Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  “A vigil, yes, a vigil, that’s what we need!” exclaimed Nazira.

  I liked the idea. Everyone else seemed to like it too.

  “We’ll light candles and gather before Parliament,” said a lady. “We’ll spread the word, each of us through our families and friends…”

  Alexa also promised to help spread the word. I was saying nothing, my heart was beating with joy, at last I had help; I was thanking God: hope had won.

  When I said goodbye to Nazira and kept repeating my thanks, she hugged me and said, “Don’t worry, keep your chin up.”

  It was almost three-thirty; Barâa would be getting out of school. I left to pick her up, Nazira’s words dancing in my ears.

  DECEMBER 10, 2002. I received the report of Consul Leo Martel’s third visit to Maher. Ironically, it had occurred on the very day when the United Nations was celebrating human rights. Strange: these reports, which were often accompanied by messages, should have had a soothing effect, but they didn’t – quite the opposite. I had become reluctant even to read them. They were ridiculous. According to them, Maher was fine and had everything he needed. I didn’t believe those words; I was certain they had been dictated for him. Worse yet, they angered me, reminding me of the injustice done to us, and the uncertainty we were living under; they were only another way to show disdain for us, as far as I could see. However, as I felt time passing, and the visits became less frequent, those same messages became important to me. So I would wait impatiently, yearning to read the phony words that made me grind my teeth but that told me at least that Maher was still alive.

  Dear Monia,

  I hope that you and the kids are doing fine, I myself feel desperate and helpless but when I read your words I see the light at the end of the tunnel. Hopefully my stay in this town is going to be short. Just keep sending me letters and I would like to say that you are the most wonderful wife. I love you and I love the kids. Thank you for the money and for the photos. I hope you have passed a good Eid even though I was not there. My hope is to be with you for the next Eid. I will always be a sincere husband. Kiss the kids for me.

  If I could not find work, I would soon have trouble making ends meet. I sent off my resumé to Marlene Catterall’s office, asking for her help in my search: either I was overqualified or, I was told, other people were better qualified. The result was the same: I was not getting hired. The thought of applying for social assistance embarrassed me. With all my degrees, I told myself, the social workers would laugh at me. One day when I was talking to Marlene, she said, “Why should you be embarrassed? You and your husband both paid income tax when you worked, so now that you’re in need, don’t hesitate to ask for help.” Her words made sense, the words of a politician who knew how things happen, while I was thinking like the immigrant who wants to look perfect and stand proud. With her encouragement, I called the special line to file an application and set up an appointment with a social worker.

  Social assistance was handled by the city of Ottawa. At the appointed hour, I presented myself to the receptionist, who took my name and asked me to take a seat in the waiting room. Several other people were waiting in silence, most of them immigrants or refugees. I had all the required papers for the application with me and was praying to God that I would be accepted. I knew that the money I would receive was not a fortune, but it would help me pay the rent and buy food. After a short wait, a lady who spoke French with an Eastern European accent called my name. She led me into a tiny cubicle with a table in the middle, offered me a chair, and sat at the other side of the table. It was as if I were in a cage. The session began with a review of my identification papers, my citizenship status, the ages of my children.

  Everything seemed to be going well. I explained my husband’s situation and my problems finding work. Then I had to divulge everything about real estate, financial, or other assets. I had a car, I told her.

  “What year?”

  “1999.”

  “How much do you think you could sell it for?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, it must be worth around ten thousand dollars,” I replied, not understanding where she was leading. It was not long before I found out.

  “Well, madame, to qualify for social assistance, your car cannot be worth more than around six thousand dollars. What you must do now is sell your car and spend the difference; then you can come back and see us.”

  I was stunned. “I can’t sell my car, I have two young children, I can’t get around without it!” I said as if trying to make her take pity on me.

  She didn’t so much as blink; she was used to hearing all kinds of stories, I reasoned, and made no exceptions.

