by Monia Mazigh
Maher began his statement by saying who he really was: an innocent man, a husband and father. He rejected all the allegations of terrorism made against him. Everything that had been said against him was false, he insisted; or lies extracted under torture. He spoke of the conditions he’d endured in prison in Syria, of his suffering, and of the disaster that had befallen him. He read his text slowly, stopping at times in an effort to hold back his tears, then continuing in a calm voice. I held his hand to comfort him and to give him the courage to keep going. It was almost more than we could bear.
As he enumerated the grisly details in front of the cameras, and as I listened to it once again, it was all I could do not to break down. When Maher had finished, the journalists erupted with questions. Luckily for us, a journalist sitting at our table was acting as moderator, but the questions kept coming. They seemed hypnotized by his story. At no time did I feel they were trying to intimidate him or corner him. But I could sense that Maher was getting tired; his eyes started to flutter nervously. I was afraid he would just stand up and walk out, but he held on. It was an extremely important moment for him, the moment for him to give his version of the facts, to tell his own story.
The press conference finally ended. We stayed on for a few moments to talk with Lorne Waldman, Kerry Alex, and Riad. All of them were upbeat, and agreed that it had gone well. We felt reassured. Maher had done his best; he had passed the first test. He had been himself: natural and straightforward. We were satisfied, but we were waiting to hear what the press would say, how people would react. For the first time since his deportation, I had the feeling that media interest was focused on him, on his story and his way of telling it; my face represented the loving wife who had supported her husband. Slowly, inexorably, I was stepping aside, taking my place behind Maher. I was relieved to be rid of the heavy burden I’d been carrying – but I knew there was much more to be done before I’d be at peace again.
On our way home, Maher turned on the radio. We heard the announcer describing the press conference, and then Maher’s voice echoing over the air. All the way back to the apartment, we listened in silence to his voice relating his story. I was driving and listening to him attentively. It was as if I was hearing everything for the first time. I was so moved I blinked my eyes and sighed.
My mother welcomed us with a barrage of questions: “How did it go? Were people interested? Did the government agree to a public inquiry?”
“I think Maher spoke very well; he did his best. Now we have to wait and see how the media react,” I answered.
I couldn’t suppress a smile. The fact that my mother was so interested in those questions meant that it was no longer a matter of concern only to Maher and me but to the whole family. Each of us, in his or her way, had been affected by this change in our lives, and each of us hoped to bring it to an end.
Our decision to go public led to a series of media interviews. For the journalists, the period of respite we’d enjoyed, far from the prying eyes of the press, was officially over. Now everyone wanted to meet Maher and ask him questions. He was encouraged by reactions to the press conference. There had been strong sympathy for his story but a lot of questions. The website was flooded with messages from the public. They provided us with our strongest support and most enthusiastic encouragement. Requests for interviews came thick and fast. There was no question of accepting or refusing any request but of fitting them all in without too much delay.
Our life had taken another turn: now it was a steady stream of radio, television, and press interviews. Once again our apartment was transformed into a studio, and we were constantly interrupted by photo opportunities. Time and time again before going to sleep, I found myself wondering: Did we make the right choice? Why didn’t we just keep quiet? Why get mixed up with these interminable interviews and lose what’s left of our private life?
Those questions remained unanswered. I was too tired to think. But deep down, a voice told me that despite our problems, we had made the right choice.
NOVEMBER 7, 2003. Kerry called us at home. She sounded worried and wanted to speak to us both. A journalist named Juliet O’Neill of the Ottawa Citizen was preparing an article on Maher and his story. She had obtained information that had never been published. I’d never heard of her and couldn’t remember having spoken to her about Maher’s case. I didn’t know her motives and wasn’t too worried. But Kerry was concerned that the article would harm Maher’s reputation.
“Well, there’s not much left of his reputation after all those anonymous sources they’ve been quoting since he came back,” I exclaimed.
“I agree, but each new article seems to do a little more damage than the last,” Kerry answered.
Maher, on another phone, listened carefully to what Kerry had to say, and we all agreed that we couldn’t stop the reporter or change her mind. Still, all three of us had an uneasy feeling. Both Maher and I had believed that things would change after the press conference, that the articles speaking ill of him would stop, and our repeated calls for a public inquiry would be heeded. Kerry’s phone call raised new questions, new doubts. Who was behind these media “leaks” and what were the real motives for publishing them? Why were we being harassed?
NOVEMBER 8, 2003. Tomorrow would be Saturday; I wouldn’t be teaching, Barâa wouldn’t be in school, there wouldn’t be any of the usual “morning rush” when everything had to be ready by eight o’clock if we were to be on time. It was Ramadan; my mother began preparing dinner in midafternoon. Our household routine was different, everything moved more slowly. Maher said he was going to the barbershop at the shopping centre. But before he left, we remembered the article by Juliet O’Neill.
