Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  The next day, I visited a two-bedroom ground-floor apartment; from the balcony I could see the Bayshore shopping centre. I decided then and there to rent it, and followed the agent to his office to settle the details. Considering my low income, he asked me to find a cosignatory to guarantee the lease. Taken aback, I had no idea who to call on, who would not be afraid to sign his name alongside mine. But I signed the lease, assuring the agent that I would return it with the missing signature. After all, it was a simple enough condition: just a signature, a little matter of confidence. Except that in my situation, everything had become complicated.

  I went home, ticking off names of people I knew. That was when I thought of Ammou (Uncle) Jalal, a friend of Maher’s who worked in Montreal. He was fond of Maher and the children and was close to retirement, so not really concerned about his career as other acquaintances might be. As soon as I got home I called and spoke to his wife, Wanda, who assured me he would be happy to do me the favour. There wasn’t a hint of hesitation in her voice, which told me that my fears were unjustified. I faxed her the request and she promised to send it to the rental office at the end of the afternoon as soon as her husband had signed it. I was delighted. The next day when I called the rental agent, he told me everything was settled and I would be getting my copy of the lease soon.

  March was nearly over; spring was coming. Houd had just wakened from his nap. I prepared his bottle and took him in my arms. When he had finished, he stood up and took a couple of hesitant steps, fell down, got up holding the edge of the sofa, then suddenly, without warning, started to walk.

  “Houd’s walking, he’s walking! Barâa, Mama, come and see, look, he’s walking!” I called out. I was overjoyed to see him stand up alone and stride out on his own. It was the same pride parents feel when their children finish their studies and receive their degrees. To me, this was a step toward independence and it brought tears to my eyes. We all looked on with amazement and delight, while Houd laughed to have discovered the age-old art of walking.

  The days went by in monotonous succession. I would take Barâa to school, come home, play with Houd a little, then sit down at my computer. Since the creation of the FreeMaherArar.com website, I read and responded to all the messages I received every day. A lady in Newfoundland wrote regularly; she told me she had spoken to her congregation about the case and promised to keep sending letters herself to the minister of Foreign Affairs. Often people who sent letters to the prime minister or their local MP would send me copies. The site kept me busy and never failed to give me a daily dose of encouragement. There were other websites to check too, where I hoped to read everything I could that was being said about Maher and his case.

  One evening as I was clearing the supper table, the telephone rang. It was a woman’s voice, speaking in Arabic. She introduced herself as Samah; a friend, whom she didn’t name, had given her my number.

  “I know someone by the name of Bill Skidmore who teaches a course on human rights at Carleton University here in Ottawa. He would like you to come and talk to his class on your husband’s case.”

  “Yes, umm, why not …,” I stammered, caught off-guard. “Yes, I’ll take his number … I’ll call him, I promise. Thank you so much.”

  Funny, I said to myself, now people are asking me to talk about my husband, and about the implications of his case; who would have thought? But was I ready to do it?

  It didn’t take long for me to realize that the invitation was a turning point. Up until now, I was the one organizing events such as the vigils to stir up public opinion. But now someone else had taken the initiative. More and more people outside my immediate circle were taking an interest in Maher’s case.

  “What’s the use of talking to students?” my mother asked when I told her the news. She didn’t understand how important public opinion was, that letters to government ministers could build a kind of political pressure over time.

  “Talking is all I have and I’ll keep on doing it as long as I’m alive,” I replied, making up my mind to call the professor the very next day.

  Bill Skidmore’s office was on one of the upper floors at Carleton University. The room was full of books, old and new; children’s drawings and political caricatures were pinned and taped to the walls; cardboard boxes full of documents crowded the floor; and it had a stunning view of Ottawa. Our conversation was short and to the point. Bill would begin the session with a lecture, then I would follow. The idea, as he put it, was to combine theory and practice, and give the students insight into the major issues of the day. His dedication as a teacher was plain to see; he was a man constantly seeking to learn. As I was about to leave, assuring him that I would go ahead with the presentation, he blurted out:

  “I know a lady named Kerry Pither. We met years ago when she was working on the East Timor issue. She’s an impressive person: dedicated and very dynamic. I think it would be a good idea for you to meet her. She may be able to help you. I’ll put you in touch with her.”

  I left the office with a spring in my step.

  MARCH 19, 2003. Today was my debut as a university lecturer. I parked my car, took Carleton’s underground corridors, and promptly lost my usually reliable sense of direction. I reached the lecture hall too late to hear Bill’s lecture. Some students were standing around outside the door during the break, waiting for my presentation to begin. I hurried down the stairs into the amphitheatre, being careful not to fall on my face. Bill was standing in front of the class; when he saw me his face lit up. He explained how the portable microphone worked, and I attached it to the belt of my skirt. There must have been at least a hundred students in the audience; I felt a tinge of stage fright. Though I’d spent several hours preparing my presentation, I wondered whether I would be able to hold their attention, to explain everything that had happened without sounding boring, or like a victim lamenting her fate. As all those concerns were running through my head, I noticed a stocky, middle-aged man take a seat a few rows up from the front. He looked Middle Eastern, perhaps an Arab; he didn’t really look like a student, and his presence intrigued me. He pulled paper and pencil out of a briefcase and prepared to take notes.

