LATE SEPTEMBER 2003. I hadn’t forgotten the look of concern and the sense of determination I’d seen on the faces of the MPs when I’d spoken to the House of Commons Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs. For the first time since Maher’s arrest, I’d met with a true and sincere response from politicians of all political parties. And when I sat there among them, I had the feeling that his case was no longer an issue that only the NDP wanted to talk about or that a handful of Liberal backbenchers were prepared to support. Instead, it was an affair that concerned all Canadians. Now MPs from the Bloc Québécois, the Conservative Party, and even the Canadian Alliance were asking questions and promising that this would not be swept under the rug.
Although I’d been terrified of speaking before all these people, I had done it and I realized it had given me a boost of courage. Now I was ready to forge ahead.
“You know what I’m going to do,” I told Kerry. “I’ve made up my mind to visit all the MPs in their parliamentary offices …”
“What a great idea! I love it! You can give them a copy of the timeline and ask them to put pressure on the government,” she said.
“I’ll start with the MPs I saw when I testified before the committee, but little by little, I’ll knock on all their doors.”
“More than three hundred MPs, that’s a big order. But if you ask me, it’s worth it.”
She promised to help me; the two of us were as happy as schoolgirls who’d just learned a new game. I began right away by calling the offices of the MPs and making appointments with them. The first reactions were encouraging and filled me with enthusiasm and hope. I wanted my mother-in-law to join me on this new round of meetings with the honourable members. Our message, coming from the prisoner’s wife and mother, would be even stronger than if I were going alone. We agreed that she would come to our apartment on Sunday, October 5, and that starting the next day we would begin visiting MPs who’d agreed to meet us.
No sooner said than done. I called the office of Conservative MP Bill Casey. As a member of the Foreign Affairs Committee, he was first on my list. My plan was to explain Maher’s case and ask for his help. I didn’t know him; I was concerned that he might just ignore me. I had no idea what influence political principles had on MPs’ interests. So when we met, I was pleasantly surprised. His attitude was attentive, concerned; he was interested in finding out more about Maher’s case; he would interrupt to question me about details. I handed him a copy of the chronology and asked him to help me in my efforts by putting questions in the House of Commons, by following up on the case in the Foreign Affairs Committee, and simply by keeping an eye on the file. He seemed quite open and gave me the distinct impression that my words were not falling on deaf ears. I didn’t know what Bill Casey might do, but I was confident that I’d gained a strong ally in my ongoing battle.
Slowly, autumn was settling in. The trees were changing colour; the once-green leaves that had soothed our eyes all summer were giving way to masses of red, yellow, orange, and brown. No sooner had the leaves drifted gently to the ground and formed little heaps than they were carried off by a wind that quickly picked up and grew stronger. The weather was fine and warm. Not far from our apartment was a recreation centre with an indoor pool where I took Barâa for her swimming lessons. She’d learned a lot since she’d begun. She didn’t flail about and bob up and down any longer, but moved with steady, rhythmic movements. One day while I was waiting for the lesson to end, I saw that there would be regular free swim sessions for women only.
“I’ll go for sure,” I promised myself. For me, it would be an ideal way to forget what an abnormal life I was living, and to dive into another world that would remind me of the sun-filled days I used to spend on the beaches of Tunis. My father had taught me to float on my back. “There’s no better way to learn to swim,” he’d drummed into my head. Later, I learned how to get around in the water on my own by watching the swimming competitions broadcast on television, and attempting to copy the champions. Of course, my efforts were modest ones, but over time and with hard work I learned to swim better and better. It had become one of my favourite sports. Now I was anxious for the sessions to begin, so I could rediscover the feeling of water and forget my daily cares.
