Hope and Despair

by Monia Mazigh

  But there was a new element: the embassy now recognized the full responsibility of its government in the decision to arrest Maher and deport him; the Canadian government had played no role in those events, they claimed. That, at least, cleared the air: there had been an admission of responsibility. But that was of no help to Maher.

  There I was, alone at home, drafting a French text for my new student. Barâa was at school while my mother had taken Houd to the shopping centre to buy him a pair of running shoes: it was about time, as he’d begun to run by now. The phone rang. It was Anthony, Alexa McDonough’s assistant. Alexa was now the NDP International Development critic and a member of the House of Commons Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs and International Development. Anthony told me that I would soon be receiving an invitation to testify before the committee about Maher’s case. The words popped out spontaneously: “I can hardly believe my ears!”

  “Alexa has already talked to almost all the committee members. They’re all in agreement. So you should be receiving an official invitation from the Clerk’s office.”

  Of course I had no way of knowing what the committee members would think, but I was more than pleased to hear the news. Especially since others would also be invited to testify, including, so Anthony believed, civil servants from Foreign Affairs and high-ranking RCMP officers. If nothing else, this indicated that things were moving inside the government. Could it possibly be shaking itself out of its lethargy? I quickly called Kerry, who saw it as a positive development.

  At the time, Kerry and I were working to put together a pamphlet to distribute at our upcoming public events. We agreed that it should contain an update on Maher’s situation in Syria, along with a list of the things people could do to aid his cause, such as writing to the prime minister to insist that he intervene in person with the Syrian president to stop the Supreme State Security Court trial. We wanted to give all our sympathizers ideas and advice on how to help defend Maher.

  Meanwhile, I was in regular contact with Haythem al-Maleh; every time we spoke, I would ask him if he’d been able to meet Maher, or even consult his file. And each time the response was the same, in a tone of bitter resignation: “I can’t do a thing.”

  No solution seemed to be in sight, no way of cutting through that monstrous knot. But I was still not convinced that the wretched trial would ever be held in the first place.

  SEPTEMBER 18, 2003. Today Anthony told me over the phone that it was being said that some members of the Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs were not in agreement with having me testify. And since the committee clerk had not yet officially invited me, I was afraid the whole thing had fallen through. It was all I could do to keep from pushing the panic button, which over time I’d developed a tendency to do.

  Kerry and I were to meet at her house that day before going on to a meeting at Amnesty International. I adored Kerry’s house; it had a particular charm about it, and I felt safer there than anywhere else. Maybe it was the massive exposed wooden beams that reminded me of the mosques I used to attend with my father when I was a little girl. Or maybe it was the calm that seemed to emanate from the old walls that created a sense of peace and calm. I took a seat in the living room and waited there, enjoying the silence, while Kerry was making final preparations upstairs.

  I closed my eyes: I was tired, sad, and feeling all alone. I saw Ahmed and Racha rarely now; I knew they cared for me and prayed for me, but Ahmed had gone into business for himself, and his life had become more complicated. Hanen and Issam’s baby had arrived, and they were caught up with looking after the new arrival. More than ever, I was left still thinking I could do it all alone, along with my mother and the children. Solitude was weighing more heavily these days. When I’d heard that the Foreign Affairs Committee would hear my testimony, I’d forgotten my troubles; for several days my spirits had soared. But Anthony’s most recent call had dashed my hopes once again.

  There stood Kerry in front of me, brushing her hair. I told her Anthony’s latest news. She stopped and looked at me. I don’t know what happened at that instant, but I began to weep. I had never cried in front of her, out of modesty perhaps, or perhaps because I simply hadn’t felt it. But this time it swept over me, and I couldn’t stop. Sobbing, I blurted out: “I’m at my wits’ end. There’s nothing to be done. They don’t even want me to testify before the committee. Why is everyone against me?”

  The tears just wouldn’t stop. Kerry was at a loss. She handed me some tissues; I dried my tears and blew my nose. She did everything she could to console me: “Everything is going to be all right, you’ll see.”

  I wanted to apologize. “I don’t know what came over me, but suddenly I felt so powerless! I’ve got to prepare myself never to see Maher again.”

  For a moment longer I remained seated, with Kerry sitting beside me now. Then I got up: “I’m going to wash my face.”

  Later in the day, when I thought back to that incident, I was still shaken by that powerful surge of emotion. Finally I was beginning to understand the stress I was under, and how little it took for it to come to the surface and break through the protective shell of coolness that I’d built up around me.

  SEPTEMBER 25, 2003. The meeting of the Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs was confirmed. At last, I would be able to testify before the politicians. By some unbelievable fluke, the meeting would be taking place on the anniversary of Maher’s arrest. Call it coincidence!

  I’d written out my testimony, but my stomach was churning. After picking up Kerry at her house, I parked in the underground garage at the World Exchange Plaza, a few steps away from Parliament Hill, where the committee would be meeting. Just as Kerry and I were climbing the steps to the Parliament Buildings, a car with tinted windows stopped close to us, the uniformed driver got out and ran around to open the rear door; a man got out. It must be Richard Proulx, I thought, the assistant commissioner of the RCMP Criminal Intelligence Directorate, who was scheduled to testify as well.

