by Monia Mazigh
“Someone called,” my mother told me.
“Who was it?”
“An Arabic-speaking gentleman. He said he’d heard from the Syrian Embassy that Maher had been released and wanted to congratulate us.”
That startled me. I’d never talked with the Syrian Embassy. Why would they ask someone to call me? Who could it have been? I’d heard in the past that certain individuals of Syrian or Arab origin were attempting to exert influence on the Syrian ambassador, but I had no idea what effect they’d had. I’d always assumed they’d got nowhere.
This latest call upset me: the Canadian minister of Foreign Affairs was telling me that only a few people had been informed of the news and now an unidentified gentleman calls me at home pretending to have heard the news from the Syrian Embassy here in Ottawa. It didn’t take me long to figure out that both Canada and Syria wanted to announce the news and take credit in the eyes of the public. At the same time, it struck me that this very gentleman might well be phoning the media and other people in Ottawa to tell them that Syria had released Maher Arar.
Meanwhile, Kerry arrived. We were both delighted; it was as if we hadn’t seen each other for years. It was a special meeting, our first since Maher’s return had been confirmed. Last October, a single telephone call had turned my life upside down; today, another telephone call should have put my mind at ease and put my life back on an even keel, but still I felt like my life was in turmoil.
I told Kerry about the man who’d spoken with my mother.
“We’ve got to talk to the minister immediately. He’ll have to make the announcement before the story is leaked to the media,” she said with a note of urgency in her voice.
I had the cellphone number of Robert Fry, Mr. Graham’s assistant, and called him right away. Mr. Fry assured me that he would inform the minister and that a press conference would be held as soon as possible, in Italy, for Canadian journalists. Once more I rang my mother-in-law, but she was not at home, nor was her grandson.
Kerry, the children, and I went to the park while my mother stayed at home. I knew that as soon as the news was released in Canada, I’d be snowed under with interview requests from the media, and I hadn’t yet got used to the idea. Sitting on a wooden bench, Kerry and I watched Houd and Barâa at play as we tried to imagine what would happen when Maher returned. Kerry was certain there would be a lot of interest in his return and promised she would deal with the journalists. Through all the months that Maher was in prison in Syria, I had wished that journalists would call me and ask about him, hoping that they would write even a small article about him. Wasted wishes. No one paid much attention.
Now it would be different, I knew. Maher’s unexpected return would cause a lot of curiosity and interest. Within a few hours, everything had changed. I no longer needed to meet the MPs. I would soon be meeting Maher after a whole year; it was a moment I was very nervous about. Who was the man I was going to meet after so long? What would he look like; how would he behave? How would the children rebuild their relationship with a father who had vanished for a year, and who was coming back into their lives with a new face? Houd, especially, didn’t remember him at all; he knew only my face and my mother’s. Kerry did her best to calm my worries, hoping that everything would go smoothly, telling me that at least the real flesh-and-blood Maher would be back in Canada, that he could tell us what he had been through. Her allusion to the sufferings that Maher may well have endured gave me goose bumps. Up until then, I’d kept the question of suffering and torture buried deep inside. I didn’t want to think about it for fear of falling into despair and depression, and simply giving up the fight to save him. Now, the fact that Maher would be back with us, that he would be telling us about all he’d gone through in that year, touched off a new fear in me, one I’d never known before: the fear of confronting the painful past.
The telephone at home was ringing off the hook. Kerry was sitting in the children’s room answering calls from the media and jotting down notes. The story had broken in Canada; Bill Graham had made the announcement from Italy. No reasons had been given for Maher’s release. All the accusations of terrorism, plotting, being a dangerous person … all the whispered rumours, all the solemn assertions by anonymous persons, had miraculously evaporated. The Syrian promise to try him for membership in the Muslim Brotherhood or the al-Qaeda network came to nothing, I don’t know why. For the moment, I could only think of one thing: when was I going to talk to Maher? Kerry kept talking on the telephone; journalists wanted interviews, comments, reactions. She asked Alex for help and he hurried over to lend a hand and answer questions from the media.