OCTOBER 4, 2003. I was in the kitchen preparing dinner. I wasn’t working that day, and I wanted to give my mother a rest. Even though she never complained, and enjoyed cooking, I knew her health was not that good and that she needed some rest. With the start of the new school year, she had decided to register for the English courses for immigrants in our neighbourhood. Our apartment was only a few minutes by foot from the school; it was easy for her to get there. She’d begun learning English last year, but when Maher had been arrested and then imprisoned in Syria, she’d dropped everything to help me. Houd was still a baby then and we were a good deal farther away from the school. But now Houd had grown; he was easier to handle, our apartment was nearby, and I could arrange to stay with him while she attended her two hours of class every day. I did all I could to encourage her; it was a way for her to be exposed to new ideas, new people, and to learn a new language. Even though my mother spoke French, she felt ill at ease not knowing English. She dreamed of learning enough words and sentence structures to get by on her own in her daily life.
The phone rang: it was Marlene Catterall. We hadn’t spoken since the meeting of the House Foreign Affairs Committee. There was something strange about her tone of voice; I couldn’t tell whether it was likely to be good news or bad. She told me that an announcement was expected soon, and to be ready.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” she said in the same tone of voice. “All I know is that there’s going to be an announcement about Maher’s case, and it’s going to be soon.”
For me, her words were worse than some kind of guessing game. They’d awakened my curiosity and at the same time thrown me back into uncertainty. I hung up and sat there for a moment, lost in thought. The Supreme State Security Court is probably about to hear the case; soon they’ll be judging Maher, I thought. Maybe Marlene is trying to warn me that things are about to take a new turn; but why didn’t she tell me everything? But then again, maybe that’s all she knows, maybe she didn’t want to give me any false hopes; you never can tell what the Syrians are likely to do at the last minute.
Houd came toddling into the kitchen, pulling a little plastic dog along behind him. When the dog walked its tail wagged, which made it look almost real. Houd loved this toy; he would take it with him into every room in the apartment. I snapped out of my daydreaming, forgot Marlene’s cryptic words, and stood there watching Houd and his noisy little toy with a smile on my face.
A bit later I called Kerry and brought her up to date.
“Funny! Whatever could be happening? What aren’t they telling us?” she wondered aloud.
We were both convinced that the announcement had to do with the opening of the trial in Syria, and that Marlene had wanted to send a signal without causing undue alarm. Was the government afraid of the media attention that the trial would bring? Maybe they were worried that I would stir up a row in the press, knowing perfectly well that the trial would be held in the absence of the Canadian ambassador to Syria, and without the presence of James Lockyer, the legal observer whose visa application for Syria still seemed to be pending. Maybe they were trying, in a roundabout way, to calm my fears and leave me to stew in uncertainty. There were no answers and my teeth were on edge.
OCTOBER 5, 2003. Sunday morning. The children were bored; they were wandering aimlessly around the apartment. My mother was watching television, and I was slicing vegetables in the kitchen. That day I’d planned to go swimming. The phone rang: it was Marlene. I felt my stomach tighten. What did she want now? I wondered.
“Mr. Bill Graham, the minister, would like to talk to you personally, by telephone.”
“I’m free. Will he be calling right away?” I asked Marlene.
“In a few minutes,” she answered.
I could feel my throat muscles growing taut; I could sense the seriousness of the situation, but I wanted to use those few minutes to prepare myself for the worst and to find the proper words. Marlene had said nothing more and hung up.
The minister was not long in calling. I recognized his voice over the telephone. He insisted that I understand that he was calling from Italy, and that he was personally committed to keeping me advised about Maher’s case. My hands were shaking, but no words came to my rescue. My mother was not watching the television any longer but bustling about in the kitchen.
“Madame Mazigh,” he continued, “Mr. Arar has just been released by the Syrians. We are impatiently waiting for him to leave Syrian soil by plane in the company of the Canadian consul in Syria before we make the news public. Only a few individuals at the department are aware of the news. We are counting on you to keep it secret and wait until he’s left Syria for good.”
I listened in silence, not wanting to lose a word of what the minister was saying. I didn’t jump for joy as I’d imagined so many times in my dreams. I didn’t cry. I became calm, as if nothing had happened, as if suddenly amnesia had swept over me, wiping away all my misfortunes. I muttered a few words of thanks to the minister. My mother was giving me worried looks, as if to say, “Now what?” I hung up the telephone and turned to her.