  In the lecture hall, there were curious looks, interested looks, blasé and skeptical looks; a few looked bored and half asleep. Bill introduced me and, all at once, there I was, alone before the students. Speaking softly, I began. At first I read from my notes, but then started to improvise, speaking to the audience as if we’d known one another for weeks. I told my story, I described my anguish and my pain; I spoke about my decision to speak up and speak out against injustice. I talked about my new life, about the lengthy silence ever since the consular visits to Maher had stopped. The interested expressions on the faces of some of students buoyed me up and made me feel at home. Suddenly a young man seated at the back stood up; he was wrapped in an American flag, and he moved quickly down the stairs toward me, saying nothing, all the way to the bottom, and left by the door closest to the desk I was standing by. I stopped, stared, at a loss. I heard muffled giggles in the hall and turned toward Bill, who clearly had no idea of what was going on. I tried to smile and couldn’t, then pretended that nothing had happened and continued my presentation.

  When I finished, many of the students broke into applause. Bill stood up and came over to me, thanked me, and asked the students if there were any questions. We had forgotten the flag incident; once again I was immersed in questions and answers, doing my best to satisfy the curiosity of my audience. The Middle Eastern–looking man I had observed taking notes during my talk was no longer there. I felt exhausted but didn’t want to stop, it was such a wonderful experience;

  I loved interacting with the students and envied Bill his job. When it was all over, several students came to me at the desk to learn more and ask how they could help.

  “Write letters. Visit the website FreeMaherArar.com. You’ll find all the information you need there,” I told them.

  Engaging the students in dialogue had lifte
d me out of the doldrums. As we left the hall, I thanked Bill for the opportunity to talk about Maher’s case and about the threat to our freedom, then went off in the darkness to find my car. This time I walked above ground; the cold wind was better than the underground corridors.

  The next day, to my surprise, Marlene Catterall called. She told me she was preparing to go to Syria with Sarkis Assadourian, one of her Liberal MP colleagues, an Armenian of Syrian origin. For a moment, I was speechless. Then it hit me. In November, I’d read an article about Canada-Syria trade in fields such as petroleum, gas, communications, and lumber. It quoted the commercial attaché at the Canadian Embassy in Syria as looking forward to a visit to Damascus by a Canadian trade delegation in May 2003 (“Canada projects future business co-operation with Syria,” Syrialive.net, November 15, 2002). The article had startled me. My husband was in prison in Syria, and meanwhile here was Canada, doing business with his jailers. I caught the scent of betrayal. That same day I called Marlene and shared my frustration with her. To my surprise, her first words were:

  “If there’s a delegation, I’ll be part of it.”

  Her reaction had taken me aback. As far as I was concerned, we should be boycotting Syria, not trading with it. But Marlene had seen it as an opportunity to let the Syrians know just how important Maher was to us.

  Our discussion had ended there. Marlene had said no more and I thought the whole thing had been shelved – until her call. The planned trip to Syria had resurfaced. The details were scanty, but it was clear that the sole reason for her going was Maher. Finally, I began to understand that it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Knowing that she would be meeting Maher gave me something to look forward to. It wasn’t long before I was imagining that soon I would see Maher, that Marlene would bring him back with her, as a surprise. Everything around me suddenly seemed fresh and new and full of hope. I stepped out onto the balcony. There was still a wintry nip in the air, but I could see a few early buds on the trees; spring could not be far away. I prayed to God that my nightmare would end, that we could begin to live a normal life again.

  The delegation was to leave on March 24, which gave me a few days to write a letter for Marlene to deliver. Barâa drew a picture for her father, and I picked out some recent photos of the children. I stuffed everything in a big envelope and dropped it off at Marlene’s office on Carling Avenue.

  Ottawa, Monday March 24, 2003.

  Dear Maher,

  It is now almost six months since the last time I saw you. I still remember the day you kissed Barâa, Houd and me before going to the airport, expecting to see us again soon. Our lives have turned upside down since then. Every day I live in hope of seeing you again and seeing our dear family forever reunited here in Ottawa. But as I keep repeating in my letters, be patient and one day Justice will be done to you. It’s springtime here, the weather is milder all the time. Barâa talks about you a lot. You know, she has happy memories of the good times we had together when you took us to the park or the playground. Even she believes that she is going to see you again soon. And you know what, Houd started walking two days ago. He still falls down but he stands all alone and walks. I have sent you their photos. Don’t give up hope, be sure that I am doing and will do all in my power to see you back safe and sound with us. Here is where your place is, near your children, your wife and your family. We love you very much. Hold on tight. Monia, Barâa and Houd.

  In the meantime, Ahmed’s wife, Racha, and I had planned to take the children to a sugar shack. Off we went, with her two sons, age three and four, along with Houd, Barâa, and my mother. Our destination was the pretty village of Pakenham, west of Ottawa. The children were delighted to be with their friends. No sooner had we arrived than they ran off to inspect the rusty old agricultural machines that had been left on the farm. Big brown patches of mud were starting to appear, contrasting with the sparkling white of the snow. The smell of maple syrup was rising from the big boilers where the sap was simmering. I bought Houd a stick of maple candy, which he sucked peacefully while he watched the other children at play.