Meanwhile, the Department of Foreign Affairs alerted us that Maher would be stopping over in Paris, that he would be calling from there between midnight and one o’clock in the morning Ottawa time. It was the call I’d been waiting for for more than a year. The call I’d been waiting for that night in Tunis as I sat on the edge of my bed. I didn’t know what to expect. What would we talk about? Outside, night had fallen and journalists had begun to arrive with their cameras, microphones, and television crews. It was the best way for me to speak to them, to avoid too many telephone interviews. The apartment began to look more and more like a studio in constant upheaval. The children’s room had become an office where Kerry and Alex were answering the telephone; the living room was crowded with journalists, some sitting on the sofa, others standing, photographers and TV cameramen cruising about for the best angle. The children wandered in and out of my room and into the living room, looking for a quiet corner where they could play or a toy they’d left behind in their room.
The interviews followed one after the other in rapid succession; the questions were all the same. “How did I feel?” they wanted to know. Of course I was happy; I was smiling, my face was bright, my answers were upbeat: Maher would be arriving in Montreal the following day; the coming days would surely help us rebuild our family. I said not a word about my worries, my nagging doubts; those things were for me. As I was giving an interview, I saw my mother-in-law walk in the door. She was with her grandson who’d driven her from Montreal. His telephone had been switched off. Not having the faintest idea what was going on, she didn’t know what to make of what she was seeing. I went over to her and told her that Maher had been set free, that he would be coming back to Canada tomorrow. She’d come to Ottawa to meet the MPs and ask for their help; she’d stopped off at her daughter’s place and her grandson had driven her here. She hadn’t suspected a thing. She couldn’t believe her ears at first, then it began to sink in; she began to figure out what had happened; she wiped her tears and sat down with my mother at the kitchen table.
Things calmed down around eleven o’clock. The children were sleeping in my room, Kerry and Alex had gone home, my mother and mother-in-law were asleep in the living room. I’d stretched out on Barâa’s bed, with the cordless phone beside me. There was no way I could sleep; Maher would be calling in an hour or two. My mind was racing. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t sleep. Questions flashed through my brain, but the only answer was silence. There I lay in the dark, the minutes ticked by, but the telephone did not ring. I drifted off into a troubled sleep; it was impossible to tell dreams from reality. Suddenly the ringing of the phone made me jump. It was an official of the Department of Foreign Affairs on the line: in a few seconds I was to be connected with Paris. There was a moment of silence, then I heard the voice of a man I didn’t know, speaking French. It was Leo Martel, the Canadian consul in Syria, who was travelling with Maher. We talked for a few moments, then he said, “Here’s Maher. He’s right beside me.”
There I was, waiting in the darkness. It must have been two or three o’clock in the morning, my heart was pounding. Then I heard Maher’s voice greeting me. It was a faint and distant voice; I could hardly recognize it.
“How are you? How are Barâa and Houd?” he asked.
“We’re all fine … we can’t wait to see you,” I answered, not really knowing what
to say, the words not coming. Then he went on in a weak voice: “Monia, you know, everything you did for me, I’ll never forget it as long as I live …”
There was a lump in my throat. Those were not the kind of words you used among family, I’d done no favour that I should be thanked for. Why does his voice sound as if he’s given up? I wondered.
“Don’t say that,” I said. “I did what had to be done, that’s all.”
We said nothing more, just a quick goodbye and the call was over.
I hung up and closed my eyes. Maher’s words echoed in my head. I tossed and turned; everything inside told me that a page in my life had turned and that a new one was about to begin. Maher would soon be back; the goal I’d set myself one year earlier had been reached. But what lay in wait for me afterwards? How would we continue along our path together, what would our life be like? The picture in my mind was clouded; nothing was clear.