“Maher is free. He’ll be leaving Syria in a few hours.”
I smiled and took my mother in my arms. She didn’t believe me.
“You can’t be serious,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. One look at my face told her I was telling the truth.
“Yes, I swear it. The minister just told me that Maher is coming back to Canada, and by the grace of God he’ll be here with us.”
Barâa was listening to the conversation wide-eyed; she wasn’t sure what was going on around her.
“Baba will soon be home, they’ve let him out of prison,” I told her, smiling. But I could tell she was still a bit confused; she didn’t know how to communicate her joy. Houd was looking at us with curiosity; he still couldn’t talk, but our smiles told him all he needed to know.
But I didn’t know just how to take the news. I didn’t doubt that Maher had been set free, but I hadn’t expected such an abrupt end. For so many months I’d learned to expect the worst, not to dream, and, most of all, to accept the idea that Maher would not be back for many years to come. Over those months I’d learned to control my emotions and to repeat, every day, that my life would be nothing but a succession of disappointments, all the while preparing myself to face new challenges. I’d been convinced that even Minister Graham’s telephone call was to inform me that Maher’s trial had taken place. In recent weeks I’d been getting used to the idea that Maher would be brought before the Supreme State Security Court. But now, this latest call told me exactly the opposite. It told me that my efforts were over, that my sadness had disappeared, that instantly I should be happy and clap my hands. My mind was telling me I should be delighted, but my heart didn’t follow. Inside, I was too deeply hurt.
I called no one, stuffed my swimming things into a sports bag, and left for my swim. I needed to be alone; swimming would give me that. When I got to the pool, a few women, some of them with their children, were already swimming. I stepped into the pool, the cool water revived me, and I began to swim lengths, paying no heed to the time. As I swam, I was thinking that in one day Maher would at last be back with us. I tried to imagine how I could forget that year and begin a new life; my thoughts were muddled, I was torn between a new, still-elusive happiness that I was discovering and a sadness that I’d become accustomed to, that seemed too hard for me to break away from so suddenly. Back and forth I swam, through the cool water.
When I got back to the apartment, I called my brother Mourad in Tunisia to give him the news. He couldn’t believe his ears; then the two of us broke into tears. Words failed us.
“Don’t say a word to anybody,” I finally managed to say. “I’m waiting for the Foreign Affairs minister to confirm that Maher has left Syria before he makes a public announcement.”
“Of course; let me know as soon as you get the news,” he said.
Then I called my mother-in-law, but she was not at home. The day before, she’d told me she would be coming this evening for our meeting with the MPs, and that her grandson would drive her to Ottawa. I wanted her to hear the news first, before I told Maher’s brothers and sister. I rang Kerry at home. There was no way I couldn’t tell her the news; she’d helped me every step of the way. It was unthinkable that she find out from anyone else. She answered the phone, a bit out of breath; she’d been working in her garden.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
I spoke calmly, chit-chatting about this and that. Then I let it drop: “You know, they’ve released Maher. He’s coming back to Canada.”
Silence. Then I heard: “Oh my God, it’s unbelievable!” Kerry couldn’t believe her ears.
“I swear it’s true,” I repeated again and again.
Now she was laughing.
“You’re as cool as a cucumber, letting it drop in the middle of our conversation. How did you find out?”
I told her about the calls from Marlene and Bill Graham, and what they had said.
“I’ll be right over! I still can’t believe what I’m hearing,” she exclaimed.
Then I hurried out of the house. We needed groceries; I was out of milk, cheese, and bread. Plus I had no idea when Maher would be arriving. No one had given me any details. Foreign Affairs was supposed to let me know as soon as Maher had left Syrian soil. In my discussion with Mr. Graham, I’d understood that Maher and Leo Martel, the Canadian consul in Damascus, would be on the plane, but I still didn’t know exactly where things stood. As soon as I’d picked up the items I needed, I hurried back home. Kerry hadn’t arrived yet; the children were playing.
