Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  At Houd’s age, Barâa had begun to call her father “ba-ba-ba,” but Houd couldn’t even remember him. Barâa would talk about him, but only occasionally. She would look at our old photos, talk about her memories, and often in the evening she would tell me how much she missed her Baba. And I would comfort her, hold her tight in my arms, and tell her that one day he would be with us, while deep down I prayed that my wishes would be granted.

  MID-JUNE 2003. A few days after the meeting with Bill Graham, as I was working at the computer, someone knocked on the door. I was startled. Surprise visits were a rarity; generally I knew who was coming. I opened the door; it was the letter carrier. With one hand he gave me a letter and with the other a pen to sign as proof of receipt. It was from the Privy Council of Canada. I’d never sent them a letter; what did the Privy Council want from me? My heart had begun to beat faster as I tore open the outer envelope; inside was a white envelope with the seal of the Prime Minister’s Office in gilt embossed letters. I opened it in turn: inside was a two-page letter from Prime Minister Jean Chrétien.

  Finally, almost nine months after Maher had been detained, the prime minister of Canada had finally deigned to recognize me. I read the letter again and again; it contained words of happiness and words of sadness. Words that made me feel pessimistic, and words that almost made me jump for joy. Mr. Chrétien repeated what the Syrian authorities had told Mr. Pardy: that Maher had received military training at a camp in Afghanistan. But he also assured me that Canada would continue to do all it could to bring Maher back to Canada. His last words made me happy. For the first time, it was as if a strong, sure hand stretched toward me. But the remark about military training in Afghanistan worried me. Where had that allegation come from? Why was Canada telling me that the Syrians had provided them the information? Why did they believe them and not me, when I’d been telling them all along that my husband was innocent, that he was not a member of al-Qaeda? All this by way of saying that the prime minister’s letter, the one I’d been expecting for months, had a mixed effect. It was clear that the accusation of terrorism would not go away; I had no idea how we would ever be able to put it behind us.

  Alexa McDonough called to see how things were going. As always, I felt that her concern was genuine. Though she was no longer party leader, she had become the NDP Foreign Affairs critic, so it was quite normal that she should take an interest in Maher’s case, in addition to her initial and ongoing concern for our situation. She had heard of Marlene Catterall’s trip to Syria, and the news that Maher was to be tried by a military tribunal. But we hadn’t spoken for some time, so I took the opportunity to tell her about my new supporters. Halfway through our conversation, Alexa told me that a person she could not name wanted to meet me in her office, and encouraged me to come. It was clear that I’d entered a world where mystery and secrecy had become part of daily life.

  We would meet in Alexa’s office in the Parliament Buildings.

  It was summer and Ottawa was swarming with tourists; the lineup was long and getting longer by the minute. As I waited my turn, I observed the happy, carefree crowd inching its way forward to get a look at Parliament. People were laughing, bantering; no one even bothered to wonder what I was doing there, silent and alone. When I got to Alexa’s office, she was waiting for me, gave me a hug, and showed me into her study. Seated there was a woman I’d never seen before. She smiled, held out her hand.

  “Monia, I’d like you to meet Senator Mobina Jaffer,” said Alexa. “Mobina has been hoping to meet you for some time now. I hope she can help you.”

  I’d heard vaguely of Mobina Jaffer, a Liberal senator appointed by Jean Chrétien. The three of us sat down around a table in Alexa’s spacious, sunny office. I gave Senator Jaffer a detailed account of Maher’s case, and clarified several points for her, including the prime minister’s letter, while she took notes. She made no great promises but assured me she would do her best to help. That was enough for me; any additional support was most welcome. The flow of support seemed to be moving faster now, and deep in my heart I prayed that it wouldn’t stop. After the senator had left, I stayed on for a few minutes with Alexa.

  “I’m happy she came,” Alexa said. “We don’t want partisan politics, and Senator Jaffer will be a precious ally on Maher’s case.”

  My social life was very rudimentary. We saw Ahmed and Racha and their children regularly, but most of the time my mother and the children and I lived pretty reclusively. Many of our old friends didn’t seem to be speaking to us any more; perhaps they were afraid, or perhaps it was just that our phone number had changed and they couldn’t reach us. Part of it was my own making; I didn’t have time to have guests and go visiting, and besides, I’d always liked the peace and quiet of being alone and avoiding big family gatherings. What had happened to Maher made some people curious, confused, embarrassed, or pitying, which, however genuine, I found hard to take. Sighs and teary eyes almost made me ill. Better to stay home by myself, or go out with the children for a change of scene.

  The previous fall I’d met Hanen through a mutual friend; she later introduced me to her husband, Issam. Over time, the two became regular visitors. Their stories of newcomers trying to fit in reminded me of our own early days in Canada. They were quite familiar with our situation; Issam had made some effort to help me find work, which I hadn’t been able to do thus far. I could sense their compassion, their willingness to help.

