by Monia Mazigh
Almost twenty years later, I was about to move house again, this time far from Tunisia – in Ottawa, and without the least fear or anxiety. On the contrary, I was happy to be able to live in a bigger place with my mother and the children, even if I knew things would be strained financially.
A few days after the move, Gar Pardy’s assistant, Myra, called. Usually, her tone of voice was neutral, but this time she sounded happy.
“I’ve got good news for you,” she exclaimed.
Every time I heard the words good news, my heart would start pounding, thinking of Maher of course. Were they going to see him at last? I wondered. Or maybe even send him back to Canada?
She went on: “I’ve just received confirmation from our consulate in New York. You’ll soon be getting a cheque for two hundred dollars in the mail.”
Flabbergasted, I didn’t know what to say. But I quickly snapped out of it and thanked Myra for following up on a point of principle we’d been insisting on. Within a week, there was the cheque in my mailbox. The money that Ahmed had sent on my behalf for Maher to use to make long-distance calls from his New York prison – something he’d never been authorized to do – came back to me six months later.
Two months had gone by since the last vigil. There simply hadn’t been time to organize another one, what with looking after the children and keeping on top of Maher’s case. The two meetings in front of the Eternal Flame had been, for me, like a window opening, like a breath of fresh air that brought me the courage I needed to ask for help. But finally the vigils came to stop just as they had begun: quietly.
EARLY APRIL. We were settling into the new apartment. Barâa and Houd shared one bedroom, the other bedroom was mine. In addition to holding the big futon, where I slept, the room did double-duty as my office. My mother slept in the living room. We were all happy with our new arrangements; the apartment was sunny and clean and it wasn’t long before we felt right at home.
The cancelled trip to Syria was still weighing on my mind. I was fuming at Marlene and at Gar Pardy, as if they were somehow responsible for the setback. Enough false hopes were enough. I felt like writing to Mr. Pardy to tell him just how disappointed and frustrated I felt. Maybe I was being mean, but I wanted to force him to explain himself. Still, I hung back. Finally, I made up my mind to send him an email in which I said that by turning down the request for visas from our MPs, Syria had humiliated Canada; clearly it was the stronger of the two countries.
I had no idea how he might react. In fact, I didn’t expect him to take me seriously, but I had misjudged Mr. Pardy. Several days later he sent me a long reply that stopped me in my tracks. To this day, I can’t tell if he, a career diplomat, had thought his message through before sending it or if he had just dashed it off. For in it, he revealed things that I, the wife of Maher Arar, should not have known. Whatever the case, I shall always be grateful to him for opening my eyes – inadvertently or not – to a reality that I had suspected but for which, until then, I had no proof.
April 12, 2003
Ms. Mazigh,
I do not agree with your analysis of the relationship between Syria and Canada, or Syria and any other country on this subject. A major part of the problem here is that not everyone within the Canadian government is in agreement with what we are doing to support Maher’s cause. The Syrians are well aware of this situation and without any doubt this influences their willingness to cooperate.
(…)
Gar Pardy
I read the message a good dozen times over. So Mr. Pardy’s hands were tied because he didn’t have the backing of “everyone in the government.” But who was opposed to Maher’s return? Was it the police? Was it the secret service? American sympathizers within the government? Who? I was at a total loss. The situation reminded me of a set of Russian dolls, each one nested inside the other. Mr. Pardy’s words had not only made a lot of things clear, they had also opened the door to another series of questions I was not finding answers to.
What possible use could I make of the head of Consular Affairs’ “admission”? Leaking it to the press was out of the question. After all, it was personal correspondence between Mr. Pardy and me; I couldn’t abuse his confidence by leaking it to journalists. I decided to send the message on to Ahmed. He couldn’t believe his eyes either.
“Perhaps by ‘government,’ Mr. Pardy meant the Conservative opposition,” he said.
