by Monia Mazigh
OCTOBER 23, 2003. Only a few days were left before the start of Ramadan, the month when Muslims abstain from food and drink from sunup to sundown. Maher was with us once again, but imprisonment and distance had done their job: each day I appreciated just how difficult the task would be. How was I to live with a broken man, how could I live with a personality that had been transformed, how could I reconcile it with my new role of mother, wife, and activist? In the morning I worked at the language school; in the afternoon I looked after the children; I went with Maher to his appointments with the psychiatrist where he could speak of his pain, to Amnesty International to speak of his life in prison, to the lawyer’s office to ask questions and get advice. I was everywhere, an active presence in each of those aspects of his life. And each needed me in its own way.
I could hardly wait for Ramadan to begin, hoping that the month of fasting would give me some of the peace I’d been seeking for months now, and that I’d hoped to rediscover with Maher’s liberation. But it was like a mirage: just when you think you’ve reached it, you realize that it was all an illusion, a betrayal of your senses. I remembered when I was still a little girl how I would go strolling in the souks of the medina, the centuries-old city that formed the historical heart of Tunis. It was as if I found there a sense of safety and serenity that permeated its narrow lanes and dark dead ends, sometimes lit by a few stray sunbeams that found their way through the high ceilings through a skylight. The strident cries of merchants inviting passers-by to sample their honey-drenched pastries or of the perfume sellers dabbing the backs of hands with essence of musk or ambergris brought back the hard, cruel reality of a place that for centuries had been a symbol of social, economic, and religious organization, and today, in our time, had become a place deserted by the elite, a place overcome with poverty and decay. All that was left of its serenity was the impression enveloping me, which was quickly dissipated by the stench of rotting garbage and the vulgar shouts of boys playing ball. Still, in spite of the often hard reality, I continued to hope that one day our lives might return to a semblance of normalcy.
Marlene Catterall asked to meet us. She came that evening. We were all at home: Maher, my mother, and me. The children were already sound asleep. She seemed nervous. I watched her take one last puff on her cigarette in front of our building, then furtively deposit the butt in the little metal box next to the main entrance. I opened the door, greeted her, and led her into our apartment. The events of the last days had left us shaken. Maher especially was bearing the brunt. He read everything written about him, watched all the television programs. For me it was different; after I’d given an interview, I didn’t want to see or hear of it again. It was as if I’d had enough of myself. How ridiculous I thought I looked; my first reflex was to switch off the television set. But it wasn’t like that for him. The media’s words entered his mind there to stay; for him, it was like another form of torture.
Only a few days after his return from Syria, “leaks” began to appear in the press. The source was always the same: Canadian government officials speaking on condition of anonymity. According to them, Maher had made many trips to Afghanistan. When he’d been arrested in the United States, the American authorities had decided, without informing their Canadian counterparts, to deport him to Syria since the Canadians had refused to charge him. He had spent ten days in Jordan, they said. The Syrians did not want to accept him. Finally, on the insistence of the Americans, Syria had finally agreed to imprison him (“U.S. Urged Canada to Hold Arar,” Graham Fraser, Toronto Star, October 9, 2003).
But the leaks didn’t end there. Now the aim was to undermine the idea that Maher had ever been tortured. Instead, he had simply been mistreated (“Arar Was Not Tortured Officials Say,” Jeff Sallot, Globe and Mail, October 10, 2003). The image being created was that of a vicious terrorist who had spent his time in al-Qaeda training camps. What harm could possibly be done by roughing him up a little? The anonymous sources kept on flowing, and people in high places kept on talking: it was a hemorrhage. Maher had no idea how to react, how to behave. He had not addressed the Canadian public since his return from Syria; his mental state was still fragile. He wept easily. He woke up at night with a start, which gave me a terrible fright. It was impossible for me to get him back to sleep. He spent his days pacing back and forth in the little apartment like a caged animal. I’d never known him to be that way before; it was a habit he’d picked up from the many hours he’d spent walking from one end of his tiny cell to the other, but it only added to my nervousness. But of all the leaks, the one that appeared on CTV was by far the worst.