  June was almost over; it wouldn’t be long before summer vacation began. In a few weeks, Barâa would be at home along with Houd. I would no longer have to walk Barâa to and from school, but I was a bit apprehensive at the prospect of looking after both children the whole day, calming one down and cajoling the other, or asking Barâa to be more patient with her little brother. For all my motherly concerns, which were probably excessive, I was looking forward to the summer months.

  People in Canada naturally assume that since I was born in a warm country I prefer summer to winter; but that would be like claiming that all Canadians love the winter! In Tunisia, I actually detested the summer months. When I was four or five years old, my father would rent a little house in Marsa or Kram, seaside villages not far from Tunis. Often, we would only be a few hundred metres from the beach, where my mother would take us daily and we would spend the entire day. My father would take the commuter train to work in the morning, and in the afternoon when offices closed he would join us. During the week only the locals would come to swim, take the sun, or play ball. There were always plenty of children our age to play with, while the adults stayed under their beach umbrellas. Strolling vendors would sell roasted peanuts in little cones made from old newspapers. Those tall, skinny vendors, with their dark, almost black skins, were from Tataouine, a southern Tunisian town in the desert, where there wasn’t much work. They would spend their summers trudging up and down the hot sand for kilometres on end, trying to save a pittance selling almonds, peanuts, or sunflower seeds.

  On weekends we’d stay at home; the beaches would be flooded with waves of humanity pouring out of packed buses and railway cars; there were men, sometimes carrying fat green watermelons under their arms, women and children with their beach buckets, everyone escaping the stifling heat of Tunis for the cooling waters of the Mediterranean.

  A few years later, my father couldn’t afford the rent for a seaside bungalow and we would spend the entire summer at home. He never owned a car; he would send us to the beach by commuter train or taxi. Occasionally, one of his friends would take us by car to a beach a bit farther away where we would spend the whole day. But most of the time I was bored silly. I read my way through book after book, and waited for September, when school would start up and I’d see all my friends again. All things considered, summer in Canada was better: the weather wasn’t too hot, the lakeside beaches weren’t packed elbow to elbow with people. Sure, I missed the sight and the smell and the feel of the sea, but I learned to do fine with a lot of other childhood memories, and missing the sea didn’
t bother me all that much.

  LATE JUNE. Issam and Hanen dropped by for a visit. She was expecting her first child, and was soon to give birth. She would have to give up her job teaching French at a language school for adults; how would I like to take over for her during her maternity leave? she asked.

  “You mean I would be teaching French?” I said, startled.

  “Yes. I’ve already put in a word with the principal. If you’re interested, let me take her your resumé and she’ll get in touch with you.”

  I’d given up looking for work months ago. Not one of my applications had even been answered. The monthly welfare cheque covered our basic needs.

  If I went back to work now, my routine would be thrown off, the welfare cheques would stop coming, and I might not have enough time to help Maher. But there were plenty of advantages as well, especially getting rid of the embarrassment of being on welfare. And at least I’d have an opportunity to use my education. I promised Hanen I would send her the resumé.

  But first I had to talk to my social worker, which I did the very next day. She explained that I was entitled to work a certain number of hours per week and still draw financial assistance. Her answer reassured me; I could take a job and continue to receive my welfare cheques because my income would not be very much. I might be away from the children for most of the day, but at the same time I’d be rubbing shoulders with new people and getting some satisfaction from teaching others a new language. I began to feel better. All things considered, going back to work would be a good idea.

  A few days later a call came from Marissa, the principal of Hanen’s school. I explained my financial situation, and she offered me a part-time teaching position, to begin in the coming weeks. I accepted her offer on the spot. True enough, it wasn’t a job that matched my real qualifications, but like just about everything else, it was better than nothing. My Ph.D. in finance, my knowledge of econometrics, the sleepless nights spent mastering the sophisticated models used to evaluate financial derivatives such as options and futures, was none of it to be of any use at all? Women working in these fields were few and far between. Several of my colleagues from the doctoral program (where I had been one of the two women in the class) were now working in the top universities or in major international institutions such as the World Bank.

  And here I was, almost twiddling my thumbs. Every month I waited impatiently for my welfare cheque, worried that I wouldn’t be able to pay the rent. I wrote letters to the prime minister and dreamed of once again seeing my terrorist-suspect husband who’d been thrown into a Syrian prison. The prospect of teaching French gave my morale a boost, but in truth, I was still in a deep pit, with no idea how and when I might eventually get out.

  — 6 —

  TORTURE AND LIES

  Bring my father home …

  EARLY JULY. CBC journalist Lawrence Morton called. He worked for Disclosure, a television program that probed behind the headlines of intriguing stories, seeking an often elusive truth. The show was planning a report on Maher’s story, but the project was still in an embryonic stage. Lawrence asked if I had heard that an American journalist was writing an article about the case.

  “What’s his name,” I asked.

  “Seymour Hersh.”

  “I’ve never heard of him. Do you have any idea what he’s saying in his article?”