OCTOBER 6, 2003. The Department of Foreign Affairs called; they would drive us to Montreal in an eight-place van. Along with me there would be Barâa, Houd, my mother and my mother-in-law, Kerry, Myra, and Marlene Catterall. Maher’s flight from Paris would arrive at Dorval at about three o’clock. I would have to leave the apartment and drive to Kerry’s place downtown, where the van would be waiting. Early that morning a CTV truck had parked in front of our building. The journalists wanted an interview, and surely they wanted to film before we left for the airport. This time I didn’t want any photos. I’d spent the entire evening in the apartment with dozens of journalists coming and going to take pictures and record interviews. I’d only slept a few hours. Now, this morning, I was mainly concerned with preparing myself for my first meeting with my husband in more than a year. Yesterday his voice over the telephone had sounded so far away, I’d been frightened: Was he still the same person? What will he be like today when we meet? These were the questions that were running through my mind; I really didn’t want to worry about ducking the CTV cameras.
Houd understood none of what was going on around him. I kept telling him his Baba was coming; I was talking to him nonstop, but he seemed to be a bit short on words despite his twenty months. He’d never really been able to master the sound of “b.” I was worried about him but didn’t want to make anything of it. Still, I’d resolved to raise the matter with his pediatrician at our next appointment. At eleven o’clock everything was ready. My mother had made up a batch of mbatten, tiny balls of fried cooked cauliflower with parsley and eggs. The kids loved them. It would be something to munch on en route. We left the apartment by the back door. Barâa was delighted with the thought that the CTV truck would be waiting in front of our building while we’d left through the back. She was also looking different today. She was happy at the thought of seeing her father again, but there was a shadow of worry in her innocent eyes. I prayed to God that all would go well.
Kerry was waiting for us at her house. We were all ready to go.
The van was parked on the street; Marlene pulled up with Sarkis Assadourian in a car with other civil servants I didn’t recognize. They would be driving to Montreal by car, while Myra and Marlene would be travelling with us in the van. Alex and Riad would join us later at the airport.
Kerry didn’t think it a good idea for everybody to join Maher and me in our apartment.
“Your life will be like a circus for the next few days. Reporters will want to talk to you. You’ll want to remove yourselves from the public eye for a while.”
I knew she was right, but it was a message I didn’t want to hear. Her words gave me the impression that we were important persons. As far as I was concerned, I hated the idea of behaving like that. I didn’t want to become what I was not. We weren’t a family of pop singers or famous actors. Still, going by the number of interview requests and media interest, it was becoming clearer to me that we were being treated as if we were.
“I can help you find somewhere else to live for a while, until things calm down a bit,” Kerry assured me.
I offered no resistance. Like a boxer after a long bout, I needed some peace and quiet; I wanted to reconnect with my family. Strategy was the last thing on my mind.
Everybody took a seat in the van: the children, my mother, my mother-in-law, Kerry, Myra, Marlene, and me. A government driver was behind the wheel. Each of us seemed off in our own worlds. Barâa and Houd stared out the window; the two mothers chatted; Myra said nothing; Marlene and Kerry were checking messages on their cellphones. As I watched the landscape rushing by, I thought back to the last two days, how Maher’s release had changed my life, my thinking, my hopes and my fears. Before, my only hope was to see Maher again; now I hoped that our lives would be peaceful. The day before yesterday, I was afraid I would never see him again. Now I was afraid of what our reunion might bring, the consequences of the torture, the suffering, the isolation. How strange that our desires, hopes, and fears can so totally change in a matter of hours.
The van finally pulled up in front of the terminal building at Dorval. We piled out like children from a schoolbus. What a relief to be able to walk, to move our arms and legs after being bent double for more than two hours. Myra, who was in direct communication with people from the department, led us to a special airport waiting room. Alex and Riad were already there. Only a few minutes to go until Maher’s plane landed. I felt as though I was being operated by remote control: everybody was giving me instructions, everybody wanted what was best for me, wanted to help me – but I felt lost and alone; all I wanted was to get it over with as fast as I could.