  We entered the hearing room in the West Block where the committee was sitting. I recognized some of the MPs present: Alexa McDonough, Marlene Catterall, and Irwin Cotler, but many of them were unknown to me. There were also many journalists on hand. Richard Proulx (it had been he) spoke first. He refused to answer several questions from the MPs, irritating them in the process. His behaviour gave the impression that he had something to hide. Then came Irwin Cotler, who was wearing two hats: that of a sitting MP and that of a lawyer active in support of Maher’s cause.

  His presentation consisted primarily of the arguments he had already made publicly in his Globe and Mail article. But he also underlined the legal errors that had already been made, and insisted that Canada could correct them. From my seat, I could see the journalists taking notes. Soon it would be my turn, and my heart was beating rapidly. I prayed for courage, and when my time finally came, I began to read my prepared text in a calm voice:

  Ladies and gentlemen,

  First of all, I would like to thank you and all the members of this committee for giving me this opportunity to come and talk about what I have been through with my two children and all the family since September 25 of last year.

  Today it’s exactly one year since I saw my husband for the last time. I’ve never seen him, I never talk to him, and my 6-year old daughter Barâa, who goes to grade 2 this year, has never been seen by him at school. My 19-month-old baby son hasn’t seen his father for one year; he was only 7 months when he saw his father for the last time. Now he’s a baby of 19 months, he walks, he runs, he’s even started talking, but he doesn’t know his father.

  Let me tell you, it has been 12 months of sorrow, 12 months of disappointment. However, I am more than ever determined to bring justice to my husband, Maher Arar. I believe in the Canadian values of justice. I will try to educate my children to believe in them, and I hope that one day they will be proud to see Canada doing all it can to bring their father back home. I feel that it is very important to do that. I am not
a politician, I am a mother of two children. However, it’s very important to me to do it. It’s very important, not only for me or for my husband, but for my two children and for many other Canadian citizens who are watching this case and are very concerned about the future of our country. Many Canadians who are from Arab and Muslim backgrounds are very concerned about what happened to Maher Arar, about the meaning of their Canadian citizenship today.

  In two or three days – I don’t know, but I know it’s coming very soon – my husband will be facing an unfair trial …

  Suddenly the tears began to flow and I couldn’t stop them. I’d wanted to impress the MPs with my courage, and now my body was betraying me. Later, I overheard Marlene Catterall saying that this was the first time she’d ever seen me cry. It was if my tears had been held prisoner for these long months and all at once, in front of the MPs, the journalists, and the parliamentary officials, they were set free, as if to show everyone present that I was a human being.

  I took hold of myself and continued:

  My husband will be in front of one of the worst courts in the world. He will be in front of the Syrian Supreme State Security Court. This is not a civil court, this is not an open trial; this is almost a military court for someone who has been living in Canada for 15 years without going back to Syria, aside from being deported there. The Syrian lawyer I hired very recently has been denied access to him. He has been refused access to the file, and he has not even been able to know what are the charges. This court was set up 40 years ago. There is a lot of documentation about it from the U.S. State Department. This court does not accept any appeal. The Government of Canada must stop this trial.

  My questions are the following for you: Why should he face such an unfair trial in Syria if he has spent the last 15 years of his life here in Canada? If he decided in 1991 to become a Canadian citizen, if he did all his studies in Canada, if he came to Ottawa, worked for high-tech companies, and participated in the economic growth of Canada, why should he be today held incommunicado in Syria, coming to trial in a few days? Why should he face an unfair trial if he was forcibly deported to Syria? He was kidnapped, taken to Syria, and kept incommunicado for the past 12 months, reportedly being subjected to severe torture.

  Today I would like to help stop this injustice, to help stop this large threat to our human rights, to our Canadian values. I think as members of an elected government, you can make a difference and you can be very proud to show it to all Canadian citizens. Maher Arar is a test for all Canadians, and I, as well as my two children, hope we are going to pass that test, we are going to see him back one day. I came with personal suggestions, and I think they will be helpful. I hope you will do more than welcome them in trying to help this Canadian citizen back to Canada.

  First, I would like to see the Prime Minister make it clear to the Syrian President that this trial is not acceptable, that Maher Arar must not face trial in Syria. He doesn’t belong there; he belongs to Canada, he belongs to his children, and he belongs to his parents, who have been suffering for one year. Mr. Jean Chrétien must make it clear to the Syrian President that he must be brought home. If the Syrian President and the Syrian authorities continue to ignore the Canadian government, which they have since day number one – they never replied to Mr. Jean Chrétien’s letter, they never replied to all the diplomat’s notes sent by the Department of Foreign Affairs, and they don’t count on their replying – then Syria must know that Canada will suspend its ongoing efforts to accelerate trade and investment in Syria. We have relations with Syria. They are willing to be part of the international community. They need Canada, as well as many other countries in this world. Why don’t we use that leverage? Why have we been so reluctant? Why have we been so timid, so shy? Why? Doesn’t he deserve more than this?