Alex called us with a trembling voice. CTV had asked him to respond to the latest allegations against Maher. Journalist Joy Malbon had reported on the nightly news that high-ranking officials in several departments (neither the individuals nor the departments were identified) had revealed to her that Maher, during interrogation in Syria, had given the names of other Ottawa residents suspected of being part of an al-Qaeda cell. Alex was shaken. True, he believed in our story and trusted us. But with the rumours flying thick and fast, doubt had begun to creep in and gnaw away at the bit of confidence that Maher had attempted to restore since his return.
It was a bombshell, and the consequences were disastrous for our family and the so-called “suspects.” The following day, Daniel Leblanc, a journalist with the Globe and Mail, took up the same leaks, quoting high-ranking Canadian officials who claimed that Maher had given detailed information on other individuals suspected of terrorist links (“Officials Allege Arar Gave Data on al-Qaeda,” Daniel Leblanc, Globe and Mail, October 24, 2003). The allegations were false and we knew it. Maher had never been a member of any terrorist cell. He’d never known anyone linked to al-Qaeda. We didn’t know who was behind those leaks, or where the “information” came from, but the consequences of the allegations became increasingly clear to us. First of all, if they had been true, Maher would be made out to be a “traitor” in the eyes of the other suspects and would become a possible target. Secondly, if they were false, it was still likely that people would believe the rumours, and that would only reinforce their doubts about Maher, which might well lead to physical attacks against him, now identified as a presumed terrorist.
The media strategy of the people behind the leaks was a good one. Maher couldn’t win. I hadn’t realized how serious the situation was until Marlene’s sudden arrival drove home to me that we were in danger. Marlene told us that she’d called the Ottawa police and suggested that we should ask for special protection. But her suggestion made Maher even more agitated. Now he was convinced he was the target of a smear campaign. But were we ready to go into battle against a masked adversary? Wouldn’t it just be simpler to go into hiding, to keep away from the media, and let public opinion forget all about us? Our family had already gone through enough hardship and I wanted to put it all behind me, wanted to turn the page, to vanish into the anonymity of daily life.
A deep weariness swept over me. When Maher returned, I was sure the nightmare was over, but here we were, plunged once more into turmoil. Then I heard a faint voice inside me, and it sounded like my own voice: “So, you’ve already forgotten the lessons of the past? Why do you want to run and hide? You were never criminals as far as I know; you’ve always fought for justice to be done, and now, when Maher is there beside you, you want to give up the fight, you want to get out? What’s the matter with you? Are you trying to fool yourself?”
The little voice would leave me no peace; it popped up in the midst of my thoughts, argued with me, begged me to stand up straight, look myself in the eye. Marlene left, promising to talk with some of her Liberal Party colleagues, to convince them to investigate the source of the leaks.
But we were not convinced that such an investigation would ever happen. The damage had been done, and we had become more and more determined that only a public inquiry could throw full light on all that had taken place, from Maher’s arrest up to the present.
F
or the last few weeks, I’d been driving Maher to Alex’s office for meetings with him and Kerry. No one else knew what Maher had been through since his arrest in New York, his flight to Jordan, and his imprisonment in Syria. Maher had to tell his own story. We had full confidence in Alex and Kerry. Riad, too, joined us for some of those meetings. We were certain that since they had both kept close track of the case for months, they were the best placed to listen and to write his account. Those were hard meetings for me to attend; it was as if I was watching the same horror movie for a second time. Once more I listened to Maher’s story, and I felt shamed by his pain, suffocated by the torture he’d gone through. He would talk on and on, but when he finally stopped I knew that he’d reached the point where he couldn’t hold himself back any longer, that he was going to explode, and everybody looked away, as if ashamed of ourselves as human beings.