  Soon it was time for the sleigh ride. Drawn by two hefty draft horses, the sleigh swayed from side to side and the children laughed as it moved through the forest. All we could hear was the sound of the horses’ hooves sinking into the soft snow and the children’s laughter. As the sun shone onto my face, I savoured the moment. Everybody was light-hearted; spring was in the air, a scent of renewal, but a part of me was still in mourning; I was afraid I would never see Maher again. In silence, I admired the beauty of the majestic maple trees.

  I wanted to speak with Marlene before she left for Syria, and I wanted Ahmed to be there with me. He believed, as I did, that the Syrians should be told in no uncertain terms that Canada wanted Maher back. “Marlene has to understand that,” he said. I wanted his voice added to mine to make sure the message got across.

  We were to meet at Marlene’s parliamentary office. Gar Pardy would be present, and I had let him know that Ahmed would be present, which he accepted cheerfully. When I reached Marlene’s office after clearing parliamentary security, Mr. Pardy was already there with another official whom I hadn’t met. His ID badge indicated that he was from the Department of Foreign Affairs. Ahmed had not yet arrived. Sarkis Assadourian was already sitting at the table, and Marlene was speaking on the telephone in another room. There was a glum look on everybody’s face. After the usual pleasantries, Mr. Pardy announced laconically: “The trip to Syria has been cancelled. Our MPs have not been issued visas for Syria. The war in Iraq has complicated things. I’m awfully sorry …”

  I thought my heart would stop beating. For a second, I thought it was all a joke. But it was no joke. Someone, somewhere, must have pulled strings to prevent the delegation from reaching its destination, but I didn’t dare say what was on my mind. As Marlene was ending her call, Ahmed arrived and I told him the news. I could see the disappointment on his face, but he recovered quickly. Addressing all those present, he said: “Canada must continue to insist that Syria return Maher. They have to understand that his return to Canada is an important issue!”

  Unfortunately, our hosts had already begun to think of other things.

  I fought back my tears; the last thing I wanted was to cry in front of these very important people. Once again, I’d let myself be carried away by the hope of seeing Maher again. I was ashamed of my stupidity, ashamed of myself. The meeting ended abruptly and I went home and shut myself in the bedroom.

  We would be moving into the new apartment on the last day of the month; I was packing our belongings into cardboard boxes. Every thing could be moved by car except for a few big pieces of furniture and the freezer, for which we would need a van. My mother called one of her friends who had a small van; she agreed to help us when we were ready.

  Preparing for the move brought back memories.

  When my parents married, they lived in a small apartment that my father owned in a nearby Tunis suburb where many middle-class families were beginning to settle. The neighbourhood was just becoming fashionable. At the time, the government was contemplating building a large sports complex there for the 1967 Mediterranean Games. The building we lived in was called Le Caroubier, after the heat-resistant tree that grows widely in Tunisia and throughout the entire Mediterranean area. Carob beans, the fruit of that tree, are now used as a substitute for chocolate, something I only learned years later in natural food shops in Canada.

  When I was born, five years after my brother, what was already a cramped apartment in that neighbourhood became outright tiny. My father decided to sell it and move the family to a roomier one, with three bedrooms and a large balcony overlooking the Rue Maillot, in the section of Tunis called Le Belvédère. I can still remember the place, where we spent ten years of our lives.

  My brother and I attended private schools. Mne was called École Jeanne d’Arc, and in those days was still run by the Sisters of Saint Joseph. Some of our teachers – all women – were Arab and o
thers were French. A few of the nuns still taught piano or French, but most worked in the school administration. Instruction was in both languages. The school was a large, two-storey building with a dormitory for the nuns and a canteen in the basement for the girls who ate lunch at school, like me.

  Being a civil servant, my father was not rich. But he insisted that we have a good education. He spent nearly half his monthly salary on school fees, the rest on rent and food; at month’s end he would have to ask for an advance on his next month’s salary to make ends meet.

  When I came home I would have a quick snack, then hurry downstairs to play with Najoua, the caretaker’s daughter, who was my age and went to the neighbourhood public school. We played hide and seek, hopscotch, and skipped rope while the boys played soccer or marbles. The streets were quiet in those days; Tunis had not yet been invaded by the automobile.

  In the summer of 1978, my father bought a small house with a garden in a new district, called El Menzah 6, which was just being developed. That was the only move I remember from my childhood in Tunis; how happy I was that day to see the moving truck pull up in front of our building. But what I remember best about it was a minor mishap. It was summer and I was wearing wooden clogs at the time. Somehow my foot twisted and I fell to the sidewalk, cutting myself above the eyebrow. At the sight of blood, my friends ran off to call for help, more from alarm than any real danger. At the corner pharmacy, the pharmacist cleaned the wound with alcohol and put a small bandage over it.