I smiled bitterly, remembering the vicious falsehoods uttered by Diane Ablonczy, a Canadian Alliance MP (Calgary-Nose Hill), in November 2002:
“Mr. Speaker, it is time the Liberals told the truth: that their system of screening and security checks is pathetic. Arar was given dual Syrian and Canadian citizenship by the government. It did not pick up on his terrorist links and the U.S. had to clue in. How is it that the U.S. could uncover this man’s background so quickly when the government’s screening system failed to find his al-Qaeda links?” (The Edited Hansard, Monday November 18, 2002).
“No, no,” I said to Ahmed. “‘The government’ means all the departments concerned with Maher’s case. If it’s what you think it is, why wouldn’t he just have said ‘the opposition’? Why did he say ‘the government’?” I was emphasizing the word government. Ahmed was now convinced that Mr. Pardy was trying to clear himself of blame and impress me with all he was doing to win agreement between the various elements of government.
Later in the same email, Mr. Pardy informed me that Marlene Catterall and Sarkis Assadourian would soon be travelling to Syria. I was astounded; nothing seemed to make sense any more. Still, I dashed off an angry letter to Marlene, saying, “Today I feel that my husband has been betrayed by his own country.”
Marlene and Sarkis Assadourian were scheduled to travel to Syria on April 22 and 23, 2003. Marlene herself telephoned me to say that they had finally obtained visas for Damascus and in a few days she would be able to see Maher in person. Now my despair changed instantly to joy. I counted the days and nights. Images spun round and round in my mind. I imagined Marlene’s voice telling me that Maher would be set free; I imagined Maher, Marlene, and Sarkis sitting together, talking. Maher would be smiling, motioning as if to say “see you soon!” I was now in a state of constant expectation. This time, there were no limits to my hope.
Ottawa, April 18 2003.
Dear Maher,
Seven months have passed. Seven months of loneliness, sorrow and … hope of seeing you back with me and Barâa and Houd one day. The children have got bigger and it breaks my heart to see them growing without you. But keep up your courage, I’m sure they’ll see you again and will be proud of their papa. Never will I accept the injustice done to you, and I will do all it takes for you. You are not alone but always in my thoughts every moment of my life and I promise you it’s true. Barâa is good at school, she’s making a lot of progress in reading and writing. Houd is walking better and better, he’s very cute, still stubborn the way you know him, but adorable with his winning smile. I hope you’ll come back to Canada and together we’ll be able to put this terrible nightmare behind us. We all send you a big hug.
Monia, Barâa and Houd.
APRIL 24, 2003. When I called Gar Pardy to find out how the trip had gone, he was tight-lipped.
“Marlene would like to speak to you personally, I was to tell you that,” he replied. Mr. Pardy could be talkative, but that day the conversation came to an abrupt halt; I could get no more out of him. I didn’t know what to make of his attitude; it certainly didn’t seem promising.
When I went to meet Marlene in her riding office on Carling Street, I asked Nazira Tareen of the Ottawa Muslim Women’s Organization and my brother-in-law Bassam to go with me. Marlene had a downcast look on her face as she described the visit.
“Everything happened so fast. Sarkis and I were with the Canadian ambassador to Syria when the Syrian authorities advised us that they were ready to take us to see Maher. We accepted at once and set off. I had no idea where we were; they took us from place to pl
ace. Finally as we were standing in a room talking, I saw Maher coming toward us; he seemed confused and disoriented. When he saw us, he realized we were a Canadian delegation, and that we’d come to visit him. I told him my name and that I was his MP, I told him about you and the children, about how fast they were growing.” She seemed touched, and stopped for a moment. “Maher was shaken; he stood there and cried, and when I handed him the photo of the children he cried even more. It was heartbreaking. I started to cry with him.”
Marlene wiped a tear from her cheek with a trembling hand.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “It was unbearable. A political attaché from the embassy suggested that Maher might dictate a letter for you and started to write at once.”
I gave the piece of paper she handed me a quick glance; the writing was untidy and hurried. I wanted to read the letter later, alone, so I stuffed it into my purse.
“Did the Syrians say whether they might release him?” I asked Marlene.
She shook her head. “The Syrian agents I talked to were totally intransigent. They kept insisting that they were going to try him before a military tribunal for membership in al-Qaeda.”
