Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  There we were, marching in circles in the cold and the dark, but I could feel the warmth of the people around me. Many I had never seen before had come to support our efforts and put pressure on the government. I was grateful and told them so and thanked them. A circle formed around me; I felt I had to speak to the crowd.

  Dear Friends:

  Thank you for being here with me, with my kids and with my family. Maher would be so proud to see such support for him and such unity among Canadians around his case. Unfortunately, his basic rights have been violated and I wonder for how long this situation is going to last. For freedom to prevail and for the sake of our democracy, I ask for the release of Maher Arar. I hope that we can meet around the centennial flame every month for a silent vigil, until Maher is released and reunified with his family. Once again, thank you for being here this evening, I will never forget your support!

  Barâa was standing right there beside me, but suddenly I realized I couldn’t see Houd. He was not in his sleigh. Frightened, I looked for my mother. She was talking to a lady.

  “Where is Houd? He’s not in his sleigh!”

  “Oh, I was getting worried about him. It was getting colder and colder, so Ahmed took him home with his own children. He’ll bring him back to us at the apartment a bit later.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief; I had panicked, thinking something terrible had happened. A young man who worked in Alexa’s office brought cups of coffee and hot chocolate. Barâa took one.

  The local television station, CPAC, wanted to interview Alexa and me; the two of us went there together, taking Barâa, who was curious to see a TV studio. Friends drove my mother home. We walked quickly through the streets of Ottawa, which were emptying now, the wind whipping at our faces. We soon arrived at a long building. I knew the place but had never been inside. We took the elevator and stepped into the waiting room. Barâa was so excited that she had spilled hot chocolate on her coat. We found some paper towel to clean it up, and I rubbed vigorously at the chocolate spot while Barâa kept beaming, unperturbed. The makeup artist came to ask if I would like to get ready; I felt a bit self-conscious, since I never used makeup, but she understood and left with a smile. Barâa whispered: “Why don’t you put a little powder on your cheeks? It would be so pretty …” I pretended not to hear; I was preparing myself mentally for this interview.

  Alexa and I both sat on high chairs while the journalists put all kinds of questions to us. My replies were calm and composed. As we left the studio, Alexa said goodbye; her press secretary was waiting and they had another appointment. Barâa held my hand. We were happy she was starry-eyed over the studio, the cameras … and in awe of the young ladies who spent the whole day powdering the noses of politicians and other important people. Deep down, I felt the vigil had been a success: at least the journalists found something to write about; Maher would not be forgotten. Without admitting it, in my heart of hearts I knew that a miracle was not going to happen, but that slowly, with the simple, sincere, rudimentary means available, my little ship would chart its course through stormy seas.

  The next day I called Mr. Pardy; he was not in his office. Soon enough he called me back. I understood from his tone of voice that he did not like the hullabaloo being stirred up in the media over Maher, though he did not tell me directly that I should stop. It was my choice, he said, and he could not prevent it but, clearly, he disapproved. I did not reply, but in my mind the matter was already settled: I would speak out to the media, I would hold vigils, I would keep writing letters, I would visit human rights organizations, I would do everything I could to see justice done. Not just out of obstinacy; I firmly believed that by speaking directly to the public and making people aware, I would help release my husband from his dungeon.

  That day, Mr. Pardy announced that Minister of Foreign Affairs Bill Graham would soon be talking to his Syrian counterpart, Farouk al-Shara. Was it just coincidence, or did it have something to do with the previous evening’s activities? I couldn’t tell, but the news was promising. I wanted to know more, but Mr. Pardy was not about to reveal state secrets and would say no more.

  After hanging up, I went to lie on the living room sofa to think over the promised telephone conversation and what it might mean. My natural trust in others had started to give way to mistrust; I had suffered too many disappointments and wanted no more of them. My mother was in the kitchen; she saw me through the little passage way to the living room.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Mr. Pardy tells me Bill Graham is going to talk to Farouk al-Shara about Maher.”