“Someone called,” my mother told me.
“Who was it?”
“An Arabic-speaking gentleman. He said he’d heard from the Syrian Embassy that Maher had been released and wanted to congratulate us.”
That startled me. I’d never talked with the Syrian Embassy. Why would they ask someone to call me? Who could it have been? I’d heard in the past that certain individuals of Syrian or Arab origin were attempting to exert influence on the Syrian ambassador, but I had no idea what effect they’d had. I’d always assumed they’d got nowhere.
This latest call upset me: the Canadian minister of Foreign Affairs was telling me that only a few people had been informed of the news and now an unidentified gentleman calls me at home pretending to have heard the news from the Syrian Embassy here in Ottawa. It didn’t take me long to figure out that both Canada and Syria wanted to announce the news and take credit in the eyes of the public. At the same time, it struck me that this very gentleman might well be phoning the media and other people in Ottawa to tell them that Syria had released Maher Arar.
Meanwhile, Kerry arrived. We were both delighted; it was as if we hadn’t seen each other for years. It was a special meeting, our first since Maher’s return had been confirmed. Last October, a single telephone call had turned my life upside down; today, another telephone call should have put my mind at ease and put my life back on an even keel, but still I felt like my life was in turmoil.
I told Kerry about the man who’d spoken with my mother.
“We’ve got to talk to the minister immediately. He’ll have to make the announcement before the story is leaked to the media,” she said with a note of urgency in her voice.
I had the cellphone number of Robert Fry, Mr. Graham’s assistant, and called him right away. Mr. Fry assured me that he would inform the minister and that a press conference would be held as soon as possible, in Italy, for Canadian journalists. Once more I rang my mother-in-law, but she was not at home, nor was her grandson.
Kerry, the children, and I went to the park while my mother stayed at home. I knew that as soon as the news was released in Canada, I’d be snowed under with interview requests from the media, and I hadn’t yet got used to the idea. Sitting on a wooden bench, Kerry and I watched Houd and Barâa at play as we tried to imagine what would happen when Maher returned. Kerry was certain there would be a lot of interest in his return and promised she would deal with the journalists. Through all the months that Maher was in prison in Syria, I had wished that journalists would call me and ask about him, hoping that they would write even a small article about him. Wasted wishes. No one paid much attention.
Now it would be different, I knew. Maher’s unexpected return would cause a lot of curiosity and interest. Within a few hours, everything had changed. I no longer needed to meet the MPs. I would soon be meeting Maher after a whole year; it was a moment I was very nervous about. Who was the man I was going to meet after so long? What would he look like; how would he behave? How would the children rebuild their relationship with a father who had vanished for a year, and who was coming back into their lives with a new face? Houd, especially, didn’t remember him at all; he knew only my face and my mother’s. Kerry did her best to calm my worries, hoping that everything would go smoothly, telling me that at least the real flesh-and-blood Maher would be back in Canada, that he could tell us what he had been through. Her allusion to the sufferings that Maher may well have endured gave me goose bumps. Up until then, I’d kept the question of suffering and torture buried deep inside. I didn’t want to think about it for fear of falling into despair and depression, and simply giving up the fight to save him. Now, the fact that Maher would be back with us, that he would be telling us about all he’d gone through in that year, touched off a new fear in me, one I’d never known before: the fear of confronting the painful past.
The telephone at home was ringing off the hook. Kerry was sitting in the children’s room answering calls from the media and jotting down notes. The story had broken in Canada; Bill Graham had made the announcement from Italy. No reasons had been given for Maher’s release. All the accusations of terrorism, plotting, being a dangerous person … all the whispered rumours, all the solemn assertions by anonymous persons, had miraculously evaporated. The Syrian promise to try him for membership in the Muslim Brotherhood or the al-Qaeda network came to nothing, I don’t know why. For the moment, I could only think of one thing: when was I going to talk to Maher? Kerry kept talking on the telephone; journalists wanted interviews, comments, reactions. She asked Alex for help and he hurried over to lend a hand and answer questions from the media.