  Lawrence wouldn’t say any more. But it was clear that someone had handed him the information and I would soon know all about it. When the conversation was over, I sat down at my computer and did a search on Seymour Hersh. He was a highly respected American journalist, a Pulitzer Prize winner specialized in investigative reports on military and security matters. What would he say about Maher? I wondered.

  As the days went by, I forgot about Seymour Hersh. The children were now at home all day. We would often go to Westboro Beach on the Ottawa River, not far from home. Barâa was like a fish, diving into the cold water and coming back up with a proud smile on her face. Houd was more cautious; he was curious about the water but didn’t dare venture into it. As a practising Muslim, I couldn’t bathe in public, so I would wear a light skirt and walk with Houd at the water’s edge, trying to persuade him to go into the water. But he preferred to play in the sand with his buckets and shovels and cups.

  The prime minister’s letter had not made me forget the promise his minister of Foreign Affairs, Bill Graham, had made me when we met, about writing a letter to his Syrian counterpart, including a statement that Maher was not involved in terrorism in Canada. Since my conversation with Myra about Mr. Lavertu’s visit to Syria, I no longer felt like talking to her or Mr. Pardy. From now on I would devote all my energy to making my own contacts, to gathering more support, and without any high hopes let Mr. Pardy go about his job. I felt like a bird growing up and wanting to fly on its own.

  The next day, I called Robert Fry, Bill Graham’s secretary, who had been at my meeting with the minister and had given me his business card. He was not available, but left me a message that the letter project had fallen through. Clearly the minister had been unable to persuade all the government departments to adopt a common position toward the Syrians. But now Mr. Fry had gone even further: the Canadian security agencies, he said, were even opposed to such efforts because they had more questions than before about Maher. His message hit me like a slap in the face. I sat there stunned in front of my computer. But instead of replying right away I pulled out Jean Chrétien’s letter and reread it several times over. The prime minister of Canada had assured me that Canada would spare no effort to bring Maher back, yet at the same time, Mr. Fry’s message told me that “certain persons” in “certain agencies” were not working to this end. Mr. Pardy’s words in his email of June 12 came rushing back into my head. How frustrating it must have been to see his efforts come to nothing each time he tried a new approach to bringing Maher home! Strangely, for the first time, I almost felt sympathy for Mr. Pardy

  JULY 7, 2003. I told Kerry Pither and Alex Neve about the failure of the letter plan. Since Kerry and I had begun working together, we often talked to Alex, who was still working for Amnesty International but was spending more and more time on Maher’s file. He never hesitated to give us advice or opinions and kept writing letters to government departments requesting that they take action on the case. We would meet in Amnesty’s big conference room and discuss short-and long-term strategy. In the beginning, I had been working alone with the help of a few friends; now there was a structure taking shape around me. The list of people helping and advising us kept getting longer. Kerry had introduced me to Marion Dewar, the former mayor of Ottawa, who was retired but still active, dynamic, and eager to lend her energy to causes dear to her. Bill Skidmore, from Carleton University, would also join us and give us his opinion. Surprisingly and unexpectedly, we had become a small, functioning organization. Kerry and I communicated by phone or email; she reread my letters and contacted journalists; she was my right hand.

  But even this was not enough. Ours was an uphill struggle, and we needed a lot of support. Kerry wanted to get more non-governmental organizations working with us, as well as individuals, to convince the government that Maher Arar must be brought home. So we drafted a letter, to be co-signed by human rights organizations, unions, and other NGOs – the broadest possible representation of signatories – requesting a meeting with the American ambassador to Canada, Mr. Paul Cellucci. Alex wrote the letter and sent it in the name of Amnesty International with all the other signatories supporting Amnesty’s request. I remembered well my disappointment over the letter I had written myself to the ambassador, but I had all but forgotten the reply. Now I had friends supporting me; I felt stronger, and more confident.

  JULY 14, 2003. It was hot that summer; one heat wave followed the other in quick succession. By the end of the day, our apartment was like an oven. I would open the balcony door and sit at the dining room table, trying to catch a cool breeze. The caretaker of our building often watered the lawn with an os
cillating sprinkler that sent little droplets of water flying to one side and then the other. Our balcony directly overlooked the lawn, and Barâa and Houd always wanted to jump over the railing to go and play under the sprinkler. Sometimes other children would come to play in the spray until the caretaker spotted them and moved his sprinkler or just shut off the water.

  I was woolgathering over things like this late one afternoon when the telephone rang. It was Marlene. I was surprised to hear from her at this hour; she usually called during the day. After the usual greetings, she said, “Monia, I have some important news for you.” My heart was beating a mile a minute. What can it be now? I wondered. She continued.

  “Senator Pierre de Bané, Mr. Chrétien’s special envoy, will soon be travelling to the Middle East. He is scheduled to meet with the president of Syria. He will raise the question of Maher’s case and give the president a letter from Mr. Chrétien. As yet there’s no confirmation of this meeting, but I hope it will happen.” The blood pounded in my temples; what was I going to do with this news? I thanked Marlene for the information.