  I was telling her because I really appreciated her opinion. She is an open, unpretentious woman of great kindness who has always impressed me with her ability to understand people. When I had a difficult decision to make, I could have complete trust in her instinct.

  “That’s good news. Let it happen and you’ll see.”

  Ottawa, December 21, 2002.

  Dear Maher,

  Today is the last day of school for Barâa before the winter holidays. I have made some little chocolate cakes for her friends at school. She is very proud of the idea. Houd is well. For the last two days he has been crying a lot at night, I think his teeth are hurting him. Today we had some freezing rain but luckily it is not very cold. Life is so sad without you. I am impatient for your return. I am sure that sooner or later Justice will be done to you and you will be able to come home to us. Take care of yourself, have no worries about us. Be sure of one thing, that I have just one future goal in life: to see you back here with us in Canada, and by the Grace of God, I know that this goal will be attained. We all love you. Monia, Barâa and Houd.

  The holidays had arrived and Barâa was on vacation. We spent the long days in the apartment, but sometimes in the afternoon when the sun was still shining, I would take her out to play in the snow. She had a green sled she could pull with a length of rope. Behind our building there was a hill leading to a small park where a lot of children came to slide. The hill was now completely covered with snow. In some places the slope was steep, in others it looked more like a mound of hay. Barâa could spend hours there without getting bored. She would jump onto her sled, I would give her a little push, and off she would go, skimming over the snow all the way to the bottom of the hill. Some times the sled would tip over on the way down and Barâa would delight in rolling downhill. I would run after her, my boots sinking into the snow, to help her up, and she would laugh and take off, trying to escape, happy as could be in the one-piece snowsuit that made her look like a teddy bear. These wintry escapades took my mind away from my cares and the dreary life I was leading. In Tunisia, I had seen snow only once in my life, when I was eleven, in my last year of elementary school. Several centimetres fell: it was a huge surprise. Our winters were short, damp, sometimes rainy and windy, but never snowy. My outings in the snow with Barâa brought back the joy-filled memory of that day from my childhood, making snowballs with my friends from the white, almost magical powder that had fallen from the sky.

  EARLY JANUARY 2003. As usual, I rose early to take Barâa to school. It was cold and the streets were still covered with snow. Barâa and I took the stairs; my mother would look after Houd. The car was parked in the building’s small lot. As I opened the door I saw shattered glass on the back seat; one of the rear windows had been broken. The glove compartment and another compartment for change and other small objects were damaged. What had happened? I was shocked. It looked like a case of vandalism. While Barâa and I stood there staring, my neighbour, Richard, a man in his forties who was bringing up his daughter alone, came out of the building to take his daughter to school. He saw my expression.

  “What’s the matter?” he said.

  “My car has been damaged. The window has been broken and they’ve damaged the inside too.”

  We had known Richard for years. In summer, when I took Barâa to the pool in the building to swim, he was almost always there with his daughter, Melanie. He liked to sta
rt a conversation and we would spend a few minutes making small talk. Maher knew him too; but all we really knew about him was that he was bringing up his daughter alone. However, he was always obliging and helpful. This morning, finding me in a fix, he said, “Get in the car, we’ll drive the girls, then I’ll come and help you.”

  I thanked Richard with all my heart and we left together with the girls. On the way, he told me such things had been happening in the neighbourhood and he had seen a number of similar cases. What could I say? I had begun to feel ill at ease. Was this a random incident, an accident, or an intentional and deliberate act? Was I being targeted? Was someone trying to intimidate me? I said nothing to Richard about my fears, not wanting to make things worse; he knew my story, but I wanted to appear normal and not think of myself as a victim, even though deep down I was feeling sorry for myself. When we returned, I hurried upstairs to make a report to the police and to call my insurance company. Richard waited downstairs, taping plastic over the broken window so I could take the car to be repaired. The insurance company offered me another car and asked me to pick it up at a garage not far away. I was somewhat relieved, but couldn’t get it out of my head that secret service agents had done this to me. The fact that I would not keep quiet, that I continued to talk to the media, to hold vigils and to contact politicians was upsetting certain people, there was no doubt about that. Still, I wasn’t completely convinced they would go as far as vandalizing my car to frighten me. I became more and more careful, but I didn’t by any means give up my way of doing things. When I phoned Mr. Pardy that day for news of Maher, I straightforwardly told him of the incident. He listened to me closely, revealing nothing in his voice, but giving me the impression that he was not taking the matter lightly. Maher’s file was progressing very slowly. Sometimes it seemed to me that everything had come to a standstill, that all around us was silence.

