by Monia Mazigh
The next day, I went to see the principal of the nearby school and registered Barâa for first grade. She had already missed two months of school and I was anxious for her to return to a semblance of normalcy. She was pleased finally to have friends, to play with children her own age, and to be learning to read. Since her father’s arrest, she had grown more mature. Was it her natural sense of responsibility coming to the fore in order to help me, was she trying to understand the meaning of things, or was it the burden she must have felt she was bearing that made her seem wise beyond her years? Or robbed her of part of her innocence? The two of us went off to buy a school bag, a lunch box, and some new clothes.
Houd’s constant crying was breaking my heart; he would not recognize my mother and calmed down only when I was with him. Luckily, I remembered leaving a little swing in the basement of the building. I went to get it and put Houd in it. It had a little crank that would swing Houd gently back and forth. He liked the floating feeling and began to smile and doze off. I looked at this scene: Houd nodding in his swing, my mother in the kitchen, and Barâa stretched out on the sofa smoothing her new clothes. Our lives were slowly getting back to normal; slowly, painfully; each of us searching for a new meaning.
But thousands of kilometres away, behind bars, Maher was living a tragedy far beyond what we could ever have imagined. What was he doing? Where exactly was he? What was he eating? I knew nothing whatsoever. True enough, following his first consular visit, Mr. Pardy had informed me Maher was well, but how could a few lines of email possibly heal my soul and calm my beating heart? I read those words dozens of times and found nothing: they were cold and futile. I wanted more, I wanted details, but I was wasting my breath. Mr. Pardy kept assuring me that it was fortunate that Mr. Martel could visit Maher at all. As if he was trying to convince me that justice was too much to ask for, that I should accept fate and be quiet.
NOVEMBER 18, 200 2. My arrival in Ottawa had not gone unnoticed by the press. While still in Tunis, I had told several journalists who were asking for news of Maher that I would be coming home soon, but I didn’t tell them the exact date. I didn’t want to have a crowd waiting at Dorval airport. Once back in Ottawa, I wanted to continue what I had begun in Tunis: to share my story and my husband’s with the Canadian people and to demand response and action from the Canadian government. Lee Greenberg of the Ottawa Citizen called me for an interview. He had found the number in the phone book. I had no idea what strategies were best to follow in dealing with the media, I was only following my heart. I felt the injustice done to Maher so deeply that I was willing to try anything to set it right.
The apartment was a mess, full of duffle bags still stuffed with books, clothes, and toys, not to mention boxes of this and that from our move the previous summer. But I had no time to put the place in order.
I agreed to meet Lee at a nearby Tim Hortons. It was dark by now, so I drove there. I found Lee at a table with a photographer. The interview began with Lee asking how I had met Maher and when we had married. I particularly liked this question as it took me back eight years to when I was twenty-four. I was finishing my master’s degree in finance at the École des hautes études commerciales de Montréal. Maher and I met through a friend of my brother. I had been living with my brother, Mourad, since arriving as an immigrant in Montreal; he and I were both students. My days were devoted to my studies: this was my new life in Canada. Mourad was working toward his doctorate in applied mathematics at the École polytechnique. To cover our expenses, he always managed to land an academic excellence scholarship or part-time jobs as research assistant or lecturer. At twenty-four, I wanted to meet someone special, to get married and start a family. When Maher came to visit us one day at our Decelles Avenue apartment, I immediately liked his bright smile and his sense of humour. We continued to see each other and talk; it was not long before we had made up our minds to get married. Maher was completing his BA. in computer engineering and was assembling and selling computers on the side. Our lives at the time were full of academic work and challenges; we were not rich, but I had been awarded a scholarship to begin my doctorate at McGill and that was enough for us. We were happy and never lost hope.
As I talked to Lee about this phase of our lives, I repeated that Maher was innocent and didn’t deserve to be in prison. I also talked to Lee about the message Maher had sent through Mr. Pardy, in which he told us he loved us very much and that he was blameless.
“It’s true that this message comforts me. At least I know he’s still alive. But I didn’t ask the Canadian government to visit him. I asked them to bring him back home to his family.”
As I spoke, Lee was taking notes fast and furiously for fear of losing a word or expression, and the photographer was snapping dozens of pictures. I had never intended to have my picture published in the papers because I am a reserved, private person – particularly in circumstances like these. But now, I felt my back was to the wall; speaking out was the only strategy I had left.
I went home, exhausted by the interview. I didn’t realize how taxing it could be. The children were still awake; Barâa was colouring and Houd was still in his swing. The three of us retired to the bedroom with its big bed and cot, while my mother slept on the sofa-bed in the living room. Things were cramped, but being close to one another helped us cope with the sadness that seemed to hover in the apartment. As usual, I read Barâa a story while Houd listened in silence, sitting contentedly on my lap. Then, softly, we said a prayer, and I put out the light. My mother was watching the news on television; she would nod off, then open her eyes and pretend to be watching, but I knew she was tired. There was nothing of interest on the news, and besides, I’d been reading it all day long on the Internet. I turned off the set, said good night to my mother, and went back to the bedroom to lie down beside the children.