Meanwhile, the Department of Foreign Affairs alerted us that Maher would be stopping over in Paris, that he would be calling from there between midnight and one o’clock in the morning Ottawa time. It was the call I’d been waiting for for more than a year. The call I’d been waiting for that night in Tunis as I sat on the edge of my bed. I didn’t know what to expect. What would we talk about? Outside, night had fallen and journalists had begun to arrive with their cameras, microphones, and television crews. It was the best way for me to speak to them, to avoid too many telephone interviews. The apartment began to look more and more like a studio in constant upheaval. The children’s room had become an office where Kerry and Alex were answering the telephone; the living room was crowded with journalists, some sitting on the sofa, others standing, photographers and TV cameramen cruising about for the best angle. The children wandered in and out of my room and into the living room, looking for a quiet corner where they could play or a toy they’d left behind in their room.
The interviews followed one after the other in rapid succession; the questions were all the same. “How did I feel?” they wanted to know. Of course I was happy; I was smiling, my face was bright, my answers were upbeat: Maher would be arriving in Montreal the following day; the coming days would surely help us rebuild our family. I said not a word about my worries, my nagging doubts; those things were for me. As I was giving an interview, I saw my mother-in-law walk in the door. She was with her grandson who’d driven her from Montreal. His telephone had been switched off. Not having the faintest idea what was going on, she didn’t know what to make of what she was seeing. I went over to her and told her that Maher had been set free, that he would be coming back to Canada tomorrow. She’d come to Ottawa to meet the MPs and ask for their help; she’d stopped off at her daughter’s place and her grandson had driven her here. She hadn’t suspected a thing. She couldn’t believe her ears at first, then it began to sink in; she began to figure out what had happened; she wiped her tears and sat down with my mother at the kitchen table.
Things calmed down around eleven o’clock. The children were sleeping in my room, Kerry and Alex had gone home, my mother and mother-in-law were asleep in the living room. I’d stretched out on Barâa’s bed, with the cordless phone beside me. There was no way I could sleep; Maher would be calling in an hour or two. My mind was racing. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t sleep. Questions flashed through my brain, but the only answer was silence. There I lay in the dark, the minutes ticked by, but the telephone did not ring. I drifted off into a troubled sleep; it was impossible to tell dreams from reality. Suddenly the ringing of the phone made me jump. It was an official of the Department of Foreign Affairs on the line: in a few seconds I was to be connected with Paris. There was a moment of silence, then I heard the voice of a man I didn’t know, speaking French. It was Leo Martel, the Canadian consul in Syria, who was travelling with Maher. We talked for a few moments, then he said, “Here’s Maher. He’s right beside me.”
There I was, waiting in the darkness. It must have been two or three o’clock in the morning, my heart was pounding. Then I heard Maher’s voice greeting me. It was a faint and distant voice; I could hardly recognize it.
“How are you? How are Barâa and Houd?” he asked.
“We’re all fine … we can’t wait to see you,” I answered, not really knowing what to say, the words not coming. Then he went on in a weak voice: “Monia, you know, everything you did for me, I’ll never forget it as long as I live …”
There was a lump in my throat. Those were not the kind of words you used among family, I’d done no favour that I should be thanked for. Why does his voice sound as if he’s given up? I wondered.
“Don’t say that,” I said. “I did what had to be done, that’s all.”
We said nothing more, just a quick goodbye and the call was over.
I hung up and closed my eyes. Maher’s words echoed in my head. I tossed and turned; everything inside told me that a page in my life had turned and that a new one was about to begin. Maher would soon be back; the goal I’d set myself one year earlier had been reached. But what lay in wait for me afterwards? How would we continue along our path together, what would our life be like? The picture in my mind was clouded; nothing was clear.