I was stunned. What did al-Qaeda have to do with it? Mr. Pardy had told me earlier that Maher was suspected of membership in the Muslim Brotherhood. The organization was a real political threat to the Ba’athist regime of Hafez al-Assad, who died in June 2000, and of his son Bashar, who succeeded him. Being a member was a capital crime. But whether it was al-Qaeda or the Muslim Brotherhood, Maher’s situation was getting worse. There was nothing we could do, Marlene said. As far as the Syrians were concerned, Maher was one of theirs and they could do with him whatever they pleased.
My blood started to boil. I was sorry the mission had even taken place, and that Marlene had gone. Bassam started explaining to her about torture in Syria and the cruelty of the notorious secret police, the Mukhabarat. I was feeling sick to my stomach and asked Bassam to take me home.
If Maher was going to be tried by a Syrian military tribunal, I knew I might not see him again for years. I just couldn’t believe that our life, mine and Maher’s, could have changed so dramatically. When I married Maher, I never for a fraction of a second doubted his honesty and goodness; I knew just as certainly now that he was no terrorist. I would not let him down, but every day new obstacles were springing up. Every day he spent in Syria, far from his family and friends, complicated my mission.
APRIL 28, 2003. Ever since the Time article, I’d given up knocking on American doors. Admittedly, I didn’t have the time to take on both the Canadian and American governments. What could I hope to achieve in a country where I knew neither politicians nor officials, where I was not even a citizen? It made much more sense for me to concentrate my efforts in Canada. But after much hesitation, I decided to write to Paul Cellucci, the American ambassador to Canada. After all, Maher had been arrested and held in New York before being sent off to Syria. I knew from the media that the ambassador was a controversial figure who tended to stick his nose into Canadian politics, so why not try to get a reaction or comment from him on Maher’s case.
Besides, the U.S. secretary of state, Colin Powell, would soon be going to Syria; I wondered if the Americans could raise the question of Maher. I was daydreaming, of course, but there was nothing to lose by trying. I was prepared to meet the ambassador and give him my version of things if he was ready to listen.
APRIL 29, 2003. Nazira Tareen had twisted my arm to attend a fundraising event she was organizing; several political figures would be there. On the way, I picked up Rose, a friend of hers. We were chatting about politics, children, and education when Rose changed the subject.
“Did you know that John Manley will be the guest of honour tonight? You should take the opportunity to approach him.”
Manley was then deputy prime minister of Canada, with special responsibility for security matters following the events of September 11, 2001.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “All I need is to find the right moment.”
The event was being held at the Lebanese Orthodox church. Its shiny copper dome was glinting in the rays of the setting sun as I parked the car and Rose and I entered the reception hall, in which hundreds of tables were set with white tablecloths. Many guests were already seated. Nazira, who was hostess for the night, wearing her customary sari, greeted us briefly. We found our places at the rear of the hall. I sat down, not knowing anyone except Rose. Our table began to fill; a lady sat down beside me and introduced herself.
“My name is Selma,” she said.
Rose explained who I was. Selma recognized Maher’s case immediately. Her smiling face put me immediately at ease.
During the meal we were treated to Indian dancing, brief presentations, and awards to local dignitaries. Finally, it was John Manley’s turn to speak, which he did without notes. I listened attentively in spite of my nervousness. As he was concluding, Selma reached over and touched my arm.
“You’ve got to catch him as soon as he finishes,” she said.
Rose, who had understood, nodded in agreement. Now Manley was cracking jokes about his days as Foreign Affairs minister; the audience was in stitches. My hands were moist and my heart was beating fast. At last I heard applause, then Nazira took the microphone and thanked him. He waved to the audience once more, then left the stage.