NOVEMBER 19, 2002. I had an appointment with Gar Pardy. I had yet to meet him in person, even though I had spoken to him many times from Tunisia and had found him polite and courteous. He was adept at beating around the bush and repeating the same thing; although I often tried to put words in his mouth, it was a waste of time, particularly with a career diplomat like him. But today, I was in an optimistic mood, and once again my mind was full of questions. Perhaps there would be some new development; perhaps there would be some good news for me. I was always hopeful.
It was my first visit to Foreign Affairs, on Sussex Drive; it would not be my last. The huge building reminded me of an ocean liner docked at a wharf. I parked my car behind the building and went in, feeling tiny and fragile. At the reception desk I gave my name, mentioning that I had an appointment with Mr. Pardy. Someone came to escort me to his office. Gar Pardy was a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard. He must have been about fifty. His spacious office was lined with pictures meant to attest to his competence and years of government service. He had twinkling, mischievous eyes; there was nothing condescending in his manner. He introduced me to his assistant, a tall, slender lady named Myra Pastyr-Lupul.
This meeting got off to a curious start: I wanted Mr. Pardy to tell me when Maher was going to return to Canada, and Mr. Pardy wanted to convince me that the Canadian government was doing everything in its power to free Maher. But he did not want to give me any guarantee or any promise. Every time I tried to pin him down, he would become evasive and promise only that Maher would be back one day. I found his words refreshing, encouraging, and in contrast to the worrisome silence of the politicians. Was it possible that Mr. Pardy knew something the politicians did not, or was it a tactic to lead me on? I spent almost two hours with Mr. Pardy and his assistant. I asked the questions, Mr. Pardy did the talking, and Myra took notes in silence. Sometimes the expression on her face changed, but that was all.
When I left the meeting, I felt I was walking on air. I went home imagining that things would soon work out for Maher. I’d felt the same way in the beginning, after Maher’s arrest, when I believed that it was only a matter of time before he would be back. M
r. Pardy’s words comforted me; they told me that the Department of Foreign Affairs was not aware of any proof of terrorism against my husband. Why, then, weren’t the politicians raising a hue and cry? Why weren’t they demanding Maher’s return? I couldn’t understand. When the journalists began to phone and ask what had happened at the meeting, I told them the thrust of my questions.
“I would like to see Jean Chrétien, John Manley, or other high officials say that my husband is innocent, and take action to bring him back to Canada. I want the Canadian government to clarify its position concerning my husband. Why is he still surrounded by this cloud of mystery?”
Without realizing and without any ulterior motive, I was making certain people in Ottawa uncomfortable and putting the government on the defensive.
The next day I went to see Michael Edelson. I was curious to hear about the legal side of this case from him. I had never paid Mr. Edelson any money; a friend of Maher, who was himself a lawyer, had raised $2,000 and turned the sum over to him. I wanted to know what he intended to do, and what he could do. He received me in a conference room at his office on Elgin Street. I told him everything that had happened, my ordeal at the Ministry of the Interior in Tunisia, how I had been treated at customs on my arrival in Canada. He took notes and asked some questions. He talked to me about the strategy he intended to follow.
“I think the best way to proceed in this case is to obtain a letter from the RCMP attesting that Maher has no link with terrorism. With such a letter, we can meet with the Americans and the Syrians and request that he be released. I have already tried this strategy for Liban Hussain, and I am quite confident it will work for Maher. I’ll coordinate my efforts with Gar Pardy.”
He told me he would soon request a meeting with senior police officers to inform them of his strategy and ask for their co-operation. I couldn’t hope for better. I thought he was right, that we absolutely needed such a letter to free Maher. In my eyes, my whole future and the future of my entire family depended on a letter, or a few words at least, to remove any doubt and confirm that Maher was not a terrorist. How naive I was, how carried away by my optimism.
Meetings, television, press and radio interviews: this was the new life that awaited me in Ottawa. Every morning I rose and prepared Barâa’s lunch, gave her breakfast, then drove her to school. Then I returned home to look after Houd, who was now crawling around on his bottom and prying into every corner of the apartment. The little swing was my saviour: it rocked him gently and continuously and he went to sleep there when he was tired. My mother was not attending adult English classes any more; now she stayed at home, looking after Houd when I went out to appointments, and doing the cooking. She had become such a great help to me I couldn’t imagine life without her. But I couldn’t let her do any heavy work. Any time I stayed at home, I was the one who did the cleaning and the laundry.