OCTOBER 6, 2003. The Department of Foreign Affairs called; they would drive us to Montreal in an eight-place van. Along with me there would be Barâa, Houd, my mother and my mother-in-law, Kerry, Myra, and Marlene Catterall. Maher’s flight from Paris would arrive at Dorval at about three o’clock. I would have to leave the apartment and drive to Kerry’s place downtown, where the van would be waiting. Early that morning a CTV truck had parked in front of our building. The journalists wanted an interview, and surely they wanted to film before we left for the airport. This time I didn’t want any photos. I’d spent the entire evening in the apartment with dozens of journalists coming and going to take pictures and record interviews. I’d only slept a few hours. Now, this morning, I was mainly concerned with preparing myself for my first meeting with my husband in more than a year. Yesterday his voice over the telephone had sounded so far away, I’d been frightened: Was he still the same person? What will he be like today when we meet? These were the questions that were running through my mind; I really didn’t want to worry about ducking the CTV cameras.
Houd understood none of what was going on around him. I kept telling him his Baba was coming; I was talking to him nonstop, but he seemed to be a bit short on words despite his twenty months. He’d never really been able to master the sound of “b.” I was worried about him but didn’t want to make anything of it. Still, I’d resolved to raise the matter with his pediatrician at our next appointment. At eleven o’clock everything was ready. My mother had made up a batch of mbatten, tiny balls of fried cooked cauliflower with parsley and eggs. The kids loved them. It would be something to munch on en route. We left the apartment by the back door. Barâa was delighted with the thought that the CTV truck would be waiting in front of our building while we’d left through the back. She was also looking different today. She was happy at the thought of seeing her father again, but there was a shadow of worry in her innocent eyes. I prayed to God that all would go well.
Kerry was waiting for us at her house. We were all ready to go.
The van was parked on the street; Marlene pulled up with Sarkis Assadourian in a car with other civil servants I didn’t recognize. They would be driving to Montreal by car, while Myra and Marlene would be travelling with us in the van. Alex and Riad would join us later at the airport.
Kerry didn’t think it a good idea for everybody to join Maher and me in our apartment.
“Your life will be like a circus for the next few days. Reporters will want to talk to you. You’ll want to remove yourselves from the public eye for a while.”
I knew she was right, but it was a message I didn’t want to hear. Her words gave me the impression that we were important persons. As far as I was concerned, I hated the idea of behaving like that. I didn’t want to become what I was not. We weren’t a family of pop singers or famous actors. Still, going by the number of interview requests and media interest, it was becoming clearer to me that we were being treated as if we were.
“I can help you find somewhere else to live for a while, until things calm down a bit,” Kerry assured me.
I offered no resistance. Like a boxer after a long bout, I needed some peace and quiet; I wanted to reconnect with my family. Strategy was the last thing on my mind.
Everybody took a seat in the van: the children, my mother, my mother-in-law, Kerry, Myra, Marlene, and me. A government driver was behind the wheel. Each of us seemed off in our own worlds. Barâa and Houd stared out the window; the two mothers chatted; Myra said nothing; Marlene and Kerry were checking messages on their cellphones. As I watched the landscape rushing by, I thought back to the last two days, how Maher’s release had changed my life, my thinking, my hopes and my fears. Before, my only hope was to see Maher again; now I hoped that our lives would be peaceful. The day before yesterday, I was afraid I would never see him again. Now I was afraid of what our reunion might bring, the consequences of the torture, the suffering, the isolation. How strange that our desires, hopes, and fears can so totally change in a matter of hours.
The van finally pulled up in front of the terminal building at Dorval. We piled out like children from a schoolbus. What a relief to be able to walk, to move our arms and legs after being bent double for more than two hours. Myra, who was in direct communication with people from the department, led us to a special airport waiting room. Alex and Riad were already there. Only a few minutes to go until Maher’s plane landed. I felt as though I was being operated by remote control: everybody was giving me instructions, everybody wanted what was best for me, wanted to help me – but I felt lost and alone; all I wanted was to get it over with as fast as I could.
There were dozens of journalists waiting in the airport, Kerry told me. There I was, waiting with the children, when a uniformed female officer from the airport authority advised me that I and Maher’s mother were authorized to accompany her beyond the security barrier right up to the passenger gate to meet Maher. She handed me two passes, one for me, the other for my mother-in-law.