  “Then, if I understand correctly,” I said, “I should come here almost as a beggar, no clothes, just rags, no car, to beseech you. Is that what I’m supposed to do?”

  “Madame, social welfare is for people who have nothing. You must spend everything you have, then apply again.”

  Then, as if to tell me she had other fish to fry, she stood up. I was seething inside. I wanted to tell her she had no heart; she wasn’t a social worker, she was a social policewoman. But I knew I would not say any of this, that I would swallow the pill just as I had swallowed others. Regretting that I’d come in the first place, I left.

  “I shouldn’t have gone, or even asked for social assistance,” I told my mother when I got home.

  “Why? Did they turn you down?” she asked.

  “Yes, the social worker told me I’d have to sell the car because you can only own a car worth six thousand dollars or less.”

  “Are they crazy or what?” my mother shot back. “It’s not even your car, it belongs to Maher.”

  Her words struck me like a lightning bolt. For a moment I sat there, gaping. It was true; why hadn’t I thought of it before? All the car’s papers were in his name. Even far away in his prison, he was helping me! I kissed my mother for her presence of mind and perspicacity, forgot my distress of moments before, and resolved to apply again.

  I couldn’t see how Maher was going to get out of prison. The last time I had spoken to Michael Edelson, he had told me practically nothing more could be done to help him, at least from a legal standpoint. All that remained was to speak to the media and win the support of public opinion; but even that was not so easy any more. The journalists’ interest was fading; there were no developments, nothing new to report. Bassam, Maher’s brother, called me almost every day. He was representing the family and accompanied me when I had important meetings with Mr. Pardy. We would talk on the telephone and discuss ways of getting Maher out of prison, conversations that, above all, indirectly provided mutual moral support and comfort. One day Bassam called to say that the president of Syria would be visiting in England between December 15 and 17 and then would be going on to France.

  “How about trying to contact a human rights organization in France to ask for their help?” he suggested. I thought it over for a few moments.

  “We could call Reporters Without Borders, or perhaps Le Monde, Courrier International, Radio France Internationale, Libération … Yes, it’s a good idea,” I exclaimed. “I’ll contact them, we can ask them if they’re interested in covering the case.”

  I hung up and went at once to my computer to find a phone number for Reporters Without Borders in France. It was easy, and without a minute’s hesitation I called Paris. I wanted to act fast; Bashar al-Assad had finished his visit to London and was on his way to Paris and I didn’t want to miss my chance. A Parisian-accented male voice answered. I told him my story, and about Maher’s arrest and his disappearance to Syria.

  “Do you know where he is being held at present?” the voice asked.

  “He is in Syria, I don’t know where, but since the president of Syria is visiting France, I thought you could raise the matter with other human rights organizations,” I replied enthusiastically, as if I was living in the clouds, as if anything was possible.

  “Is your husband a journalist?”

 
“No, a telecommunications engineer.”

  “Has he written articles?”

  “No,” I said, as I felt a lump rising in my throat.

  “Well, unfortunately, we can do nothing for your husband; we only act on behalf of journalists.”

  “Oh, I see, but is there no way you can take up his cause and help him? I can send you information on his case, if you like,” I said in hope of convincing the man.

  “Unfortunately not. He has to be a journalist. I wish you the best of luck, madame,” he said firmly.

  It was pointless to continue. “Thank you all the same,” I said.

  My optimism took a nosedive; for a fraction of a second I would so much have liked Maher to have had a career in journalism, perhaps he would have more chance of being freed. Perhaps I would have better luck calling Courrier International? Why not? Maybe they would be tempted to publish an article on Maher, I told myself. Once again, I punched in the telephone number of an office in Paris. I wanted to speak to a certain Jacques Froment, whose number appeared on the website. As before, once connected, I began telling my story. At the other end of the line, I heard only Monsieur Froment’s regular breathing; he must have been wondering where I had come from and whether I was normal. When I had finished my story, he said:

  “At Courrier International, we republish articles published in papers in other countries. Our correspondent in Canada is supposed to recommend or suggest articles. Contact Monsieur Gauthier, he represents us in Canada.”