For now, we were getting by on the savings that Maher had left. But I knew that I would soon need money to pay the rent, car expenses, and food. I needed a job. My hope was to sign a contract for research or as a lecturer at the University of Ottawa. I called on the professor for whom I had done research work before taking maternity leave. I felt a bit uncomfortable, as if I was asking for charity. Could he help me find a position as lecturer? I asked; I spoke fluent French, had a doctorate in finance, and could teach a variety of courses in either language. However, throughout the conversation, I felt I had no chance; the professor was cautious, cordial, and extremely vague. Not wanting to embarrass him, I picked up my bag and left but not in anger. I knew it was going to be difficult to get back into the job market. When people met me, they were mistrustful, unwilling to take a risk. It was up to me to be more flexible, to look for work below my qualifications. Every day, I spent hours in front of the computer screen looking for job openings, ready to send off my resumé whenever I thought I could do the work. No one even answered. Was it bad luck, or the fact that people recognized my name? I couldn’t know and will never know. From then on, I would have to get used to the consequences of my husband’s arrest and the suspicion surrounding him. But being prepared to adapt to this new life didn’t mean accepting the injustice, didn’t mean bowing my head and leaving the field open to others to do whatever they pleased. No, I was determined to accept my difficult living conditions and to learn to cope with them just as I was learning to fight the prejudice and injustice that was afflicting all of us.
I did everything I could to give the children a semblance of tranquility; they should not have to share the doubt that would sweep over me. Every day I made an effort to show them that they were normal children who loved to play and laugh and dream, not the children of that strange character whose pictures were being shown on TV. It was not shame that upset me, but the fear that my children would grow up under a cloud. I registered Barâa for swimming lessons, the same ones she had been taking before Maher’s arrest. I took the children and my mother with me to do routine shopping. We also went to visit our old friends, Racha and Ahmed. We talked about Maher, of course, but we also talked about children, school, and life. I took Houd out in his stroller for short walks in the little park beside our building. He would come back with rosy cheeks, looking refreshed and happy. Come evening, once the children were in bed I would sit down at my computer and read and answer my emails, draft letters, and read everything I could find on the Internet about Maher.
Sometimes I would reminisce, in the hope of briefly retrieving some long-lost moments of happiness. I remember Maher at a Baskin-Robbins in Montreal, asking the waitress in French for a cone with two scoops of ice cream. I laughed till I cried to hear him pronounce the word boules (scoops); he could not for the life of him get his tongue around the “oo” sound. Maher had learned French in Montreal. In Syria, most of his classes had been in Arabic. He had some classes in English but never any French; the only word of French he knew before coming to Montreal was merci. Syria was an exceedingly nationalistic country that had always insisted on the use of Arabic, and cultivated feelings of Arab identity and Arab unity. Only a social and intellectual élite spoke French, and Maher’s family was not part of it. But when he immigrated to Quebec, Maher had made up his mind to learn French. He didn’t want to go to Ontario to escape Bill 101, as many other families did. He stayed in Montreal and became familiar with the French culture. Sometimes when he was in a bad mood, he would say, “Oh, I’m always the oldest in my class because of those two years I spent learning French. At my age I should have finished my BA. by now.” Then immediately he would think again and say, “But at least I speak both English and French, don’t I? You know what? Two years is nothing in a person’s life!” But he just couldn’t pronounce the “oo” sound. Now and then, just for fun, he would repeat the word boules several times in front of me; it was all I could do to stifle my laughter each time he muffed it. Those moments from the past would rush back into my mind every time I wrote him a letter.
Since my return, I had wanted to visit Alexa McDonough. I made an appointment and went to see her at her office in the Central Block of the Parliament Buildings. She was busy when I arrived and I waited in her office, looking at all the books and art works on the shelves. I smiled; I had never visited a political personality before. In Tunisia, such a thing was out of the question. It was a police state; politicians were seen as being above the common herd, a race seen only on TV. When I immigrated to Canada, I kept up with political issues by reading the papers and listening to the radio, but I had never had an opportunity to meet a politician. When Marlene Catterall and Alexa McDonough both phoned me in Tunisia and showed me so much sympathy and interest, I was impressed: first by their integrity and courage, but also by seeing a concrete example of how a democratic system works for the first time in my life. The very people who were responsible for making laws and regulations had called me, had approached me, without my asking. It was clear that I must work, do whatever it took to keep up my confidence in the system, fight to keep myself from falling prey t
o skepticism.
When Alexa McDonough entered the office, she found me lost in thought. She was warm and there was compassion in her eyes. She put me at ease at once and listened with close attention. I told her about my efforts to get the government to move, and how disappointed I was to see so little action taken to bring Maher home. She understood what I was telling her, and promised that this was a case she was not about to let drop. That sentence alone meant a great deal to me. It told me that in my solitude, in the isolation I was experiencing, there were people who were with me, supporting me, that they would not let me sink into bitterness or, worse, give up my fight. I told her about my idea of sending a letter to Prime Minister Chrétien and she promised to help me deliver it. She radiated optimism in her smile and her bearing. I felt a surge of hope well up in me; things were becoming clearer. As long as I had people like her to rely on, I wouldn’t stop. Before I left, Alexa asked me if I knew Nazira Tareen.
“Nazira,” I repeated. “No, I don’t know the name.”
“She’s an extraordinary woman, you must meet her. I met her when I went to visit the main Ottawa mosque with Prime Minister Chrétien just after the events of 9/11. I’ve talked to her about you and she’s anxious to meet you. We’ll certainly talk some more about it. Someone in my office will get in touch with you and we’ll arrange something.”