The plane had arrived. My hands were damp. It wouldn’t be long until we met. I left the children with my mother in the waiting room and we moved off toward the gate. The airport officer led us down what seemed kilometres of corridors, up escalators, and then along the concourse until we reached the gate, where a handful of passengers had just begun to leave the aircraft. Maher’s mother looked tired waiting there beside me, almost disbelief on her face.
Then I spotted Maher. His hair was neat and his beard had been trimmed. He was wearing a blue sweater I’d never seen on him before, his shoulders seemed a little bent, he was thin, his expression sad and frightened. I thought I saw a glimmer of hope flash through his eyes when he saw us standing there waiting for him, but the look of pain and humiliation remained. He kissed us both in a surprisingly cold and mechanical way, then together we retraced our steps back to the waiting room where everyone else was expecting us. I took his hand, and he leaned over and whispered, “I’m really scared. Are you sure it’s all over and they won’t put me in prison again?”
“Of course you’re free,” I assured him calmly. “Don’t be afraid, you’re in Canada.”
We’d hardly spoken, but the way he moved, the musculature of his hand, his voice, the look in his eyes told me that this was not the same man I’d married nine years ago. His smile was gone, his optimism, his sense of ambition …
Finally we reached the waiting room. Maher’s brother Bassam and his sister had arrived. Everyone rushed forward to kiss him, embrace him, touch him, hold him close. There stood Barâa in front of him; he took her in his arms and kissed her, but I could sense her hesitation, as if she didn’t know what to do. Houd didn’t like all the commotion. Maher turned to him to hug him, but he broke away and came running over to me. I took him in my arms; he calmed down. There we were in the waiting room: Maher seemed lost; now and then he tried to smile, but the result was not convincing. Barâa stood there beside him, a happy grin on her face, a bit nonplussed. Maher didn’t know Kerry or Alex; he knew Riad only vaguely. They chatted with him, congratulated him, but from the look of bewilderment on his face I realized that he didn’t know whom he could trust; he kept looking around, trying to catch my eye, as if asking for support, confirmation, a kind of assurance.
There was one question I had to ask Maher, but I didn’t want anyone around us to hear me. I turned to him and whispered in his ear: “Did they beat you in prison?”
He looked at me, surprised, as if he couldn’t possibly understand how anyone could spend a year in a Syrian prison and be treated well, then answered me with a simple yes.
The blood froze in my veins, tears flooded my eyes; I didn’t know what to do. The SHRC’s letter had been right all along; my worst fears were true. How I wanted to think of something else, but I couldn’t. Why had they made him suffer? Why had they left him in prison?
Fortunately, Kerry extracted me from my nightmare. The media were gathered outside the door; they wanted some comment. I explained to Maher that interest in his case had been high, and that public opinion had played a critical role in demanding that he be returned to Canada. He seemed to understand. It wasn’t long before he began to prepare a brief statement for the journalists outside. We were with him, I said; we would help him find the right words to thank everyone who had helped. One thing was certain: he couldn’t speak for long, he tired easily. When he was ready, I took him by the hand and we moved forward, with Alex and Riad beside us. Kerry was walking in front. When the doors swung open, there in front of us was what looked like a horde of journalists, a forest of microphones, outstretched arms. I could see Kerry struggling with all her might to push them aside. Finally, airport security guards rescued her. They cleared a path and we took our places at a table that had been specially set up. The journalists sorted themselves out, facing us, some standing with their cameras, some sitting on the floor with laptop computers on their knees. I recognized many of them. Meanwhile, there was a steady barrage of flashing.
Maher spoke in a gentle voice, thanking all the Canadians who had helped him to be reunited with his family, and to find his freedom. Now and then he would pause, as if searching for the right word; but he said what he wanted to say and then fell silent. It had not been long, a few minutes at best, but I realized how painfully slowly time was passing. Then it was my turn; I had to say something. We’d all been concentrating so much on what Maher would say that I’d forgotten to prepare something. But the words came, filled my mouth, and I spoke. I thanked everyone who had helped us and mentioned that we intended to withdraw and rest for a few days.