  When Maher was being held at the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn, Ahmed and Bassam had sent him $200 American. The money was supposed to be used for long-distance telephone charges, but Maher had never called me in Tunis and I didn’t know what had become of that money. Now I wanted to get it back; the matter was rankling me. I had never forgiven his jailers for refusing to let him call me and I wanted the money returned. Instinctively, I thought of Myra, Mr. Pardy’s assistant; I called her and asked her to help.

  “Could you call the consulate in New York, perhaps Maureen Girvan, who knows Maher’s case well, and tell her I’d like to have my $200 back.”

  Myra was hesitant. She didn’t want to refuse but didn’t know how to go about recovering the money. “I’ll check with our people in New York and get back to you when I have news.”

  Although I was not yet receiving social assistance, and my financial situation was becoming increasingly shaky, I was not looking for money. I wanted to keep in touch with Mr. Pardy’s office; the $200 was a good excuse. But I also wanted to show the American agents that they could not do just as they pleased.

  Each day in this new life of mine brought its surprises and disappointments, but I would always find a way, no matter how tortuous it might be, to keep my hopes alive. Sometimes I succeeded and sometimes I failed, but each time I learned to be stronger and more patient. Life, with its multiple facets, was giving me lessons. What I was going through sometimes seemed hard to bear, but I was grateful to God for giving me the courage to keep getting up after I’d fallen, and to keep moving forward.

  JANUARY 7, 2003. Myra called to tell me that Leo Martel, the Canadian consul in Damascus, had been able to see Maher. I was surprised because usually she or Mr. Pardy would inform me in advance of a visit and I would write a letter to Maher so that it could be read to him the day of the visit. But this time, for unknown reasons, the visit had come about quickly. Myra promised to forward the letter that Maher had dictated to Mr. Martel, addressed to me.

  Dear Monia,

  I hope you and the kids are doing well. Hope this year will be a year of peace and prosperity for all mankind. Being far from you, I feel very lonely. Every day that goes by feels like a long time. Thank you for sending USD 200. I wanted to inform you that in case I stay in prison longer I will need approximately USD 40 per month (perhaps not every month) and if you can once in a while send it to me. Right now, I have enough money. I send my love. Maher.

  It was followed by a short message for Barâa:

  Dear Barâa,

  Thank you for sending me the Eid card. I hope you are doing well. I miss you very much. Please take care of your little brother and be nice to your mom. Dad.

  I was relieved to hear that Maher had received the little greeting card for Eid that Barâa had made for him. He had not said a word about it the last time and I thought it had been lost somewhere between Ottawa and Damascus. But, to my surprise, he had got it. Barâa was going to be happy to know that her father had written a message just for her. The evening of that day when I put her to bed, I showed her the few words her father had written to her. Her face lit up.

  “Why didn’t he say more?” she asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I replied, “perhaps that’s all they let him say.”

  “Why wouldn’t they let him say everything?”

  “Sometimes it’s hard … but when he’s here, inshallah, he’ll be able to tell you all about it.”

  “Yes, maybe,” she replied without great conviction.

  Our little discussion had left me feeling sick to my stomach. All that night Barâa’s words kept running through my mind. When I finally drifted off to sleep, I had one single question: would Maher ever come back?

  Several days later, I made up my mind to write to Maher even though I knew it would only be read to him on the next visit. I wanted to give him courage, to tell him about our everyday lives. I didn’t give many details, since this letter would be read by several people. Everybody didn’t have to know everything about my life; enough of it was in the papers already.