I moved to stand up; my tablemates Selma and Rose threw me encouraging glances. John Manley, holding his wife’s arm, was heading straight for the exit, which was just beside our table. Slowly I stepped forward and addressed him:
“Good evening, Mr. Manley, my name is Monia Mazigh. I am the wife of Maher Arar, the Canadian citizen detained in Syria. Marlene Catterall, the MP for my riding, has been to Syria. She saw my husband and discussed his case with the Syrian authorities. They told her that he would soon be tried by military tribunal. Canada has done very little for Maher Arar. I beg you, as deputy prime minister, to do something. My husband must be returned to Canada, his place is here …”
The words had come naturally, without missing a beat. Mr. Manley’s piercing blue eyes registered surprise, while his wife looked at me with a kindly expression and listened with interest. There I stood, tiny in front of two tall people; I was not about to budge. After a minute of silence, Manley said, “I promise I’ll discuss the case with Marlene and I’ll see what I can do.” Then, with the natural ease of a practised politician, perfected over time, he said goodbye and left. I thought I heard a furtively whispered “good luck” from his wife.
It wasn’t long before the event ended. All I could think of was my brief conversation with John Manley. Who knows? I thought. Maybe he’ll actually do something.
I took a deep breath. I had done what I set out to do. I had spoken to John Manley and his wife had witnessed it. Then and there I resolved to write him a letter to make sure he kept his word. Selma and Rose were waiting with anxious eyes. They had seen me speak to the minister; now they wanted to hear everything. I sat down, my face felt flushed and my eyes were wet. It took me a few moments to collect myself. As I was driving Rose home, we talked about him. I’d done the right thing in approaching him, she said. When I got to our apartment, the children were sleeping peacefully. I turned on the computer, sat down, and wrote to John Manley to remind him of his promise. When I had finished, I performed my prayers and went to bed, proud of what I’d done.
— 5 —
POLITICIANS GET INVOLVED
I could barely open my eyes, at last saw
the light of day, I was breathing again …
EARLY MAY 2003. My decision to find an apartment near a shopping centre had been a good one. It was only a few steps – and a few minutes – from all the shops. Houd could practise his walking in complete safety, Barâa and my mother could window shop to their heart’s content, and I could do last minute shopping if we were short of something. But it was springtime, and we spent more and more time in the park right next to our building, w
ith its two play areas, a small hill, and sandboxes, where Barâa and Houd loved to spend hours on end.
Over the last months, my confidence in my fellow human beings had been at a low ebb; I was overcome with sadness. The more I thought of Maher, the guiltier I felt. I slept in a warm bed, in a heated apartment, eating three meals a day; for all I knew, and feared, he was sleeping on the floor, shivering with cold, starving to death.
But recently, I was feeling a gradual change in my outlook. Life had to go on, even if Maher was not here with us, and only patience would help me surmount the obstacles that lay ahead. Perhaps I was getting used to things as they were, or perhaps my period of mourning was drawing to a close. Whatever it was, I was full of hope, and ready to face whatever might come. A sense of serenity now seemed to flow in my veins: the life force itself, perhaps. Or perhaps my faith had guided me. I’ll never know for sure. But I did know that, surrounded by my children, my mother, and a few friends, I was becoming accustomed to separation.
Since Marlene’s trip to Syria, I’d not had a word about Maher. Each morning I woke up expecting the worst even though Marlene’s news, that Maher would be tried by a military tribunal, had not been confirmed. Anything could happen.
My letters to Paul Cellucci, the U.S. ambassador to Canada, and to John Manley had gone unanswered. Nothing had come of my letter to Prime Minister Jean Chrétien, the one Alexa had left on his desk in the House of Commons; I’d received a note from his director of communications made up of the usual polite formulas that said very little. Fortunately our website, FreeMaherArar.com, kept me busy and brought me new hope every day. Messages of support kept coming in. It was as if hundreds of people who didn’t even know one another had set up a support network for Maher and me.
A few days earlier, Riad Saloojee had let me know that Jeff Sallot, a reporter for the Globe and Mail, was working on an article about RCMP and intelligence service involvement in Maher’s case. Riad also told me that a colleague of his had met Paul Cellucci at a reception and had asked him just where the Americans stood. The ambassador’s answer was that the Canadian authorities had wanted Maher deported, which put the ball in Canada’s court. The more pieces I gathered, the more unlikely it seemed that I could ever solve what had become a monster puzzle.