  Another slap in the face. The doors were closed; clearly there was no interest in France for our story, so why was I expecting journalists to help me report it? Just because the president of Syria happened to be visiting France? Deep down, I had known it was a long shot, but I had tried; that was all I could do. I sat there at my desk a while, staring at the telephone numbers I had scribbled in my notebook a few minutes before: Radio France Internationale, Agence France-Presse … the list was long, but it was a waste of time. I had to think of something else; my strategy had hit a rock.

  Winter was on the way. Snow had begun to fall; a mantle of white covered the city. Barâa was adapting to her new life as a schoolgirl. Each day, we spent half an hour reading together. She was beginning to recognize a number of words and was supposed to be reading little stories on her own. I would sit beside her on the big bed while we read. Houd was doing his best to walk but not quite managing it alone. He would pull himself up at the end of the bed, take two little steps, then fall on the floor. He was not fearful any more; he knew my mother, and the two of them would spend hours together when I went out to meet people. My feelings of guilt didn’t leave me, but I lived with them as I did with all my other feelings. In my role as mother, I wanted in every possible way to keep Barâa’s memories of her father alive, to protect them. But I was wrong; I didn’t realize that she didn’t need my help. Sometimes, when we were making small talk, out of the blue she would say:

  “Oh yes, I know that Toronto is four hundred kilometres by car from Ottawa.”

  “How did you know that?” I would say, surprised.

  “Baba told me, once.”

  Of her own volition, Barâa was bringing back a word, a gesture, an expression of her father’s so that he was always present with us or in her thoughts. One day before going to sleep, she said:

  “You know what, today in the school yard, a girl said to me, ‘Is your father still in prison?’”

  “And what did you say?”

  “Nothing, I didn’t say anything.”

  I listened, not knowing what to say, sensing there were tears in her eyes; then she began to sob.

  “Maman, I’d like Baba to come back, I miss him so much.”

  I had never seen her like this before. Now I understood how she was suffering.

  “I miss him too, but he’ll come back one day, don’t worry.”

  I held her in my arms a while till she calmed down. Slowly, she nodded off. I sat there beside her. Houd was playing on the floor with a thread he had found near the bed. He would pick it up and put it in his mouth, then take it out, covered with saliva; he would drop it, then he would look for it all over again, lost in another world, focused on a little thread. I got up from the bed, took him in my arms, and carried him to the bathroom to give him his bath.

  — 3 —

  THE BATTLE BEGINS

  I raised my head, saw a grubby old picture of former president

  Hafez al-Assad and realized I was in Syria …

  DECEMBER 16, 2002. This was the day we had chosen a week earlier at Nazira’s for our first vigil to demand that the government do more to bring Maher back to Canada. It was snowing and the temperature was hovering around –20? Celsius. The women who had gathered at Nazira’s had passed on the message to others, but we didn’t want it to be for women only; everyone was welcome. Alexa McDonough’s office had sent an email invitation to all the MPs and their staffs and to other organizations to join in. I had never before organized a vigil and had no idea how to go about it, but I was counting heavily on the goodwill of people I knew or who knew Maher to come. Friends arriving from Montreal brought candles and plastic glasses to put them in so the candles would not blow out. I had received several requests from journalists for interviews that day and accepted them, delighted that the vigil was reviving interest in Maher’s story. I was not missing a single opportunity to speak to the Canadian public.

  Barâa announced the vigil at her school. She kept surprising me. Sometimes before going to sleep she would start to cry, she was sad not to see her father, and we would pray together for his return. But sometimes too, as on this day, she showed a great deal of courage and hope. She was proud to stand up in front of the class. It gave her a feeling of doing something; she could demonstrate her misfortune to others and share it with them, and that would heal her wounds and help her bear the pain.