Those were painful moments for all four of us, but they were most painful of all for Maher. As he told his story, Alex or Kerry would break in with questions. They wanted clarifications, explanations, and details for everything. Maher’s job was not easy: not only did he have to speak but he had to answer questions as well. It was an interrogation all over again, but this time Maher could trust the people asking the questions; he wasn’t afraid of them. Directly after those sessions we would go to pick up Barâa from school. Just the sight of her made me forget everything. No sooner had she got into the car and climbed into her seat than she started to chatter nonstop about her day, her teacher, her friends, her silliness, and the homework she had to do. From a sad, dark world I was transported into the innocent world of childhood, a world I didn’t want to leave. Hungrily I listened to my daughter, giving her the fullest opportunity to tell us everything about her day. And when we got home, Houd was waiting for us with another story: he wanted to go play in the park. Maher couldn’t resist; together the two of them hurried off.
OCTOBER 29, 2003. Since Maher’s release, with the exception of Marlene Catterall, we hadn’t spoken to any Canadian politicians or government officials. We’d spent most of our spare time looking for lawyers to defend Maher and working on the document that would describe everything that had happened to him. Both were immense tasks. Michael Edelson had been the first lawyer Maher consulted when RCMP agents had visited us in Ottawa. Now other names had been suggested. But lawyers specializing in terrorism were few and far between; there was a certain reluctance in the profession to take up a terrorism-related case, or perhaps a lack of courage. But the underlying question was: of course we needed a lawyer, but to do what? Maher had never been accused of any criminal or terrorist act, not in Canada, not in the United States, and not in Syria. So why should he even need a lawyer in the first place?
It was Maher’s way of feeling safe and secure. It was a fragile sense of security to be sure, but at least it was something he could grasp. The lawyer he’d been denied or refused access to during the long months of his nightmare would, for Maher, be the person who could defend him against all the allegations, who could speak in his name when he could not. These were the reasons that led us to select Lorne Waldman and James Lockyer as Maher’s lawyers. One was a specialist in immigration law, the other in criminal law.
Mr. Lockyer suggested that Maher should visit Bill Graham, the minister of Foreign Affairs, to relate what he had undergone before going public. It was agreed that the meeting would take place in the minister’s office, and that its contents would remain confidential. James Lockyer accompanied us that day, along with Kerry and Alex. We met him at Alex’s office before proceeding to the minister’s office. He asked Maher to tell the minister everything he’d been through: “Don’t hold back. Tell him what they did to you, now’s the time to do it …”
Of the five of us, only Maher and I would be meeting the minister, who was accompanied by his assistant, Robert Fry. Mr. Graham weighed Maher’s words carefully, communicating a mixture of sympathy and caution. He listened attentively while Maher described his arrest in New York, his torture in the Syrian prison, the inhuman conditions under which he was detained, and the visit by Leo Martel on August 14 when he’d told about being beaten in front of General Khalil. When he pronounced those words, Mr. Fry’s face seemed to cloud over. He knew that Mr. Graham, in a press conference in Toronto the next day, August 15, had denied that Maher had been tortured. It was a sharp blow to the minister’s prestige. Had the information been hidden from him, had he been misled; what had really happened? The minister betrayed no emotion, but he did promise us that he would have his staff carry out a little investigation to find out who said what, when. The meeting was over; we got up to leave.
From there, we were led into a large meeting room, where James Lockyer, Alex, and Kerry were waiting for us, along with a dozen Foreign Affairs officials. Mr. Sigurdson, the new head of Consular Affairs, was there, but I’d never seen the other faces before. The presence of so many officials caught us off guard. Maher and I cast questioning glances at Kerry and Alex, but I quickly recognized the same puzzlement in their eyes. For what seemed like hours we sat there, not knowing what to say. The atmosphere was oppressive. Then Maher broke the silence, describing his imprisonment. He didn’t repeat exactly what he had told the minister, but he sketched out the broad outlines of what had been done to him. Some of the department officials were taking notes. Meanwhile, I was getting more and more uneasy; I wanted to get out of there fast. It was a relief when the meeting ended and we found ourselves outside.
