOBER 5, 2003. Sunday morning. The children were bored; they were wandering aimlessly around the apartment. My mother was watching television, and I was slicing vegetables in the kitchen. That day I’d planned to go swimming. The phone rang: it was Marlene. I felt my stomach tighten. What did she want now? I wondered.

  “Mr. Bill Graham, the minister, would like to talk to you personally, by telephone.”

  “I’m free. Will he be calling right away?” I asked Marlene.

  “In a few minutes,” she answered.

  I could feel my throat muscles growing taut; I could sense the seriousness of the situation, but I wanted to use those few minutes to prepare myself for the worst and to find the proper words. Marlene had said nothing more and hung up.

  The minister was not long in calling. I recognized his voice over the telephone. He insisted that I understand that he was calling from Italy, and that he was personally committed to keeping me advised about Maher’s case. My hands were shaking, but no words came to my rescue. My mother was not watching the television any longer but bustling about in the kitchen.

  “Madame Mazigh,” he continued, “Mr. Arar has just been released by the Syrians. We are impatiently waiting for him to leave Syrian soil by plane in the company of the Canadian consul in Syria before we make the news public. Only a few individuals at the department are aware of the news. We are counting on you to keep it secret and wait until he’s left Syria for good.”

  I listened in silence, not wanting to lose a word of what the minister was saying. I didn’t jump for joy as I’d imagined so many times in my dreams. I didn’t cry. I became calm, as if nothing had happened, as if suddenly amnesia had swept over me, wiping away all my misfortunes. I muttered a few words of thanks to the minister. My mother was giving me worried looks, as if to say, “Now what?” I hung up the telephone and turned to her.

  “Maher is free. He’ll be leaving Syria in a few hours.”

  I smiled and took my mother in my arms. She didn’t believe me.

  “You can’t be serious,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. One look at my face told her I was telling the truth.

  “Yes, I swear it. The minister just told me that Maher is coming back to Canada, and by the grace of God he’ll be here with us.”

  Barâa was listening to the conversation wide-eyed; she wasn’t sure what was going on around her.

  “Baba will soon be home, they’ve let him out of prison,” I told her, smiling. But I could tell she was still a bit confused; she didn’t know how to communicate her joy. Houd was looking at us with curiosity; he still couldn’t talk, but our smiles told him all he needed to know.

  But I didn’t know just how to take the news. I didn’t doubt that Maher had been set free, but I hadn’t expected such an abrupt end. For so many months I’d learned to expect the worst, not to dream, and, most of all, to accept the idea that Maher would not be back for many years to come. Over those months I’d learned to control my emotions and to repeat, every day, that my life would be nothing but a succession of disappointments, all the while preparing myself to face new challenges. I’d been convinced that even Minister Graham’s telephone call was to inform me that Maher’s trial had taken place. In recent weeks I’d been getting used to the idea that Maher would be brought before the Supreme State Security Court. But now, this latest call told me exactly the opposite. It told me that my efforts were over, that my sadness had disappeared, that instantly I should be happy and clap my hands. My mind was telling me I should be delighted, but my heart didn’t follow. Inside, I was too deeply hurt.

  I called no one, stuffed my swimming things into a sports bag, and left for my swim. I needed to be alone; swimming would give me that. When I got to the pool, a few women, some of them with their children, were already swimming. I stepped into the pool, the cool water revived me, and I began to swim lengths, paying no heed to the time. As I swam, I was thinking that in one day Maher would at last be back with us. I tried to imagine how I could forget that year and begin a new life; my thoughts were muddled, I was torn between a new, still-elusive happiness that I was discovering and a sadness that I’d become accustomed to, that seemed too hard for me to break away from so suddenly. Back and forth I swam, through the cool water.

  When I got back to the apartment, I called my brother Mourad in Tunisia to give him the news. He couldn’t believe his ears; then the two of us broke into tears. Words failed us.

  “Don’t say a word to anybody,” I finally managed to say. “I’m waiting for the Foreign Affairs minister to confirm that Maher has
left Syria before he makes a public announcement.”

  “Of course; let me know as soon as you get the news,” he said.

  Then I called my mother-in-law, but she was not at home. The day before, she’d told me she would be coming this evening for our meeting with the MPs, and that her grandson would drive her to Ottawa. I wanted her to hear the news first, before I told Maher’s brothers and sister. I rang Kerry at home. There was no way I couldn’t tell her the news; she’d helped me every step of the way. It was unthinkable that she find out from anyone else. She answered the phone, a bit out of breath; she’d been working in her garden.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  I spoke calmly, chit-chatting about this and that. Then I let it drop: “You know, they’ve released Maher. He’s coming back to Canada.”

  Silence. Then I heard: “Oh my God, it’s unbelievable!” Kerry couldn’t believe her ears.

  “I swear it’s true,” I repeated again and again.

  Now she was laughing.

  “You’re as cool as a cucumber, letting it drop in the middle of our conversation. How did you find out?”

  I told her about the calls from Marlene and Bill Graham, and what they had said.

  “I’ll be right over! I still can’t believe what I’m hearing,” she exclaimed.

  Then I hurried out of the house. We needed groceries; I was out of milk, cheese, and bread. Plus I had no idea when Maher would be arriving. No one had given me any details. Foreign Affairs was supposed to let me know as soon as Maher had left Syrian soil. In my discussion with Mr. Graham, I’d understood that Maher and Leo Martel, the Canadian consul in Damascus, would be on the plane, but I still didn’t know exactly where things stood. As soon as I’d picked up the items I needed, I hurried back home. Kerry hadn’t arrived yet; the children were playing.