  The vigil was to begin at six o’clock that evening in front of the Parliament Buildings near the Eternal Flame. For the occasion, I had arranged to have an enlarged photograph of Maher, Barâa, and me. It was a picture I used a lot, I have to say I liked it; it showed us in our best light. Everyone thought it was taken on Barâa’s birthday because, being the only child at the time, she occupied the centre of the picture, as she did our hearts. In fact, it had been taken on my birthday; Maher had bought me a cake and had a little party just for the three of us. I decided to have the picture enlarged and carry it with me during the vigil. A friend in Toronto had volunteered to do the job, and that very morning by courier I had received the beautiful laminated enlargement.

  I got the children ready, making sure they would stay good and warm. Especially Houd, who was ten months old and not walking yet; he needed to be well bundled up. I took his little wooden sleigh to pull him in rather than attempt to carry him the whole time. It was like setting out on an expedition.

  There was kind of an inexplicable happiness, even excitement in the air. I was naive enough to think that a single vigil would change everything, not realizing that the situation was far more complicated than it appeared. I guess this naivety of mine is part of my nature; it certainly led me to believe that everyone in Canada wanted Maher back. In a way I believed Mr. Pardy when he told me the Department of Foreign Affairs was making great efforts to bring him back. It never occurred to me that there was wheeling and dealing going on to make sure Maher never got back to Canada. In my mind, the government was not doing enough and had to do more. I simply couldn’t see the forces we were confronting, and how strong and effective they were.

  When we arrived at the Eternal Flame, we found several journalists already there, waiting for us. Not knowing what to expect, how many people would come, what interest there would be in such an event, I felt a bit reassured. My mother was looking after Houd in his little sleigh. Barâa took up a position next to the enlargement, which we’d propped up against the low wall around the flame. Slowly but surely, people were arriving. Some of them I knew; others were strangers. It was
almost dark now and I felt the icy cold settling around us and penetrating down to the bone. Someone suggested we begin to march around the flame and everyone quickly followed suit. Then a voice rang out, shouting: “Bring Maher home!” I took up the words without missing a beat and others joined in. There were about twenty of us, in the cold, marching around the flame, calling for Maher to be brought home to Canada. I had held Houd in my arms for a few minutes, but it was too cold for him and I quickly put him back in his sleigh and covered him with a little blanket. My mother kept an eye on him. Swept up in the whirl of excitement, I didn’t want to stop circling the flame. It was a moving experience, with all the little candles twinkling in the darkness and all the people who had come to be with us and support us. Silently, I thanked God. Several journalists took pictures, and interviewed me. I repeated that the government was not doing enough.

  Alexa McDonough and Marlene Catterall soon joined us. To my knowledge, they were the only political figures to do so. Their support was vital. Alexa was leader of her party at the time. Ever since her first phone call, when I was still in Tunisia, I had felt she believed in me, that she sincerely wanted to help the cause. It annoyed her that the Canadian government was not doing enough to demand the return of one of its own. Never did I sense in her the glad-handing, scheming politician taking an interest in this affair merely to score points against her political opponents. Her great human and ethical qualities always impressed me. And yet, she was taking an enormous risk in supporting me. I didn’t live in her constituency; she was under no obligation to help me. Since Maher was being presented by the media as a suspect with links to terrorism, it was risky for her to associate with his wife. After all, Maher might really have been a vicious terrorist. Why should she endanger her reputation, her career, and her good name for a cause such as his? I realized as the days went by that Alexa was not only defending the rights of Maher Arar, the individual, but was going beyond that: she was defending her vision of Canada. The true strength of a politician lies in his or her ability to sense approaching danger. The danger in this instance was the erosion of our rights in the name of an illusory and restrictive sense of security. In my case and Maher’s, Alexa was looking far ahead, at a time when many politicians were looking no further than the ends of their noses.