  Second, the Canadian government must ask the United States to take responsibility for what they have done. There has not been any contact with the Americans, except at the very early stage of this case, to ask them why they deported a Canadian citizen without official notification to Canada, why they decided to deport him to Syria.

  The U.S. State Department acknowledged on their website that Syria is a state sponsoring terrorism. It is a state where human rights do not mean a lot. The United States must be asked to intervene on my husband’s behalf.

  Third, it’s very important that the Canadian government launch an inquiry. I think you are watching today what happened in the first part of this committee, how shaky and how contradictory was the answer of the RCMP involvement in that tragedy.

  If there is any role of the security agency, I have to know. My children have the right to know. In 10 or 15 years they will be adults. They will start asking questions. My daughter of 6 years is starting to ask questions. She would like to go to Syria. She said to me that she would like to live with her father in the jail cell.

  Canadians have a right to know if our own security agencies are choosing to use the courts in authoritarian regimes instead of our own justice system.

  If they didn’t find anything on Maher Arar, they should say publicly today to the Syrians that Canada doesn’t have any evidence to link Maher Arar to terrorist activities. I have asked them on many occasions. They didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  They can keep on refusing, but I think today they have a moral obligation, if not a legal obligation, to say that Canada doesn’t have any evidence and to participate in all our efforts to bring this citizen back to justice, because he has been refused justice.

  Today I have only [one] request. Our nightmare must come to an end. The Canadian government must use all its efforts – and I know their efforts are tremendous. They can make a difference and stop this injustice and bring this citizen back to his country as soon as possible.

  I think my children, my husband, and I deserve more than we have received for these past 12 months. We deserve justice.

  Thank you.

  When I got back to the apartment, Barâa was sitting on the floor among her coloured crayons. She was working on a poster for tomorrow’s demonstration to commemorate the day of Maher’s arrest in the United States one year ago. Many people were supporting the event. For all my discouragement, I couldn’t help seeing how, over time, more and more people had rallied to Maher’s cause. With time, my pain had grown; but support was growing as well. Our little informal committee was learning to work in a more organized way, and we were making substantial gains.

  Amnesty International had obtained a permit for our march through the streets of Ottawa. We planned to hold a press conference in front of Parliament, then proceed to the American Embassy, to the Prime Minister’s Office, and finally to the Syrian Embassy. For the occasion I’d written three letters: one for George W. Bush, one for Jean Chrétien, and one for Bashar al-Assad, the president of Syria. Each of them demanded that Maher be returned to his family, in Canada. I wanted to hand each letter to a representative of the respective governments.

  Kerry, who was handling our overall communications strategy, had thought up the idea of creating a huge Canadian passport, made of cardboard. It was a brilliant idea; the message was simple and convincing: Maher Arar had been deported to Syria in spite of his Canadian passport. It was up to the government to save the reputation of its passport. Alex had got permission for us to march in the street, Bill Skidmore would look after the loud-hailer and distributing the leaflets. I felt empowered now, and with the support of so many people, I was confident the march would be a success.

  By now Barâa had finished her picture; proudly she came over to show it to me. It depicted a little girl, a little boy, a woman wearing a head scarf, and a man.

  “It’s my family,” she explained. “You, Baba, Houd, and me.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes. In her picture I recognized all the love and devotion a child could be capable of. Praising her work, I hugged her close to me.

  How does a mother feel when her children are put in such trying circumstances? I would have done any
thing to spare them. But I was discovering how we, as human beings, have an immense capacity for adaptation and for courage. How would Barâa reconcile herself with her father’s tragedy? How could she believe in the people and the institutions of her country? I wanted her to grow up to be proud of herself and her family. And now, with her little picture, she was showing me that she wanted only one very simple thing: for the four of us to live together. I knew then that, just like me, she, too, would do anything she could to help her father.

  SEPTEMBER 26, 2003. I’d asked my mother-in-law, who lived in Montreal, to come to Ottawa to take part in the march. I wanted the women of our family from all generations to be there: my mother-in-law, my mother, Barâa, and I. Each one of us had lost Maher, each in her own way; each of us had a story to tell. I wanted to take the opportunity to reveal the hidden side of the affair, all those who had been so deeply affected by his tragedy.

  That morning, I drove to the bus station to pick up my mother-in-law. I found her thin and frail. She seemed to have aged ten years since the last time we’d met. We went home for a bite before leaving for the demonstration. Barâa, who insisted on participating, had not gone to school. I could see the excitement and determination in her eyes; she wanted to protect the memory of her “Baba” and to feel useful. Then the five of us went off.

  On the way, we stopped at Kerry’s office, which was buzzing with excitement: several people were putting the final touches to the giant passport while Kerry was taking a last look at my three letters. Another woman made photocopies of Barâa’s drawing, then helped her glue the original to a piece of cardboard and hang it from her neck with a length of string. I looked at my daughter, who was beaming, displaying her artwork on her chest the way people once carried sandwich boards. When everything was ready, we set off on foot toward Parliament Hill. Leaving my mother, mother-in-law, and the children on the lawn, I went inside with Kerry and Alex Neve.