“Let me see if it’s on the Ottawa Citizen website,” said Maher as he turned on the computer. He quickly located the article. As he was reading, I sat down beside him. The article described Maher as a terrorist who had been trained to handle weapons, as someone who was recruiting other terrorists in Canada. The reporter wrote about a training camp in Afghanistan, about the sale of computers and suspicious electronic materials, about police knocking on our door and neighbours who said we’d moved. In it were all the ingredients to turn Maher into a dangerous terrorist and our family into people with much to hide and who were trying to elude the police (“Canada’s Dossier on Maher Arar: The existence of a group of Ottawa men with alleged ties to al-Qaeda is at the root of why the government opposes an inquiry into the case,” Juliet O’Neill, Ottawa Citizen, November 8, 2003). The earlier CTV report had made Maher out to be a terrorist traitor who “informed on” his accomplices; this latest article presented him as a threat, a man with links to al-Qaeda.
The article made it clear that these were the reasons behind the government’s refusal to set up a public inquiry. But it said not a word about how the information had been obtained; the reporter asked no questions about its truth. In fact, she treated this information as if it were beyond suspicion, and justification for the actions of certain elements in the police. Maher was speechless; his face had turned white.
“Don’t let it worry you. The day will come when you’ll be able to defend yourself. For the time being, it seems to me we’re going to have to take some lumps,” I said to distract Maher and bolster his morale. But privately I could tell how deeply he was hurt.
“What do they want with me, these people operating out of their secret offices, well protected from justice? One whole year they did everything they could to destroy me. Now they’re trying to put me in a mental prison, trying to destroy what’s left of my humanity.”
“It won’t be easy for us to win justice. We’ll have to be patient. Don’t imagine that all you have to do is tell your story and nobody will challenge it, nobody will try to undermine you. Try to forget; time heals all wounds.”
“I can never forget. It’s too much. It’s my life they’re trying to destroy.” He got to his feet and began to pace back and forth. Then he remembered his haircut and left the house.
&
nbsp; I couldn’t get the article out of my mind; it kept coming back to haunt me. When Maher came back from the barbershop his hair was shorter; he looked younger, but there was still that sad expression on his face.
“There in the barbershop I looked at the people sitting around me. I tried to look into their eyes, to see if they still believed me. I wanted so much to tell them loud and clear that the article was a lie, that I’m not the terrorist people are talking about.”
I listened to him in silence with a lump in my throat.
MID-NOVEMBER 2003. It was the calm after the storm. Juliet O’Neill’s article had dashed our fragile dreams. All that Maher had gained by his press conference, whatever confidence and sympathy he’d been able to establish, had been swept away by an article that relied on anonymous sources, that had not even taken the trouble to verify the facts, an article that used a confession obtained under torture. For Maher, it was like twisting a knife in a raw wound. For me, it felt like talons ripping our newborn hope to shreds, and I was afraid that turmoil was once again taking over our lives.
But slowly, surely, we were recovering; we began to understand that our decision to speak out, to call for an accounting, and to ask embarrassing questions would have consequences, that Maher’s credibility would be attacked, and that our whole family would pay the price.
Media interest didn’t let up. We continued to give interviews and respond to accusations, insisting that a public hearing be held to determine if elements of the Canadian government apparatus participated in, encouraged, or closed their eyes to Maher’s deportation to Syria. We wanted to find out who was behind the media leaks. From every tribune, in the newspapers, before the most diverse audiences, we called for a public inquiry: it had become our overriding objective. But the Canadian government under Prime Minister Jean Chrétien categorically rejected our demand. Public opinion was our sole ally. We’d taken an important step; there was no going back. Day after day, the media were knocking at our door.
When Maher returned from Syria, I’d dreamed of starting a new life with our children, of turning the page. But the longer we lived together, the more I realized just how much Maher had changed – and how much I had changed as well. We were no longer the same couple; we no longer had the comfortable middle-class dreams we once had. Both of us had known suffering, but differently. Maher had undergone the horrors of mental and physical pain. He’d lost his faith in humankind; he’d lost confidence in himself. Time and again he’d concluded he would never see us again. Then suddenly he’d been delivered: the shock of the outside world, people around him, the smell of freedom, children running around in the house, interviews, and, above all, this new feeling of his own humanity that he’d lost in the underground prison in Damascus, that abruptly he was rediscovering.
And what had happened to me? A woman most of my fellow citizens now recognized in the street, a symbol, a model wife who had saved her husband, a kind of modern-day feminine version of Robin Hood. But I’d never seen myself in that light. What I’d become weighed heavily on me. I wanted to be recognized for what I was: a woman, a mother, and a citizen; I wanted none of the high-flown imagery. It wasn’t a matter of modesty; it was just that the superficial perception was at odds with who I really was. The changes that had taken place had attacked us as a couple both from outside and inside; I wanted to preserve what was still left of us.
LATE NOVEMBER 2003. For the last few days, Maher had been working with Lorne Waldman to prepare a lawsuit accusing Syria and Jordan of torture in the Canadian court system. Syria’s role was clear and well documented, but Jordan had benefited from a kind of amnesia that allowed an impression that nothing serious had happened there. And yet, the American aircraft that carried Maher had landed in Jordan. The Jordanian authorities had never admitted that Maher had spent hours in one of their prisons before being transferred to torture in Syria. What could possibly explain their underhand complicity, their mockery of human rights?