In my opinion, the meeting with the minister had gone well, but the session with the officials, with their bored and tired expressions, had ruined everything. Imagine our surprise when we read in the newspapers that Maher’s meeting with the minister had been made public, and that he had spoken of torture. Mr. Graham’s office had given us repeated assurances that the meeting would be private. Now we no longer knew who to trust. Our lives had suddenly become an open book.
NOVEMBER 4, 2003. Maher and I were putting the finishing touches to his first public appearance. It would be a press conference, to be held at the Parliamentary Press Gallery in downtown Ottawa.
Speaking out in public after being imprisoned for more than a year, after losing confidence in people, after being accused of terrorism, wasn’t going to be easy. But we were determined to go ahead: it would be a crucial step for us, and for others. For us, it would be both a matter of justice and a kind of therapy. It was as if the only avenue left to us in seeking justice was to speak of the injustice we’d suffered and demand that the government get to the bottom of the affair. We were also convinced we had a debt to repay to the Canadian public. We knew that all the people who’d supported us with their letters and their prayers, or simply with a kind look or a thought, were expecting some kind of a sign from us, they were waiting for us to tell them that we wouldn’t remain silent in our little apartment, that we wouldn’t draw the curtains and cut ourselves off from the rest of the world. We didn’t want to respond to secrecy with secrecy; we wanted to confront it head on.
Kerry had drafted Maher’s speech, based on the notes she’d taken when he’d given his account at the Department of Foreign Affairs. I put the finishing touches to my own remarks. Maher read and reread the speech, made a few changes, then sent it off to Alex, Kerry, and the lawyers for a last check. I wasn’t sure how he would deal with all the pressure; I prayed constantly for everything to go well.
The month that had gone by since Maher’s return from Syria had been eventful. At first, it was a time of strong emotions and of stories to be shared. Each of us had told the other of how our life had been while we were apart, with our sufferings and disappointments. Then Maher had begun to read the articles that had been written about him during his absence. He began to be familiar with the names of journalists, politicians, and human rights organizations; he was learning about his own past but also about a world he was going to be part of but had never known before his imprisonment.
Before making our way to the Parliamentary Press Gal
lery, we met at Kerry’s office, which was not far away. I kept close to Maher. His speech was ready. We estimated that it would take a little more than a half-hour for him to read, but I was afraid he might crack in front of so many people.
Alex and Riad were waiting for us, along with Lorne Waldman, one of Maher’s lawyers, who was on hand to deal with the legal and technical aspects of the case. We all felt emotional and nervous. It was a chilly day, but not cold enough for snow. We made our way through the streets of Ottawa, joking now and then to ease the tension. The Press Gallery was located in a building on Wellington Street, just across from the West Block of Parliament. When we reached the corner of Wellington and O’Connor, photographers appeared. Maher and I were walking a few steps ahead of our friends; we were dazzled by the constant flashing of cameras. We had to keep calm but my heart was pounding. The moment of truth was near.
It was a day that would remain engraved in my memory. When I think back, I see myself sitting beside Maher. Lorne, Alex, and Riad were at the same table. In front of me, the room was full of journalists. Then, suddenly, I spotted the politicians. There was Alexa McDonough, Marlene Catterall, and Irwin Cotler; other MPs came in and sat down. I caught sight of Bill Graham’s assistant, Robert Fry. I felt my heart swell with joy – and with apprehension. Joy to witness at last the day when Maher would speak freely of his ordeal and relate exactly what he had lived through to the politicians, those who had helped us and those who had opposed us, to the intelligence agents and to the police. But I was afraid of the unknown. I had no idea how they would react; I didn’t know whether our press conference would convince people and force the Canadian government to respond to our call for a public inquiry – or whether the government would turn on us and prolong the state of isolation and distress that our daily lives had become.