There were dozens of journalists waiting in the airport, Kerry told me. There I was, waiting with the children, when a uniformed female officer from the airport authority advised me that I and Maher’s mother were authorized to accompany her beyond the security barrier right up to the passenger gate to meet Maher. She handed me two passes, one for me, the other for my mother-in-law.
The plane had arrived. My hands were damp. It wouldn’t be long until we met. I left the children with my mother in the waiting room and we moved off toward the gate. The airport officer led us down what seemed kilometres of corridors, up escalators, and then along the concourse until we reached the gate, where a handful of passengers had just begun to leave the aircraft. Maher’s mother looked tired waiting there beside me, almost disbelief on her face.
Then I spotted Maher. His hair was neat and his beard had been trimmed. He was wearing a blue sweater I’d never seen on him before, his shoulders seemed a little bent, he was thin, his expression sad and frightened. I thought I saw a glimmer of hope flash through his eyes when he saw us standing there waiting for him, but the look of pain and humiliation remained. He kissed us both in a surprisingly cold and mechanical way, then together we retraced our steps back to the waiting room where everyone else was expecting us. I took his hand, and he leaned over and whispered, “I’m really scared. Are you sure it’s all over and they won’t put me in prison again?”
“Of course you’re free,” I assured him calmly. “Don’t be afraid, you’re in Canada.”
We’d hardly spoken, but the way he moved, the musculature of his hand, his voice, the look in his eyes told me that this was not the same man I’d married nine years ago. His smile was gone, his optimism, his sense of ambition …
Finally we reached the waiting room. Maher’s brother Bassam and his sister had arrived. Everyone rushed forward to kiss him, embrace him, touch him, hold him close. There stood Barâa in front of him; he took her in his arms and kissed her, but I could sense her hesitation, as if she didn’t know what to do. Houd didn’t like all the commotion. Maher turned to him to hug him, but he broke away and came running over to me. I took him in my arms; he calmed down. There we were in the waiting room: Maher seemed lost; now and then he tried to smile, but the result was not convincing. Barâa stood there beside him, a happy grin on her face, a bit nonplussed. Maher didn’t know Kerry or Alex; he knew Riad only vaguely. They chatted with him, congratulated him, but from the look of bewild
erment on his face I realized that he didn’t know whom he could trust; he kept looking around, trying to catch my eye, as if asking for support, confirmation, a kind of assurance.
There was one question I had to ask Maher, but I didn’t want anyone around us to hear me. I turned to him and whispered in his ear: “Did they beat you in prison?”
He looked at me, surprised, as if he couldn’t possibly understand how anyone could spend a year in a Syrian prison and be treated well, then answered me with a simple yes.
The blood froze in my veins, tears flooded my eyes; I didn’t know what to do. The SHRC’s letter had been right all along; my worst fears were true. How I wanted to think of something else, but I couldn’t. Why had they made him suffer? Why had they left him in prison?
Fortunately, Kerry extracted me from my nightmare. The media were gathered outside the door; they wanted some comment. I explained to Maher that interest in his case had been high, and that public opinion had played a critical role in demanding that he be returned to Canada. He seemed to understand. It wasn’t long before he began to prepare a brief statement for the journalists outside. We were with him, I said; we would help him find the right words to thank everyone who had helped. One thing was certain: he couldn’t speak for long, he tired easily. When he was ready, I took him by the hand and we moved forward, with Alex and Riad beside us. Kerry was walking in front. When the doors swung open, there in front of us was what looked like a horde of journalists, a forest of microphones, outstretched arms. I could see Kerry struggling with all her might to push them aside. Finally, airport security guards rescued her. They cleared a path and we took our places at a table that had been specially set up. The journalists sorted themselves out, facing us, some standing with their cameras, some sitting on the floor with laptop computers on their knees. I recognized many of them. Meanwhile, there was a steady barrage of flashing.