However, the fact that the Canadian State Immunity Act does not allow citizens of Canada to sue other countries in Canadian courts didn’t help our cause. Maher and I had thought long and hard before embarking on this risky path. We knew that this law, designed to protect diplomatic relations between countries, would not be easy to change. But we’d come to the conclusion that torture could not be ignored; torture destroys both body and spirit; it destroys all that is human in us. The case would be of prime importance for Maher, but it would also give hope to other torture victims that they might obtain justice, and see their tormentors brought to trial. Far from revenge, or an attempt to win financial compensation, it would give a message to all countries that use torture that this is unacceptable, and that they will be called to account for it. To do nothing would be to forget all those killed under torture, and those who still languish in prison, beaten by their jailers, their fundamental rights stolen from them.
I could see that our life was moving in a new direction. We were no longer focused solely on our own misfortune; we had begun to understand that we must act on behalf of others, those who are afraid to speak or cannot speak for themselves. Who would have believed that one day Maher would be suing Syria, the country where he was born. But his forced return to Syria, his imprisonment and torture in its underground prisons had taught him one thing: that violence and injustice only grow when no one speaks out against them. On November 23, 2003, the lawsuit against Syria and Jordan was filed in Federal Court. But later, our fears were confirmed; the court rejected the case, invoking the State Immunity Act.
Finally, after a month of fasting, the feast of Eid had come. The children were happy, looking forward to receiving gifts and dressing up in new clothes. This year Eid had special significance for us. Maher was a free man again; this year my joy was two-fold, to be celebrating the end of Ramadan and having my family reunited. These yearly celebrations can take on new meaning for us and remain engraved in our memories. That was certainly the case with this Eid. Houd had finally got to know his father; he loved to climb onto his back and tour the apartment perched on Maher’s shoulders, delighted to be the tallest one in the house. Barâa had also become used to his presence; she was no longer awkward with him as she had been at first, not knowing quite what to make of him.
Nazira invited us to a festive lunch at an Indian restaurant not far from our apartment. It was one of the rare times we’d gone out as a family since Maher’s liberation. The upheaval we’d experienced just after his return, the leaks in the press, and the constant interviews had exhausted us. All we could think about was finding some quiet time together. Nazira’s invitation was the perfect opportunity to change the atmosphere, to celebrate Eid, and to behave like a normal family. The restaurant was decorated in the Indian style, with carved wood dividers separating groups of tables. The air was thick with the fragrances of anis, fenugreek, and curry. There were about thirty guests, including Marlene Catterall. We took a seat at her table. Barâa, dressed in red plaid, was sizing up the guests; sometimes she would whisper in my ear, asking if I knew this person or that. Houd was wearing a green sweater and green trousers. He was fascinated by the table setting, and began tapping the side of his glass with his spoon, proud of all the noise he could make. The food was delicious, a real culinary discovery.
Many of the guests came over to greet us and ask after us. For me, that human contact, the warmth of so many smiles and greetings were like balm for all the hurts we’d suffered. At the end of the meal, Nazira brought garlands of artificial flowers, placing one around Maher’s neck and one around mine, like the garlands of real flowers they drape around tourists’ necks in exotic travel destinations.
I felt a bit ridiculous there in the midst of the crowd and the applause. Then, in turn, Maher and I thanked Nazira, Marlene, and all the guests. The two women made short speeches, and then the guests began to leave; the celebration was over. A few minutes later, in the car, Barâa was clamouring to put one of the garlands around her neck.
“Smell
it, Mama,” she piped up. “How sweet the flowers smell!”
I took the garland and brought it to my nose. There was a faint scent of jasmine mixed with another that reminded me of musk.
“You’re right,” I told her. “I don’t know where the smell comes from.”
“Maybe the flowers are real,” Barâa said, and we all burst out laughing.
I was talking to Alexa McDonough on the phone. The last time we’d seen each other was when Maher spoke at the Parliamentary Press Gallery. Our relationship had developed into a kind of friendship. For me, Alexa had become a teacher and guide, a tenacious woman in politics who had overcome obstacles to reach the pinnacle of her party, without ever losing her humanity or her openness. We were talking about this, that, and the other thing, children, the public inquiry, when she surprised me by saying: “Did you ever think of going into politics?”
The question hit me like a hammer blow. Even though I’d grown up surrounded by political analysis, the idea had never occurred to me. My father was always discussing politics with his friends and with me; he read local and foreign newspapers, and was always well informed about current or historical events – but he’d never belonged to a political party. He wanted to be free to think as he wished, which caused him problems but also made him proud to speak out and to criticize what was going on around him. I’d grown up with the notion that politics was a game of intelligence and strategy. All I’d done was to think things through and speak my piece, but I’d never dared support a political party, let alone play an active role. Alexa’s question troubled me. I didn’t know what to say.