  Ottawa, Saturday January 11, 2003.

  Dear Maher,

  I hope this letter reaches you and that you are in good health. I have received your last letter. Not a day, an hour or a minute goes by that I do not think of you. Do not think you are alone in your prison, I am with you. I talk to you very often in my thoughts and most of all I pray for you. I know that you are innocent and that by the Grace of God you will return to us. Barâa has read your message, almost all by herself. She is able to read better and better. She talks often about you and believe me, she will always be proud of you. Houd is standing up and walking, holding the edge of the sofa. He is not walking alone yet but I hope he will do it in the months to come. If you need anything at all, let me know. Never will I allow injustice to triumph. This is my daily battle. We all love you. Monia, Barâa and Houd.

  JANUARY 17, 2003. Mr. Pardy called.

  “Anything new?” I asked.

  “I have some good news,” Mr. Pardy replied. I held my breath, thinking of Maher in Syria. Could he soon be coming home? I wondered but said nothing and let Mr. Pardy talk. “Bill Graham, the Foreign Affairs minister, has finally been able to speak to Farouk al-Shara, his Syrian counterpart, and has formally asked Mr. al-Shara to have Maher released or to allow him to defend himself if he is accused of a crime,” he continued.

  “And what did Mr. al-Shara reply, do you know?”

  “It’s very rare that a minister replies directly, particularly when a file is as complicated as this one, but we think it’s a step in the right direction.”

  As usual, diplomatic procedure was coming to Mr. Pardy’s rescue. He always had a ready answer for my questions. I thanked him for the news, but in my heart, there was nothing to celebrate. It looked to me like another timid poke at helping Maher. But the government, I felt, was still not throwing all its weight behind him. I had pinned my hopes on the meeting; I had expected the Syrian Foreign minister to demonstrate his good faith immediately by promising Maher’s release. A cloud of gloom still hung over my head.

&n
bsp; MID-JANUARY 2003. The telephone rang. It was Lee Greenberg of the Ottawa Citizen calling to say that a journalist from Time magazine in New York wanted a copy of the picture of Maher with the birthday cake. He gave me his telephone number. I decided to call the American journalist, Mark Rykoff, right after I’d spoken with Lee. He was quite pleasant, and explained that his magazine was writing an article on Maher. I was happy. I had concentrated all my campaign efforts on Canada until then, for obvious reasons: Maher was a Canadian citizen travelling on a Canadian passport when he was arrested in the United States. Since immigrating to Canada at age seventeen, he had never been back to Syria until sent there by the Americans. He had studied, worked, paid taxes, married, and had two children in Canada. To my mind, it was up to Canada to make an explicit demand for his release. But to my great surprise and profound disappointment, Canada was barely lifting a finger. The United States had washed its hands of the case: the American administration was preparing to invade Iraq and Maher was the last of its concerns. Syria was the big bad wolf. Every time I would ask Mr. Pardy what the Syrians had to say about it, he would reply: “Oh, the Syrians tell us Maher is one of theirs and they have the right to do whatever they want with him.”

  According to this logic, the wolf had the right to imprison, torture, and eat its victims, but our government, here in Canada, would not lift a finger. It was as if certain people were waiting for the wolf to finish off its victims before complaining and protesting. They might not like the wolf, but they pretended not to see what it was doing to one of their own. And how should I behave toward the Syrians? Was I ready to go to the Syrian Embassy and speak to the authorities there? No, I was not. I was not Syrian, first of all; I would be on foreign ground if I did. Secondly, why should I ask the jailers to free my husband when the real keys were in Ottawa’s and Washington’s hands? If I approached the Syrians, it would only strengthen their argument and give them the impression that they were in control, while, in fact, they were trying to score political points at my husband’s expense. I was not ready to help them do that. Of course I wanted to see my husband again, but I wasn’t prepared to grovel, to lose my dignity.