Overcome with emotion, I couldn’t leave it at that. Thinking of the physical and moral suffering that Maher had endured, of the man sitting beside me, frail and exhausted, suddenly I raised my index finger and my tone of voice changed.
“Maher’s liberation is only a beginning of justice …,” I said.
It was impossible to turn away from him, that was clear; I was determined to do everything I could to support him.
Finally, it was over. Marlene, Sarkis Assadourian, Leo Martel, Myra, and the other civil servants had been waiting in an adjacent room, to give us a degree of intimacy with our friends and family. We’d made up our minds to spend the night in Montreal, at my mother-in-law’s; the van that had brought us from Ottawa was waiting to drive us there. The Department of Foreign Affairs people would be returning to Ottawa. Marlene, Kerry, and Alex joined us, while Riad headed back as well. At last we reached St. Leonard, where my mother-in-law lived. It wasn’t long before her little house was full of people.
My brothers-in-law, my sister-in-law and her children, they’d all come to see their brother and uncle. No one said a word of surprise at the sight of Maher, but shock and sadness was written all over their faces. As his mother had not had time to prepare supper, one of his brothers called out for pizza. Marlene, Kerry, and Alex wanted to head back to Ottawa, but my mother-in-law insisted they eat with us before they left.
The pizzas arrived. There wasn’t enough room for everyone at the table so we found seats wherever we could. I watched Maher; he wasn’t eating. My mother-in-law brewed Turkish coffee for her unexpected guests. Maher still had that look about him, the look of a man who didn’t know where he was.
He would sit down and chat with one of the guests, then suddenly get to his feet, as if he were about to cry. I watched him in silence, not knowing what to do. When everyone had finally gone, I felt almost relieved. It was dark outside and we were all exhausted after a long day of emotion and surprises. Before leaving, Kerry told me: “Thanks to Riad, I’ve found a place where you can stay for a few days to avoid the media. Let’s talk tomorrow and I’ll tell you more.”
As I thanked Kerry, I found myself wondering what kind of life I would have, living somewhere else than in my own home for several days. Houd’s crying brought me back to reality. I caught Kerry’s eye, then rushed off. Houd needed sleep; he hadn’t had a wink since early that morning and now he was exhausted. Maher wanted to help calm him, but Houd wasn’t happy about this new face he’d forgotten all about, perhaps buried deep in his subconscious; now all he could do was whimper. I laid him down on a mattress on the floor and changed him into his pyjamas; he quickly calmed down and in a minute or two was fast asleep. Barâa wasn’t far behind. But before she drifted off, she wrapped her tiny arms around her father. He hugged her in return, and the two of them sat there for a moment, embracing. When I came back to turn out the light, both children were stretched out on the big bed; Maher was asleep on the small mattress on the floor. I closed the door and tiptoed into the other room.
The next day we spent the morning at Maher’s mother’s. Maher picked at his food in silence, but I had a feeling he wanted to talk. Finally he stood up, his face tense, and began to talk about what he’d seen in prison. He told of people packed into cells with no hope of ever seeing the light of day again. Then, suddenly, he broke into tears. I felt embarrassed in front of the children, my mother, my mother-in-law. Then my mother exclaimed, “Cry, cry, don’t worry; it’s the only way you’ll find relief. Cry, you’ll feel better …”
And so it went for the rest of day: words, memories, emotions punctuated by tears or sobbing, then silence. I felt that Maher wasn’t telling us everything; I felt he was keeping the worst for later. His eyes told me more than I wanted to know about how much he’d suffered. Perhaps he felt embarrassed in front of the children, in front of his mother, and that made him hold back; perhaps it was the fear of telling his story, or being reminded of it that left him looking so distraught, so lost. I didn’t want to be prying, so I left him alone.
A friend of Kerry’s had driven down to Montreal with our car; he would be driving us back to Ottawa. The trip was long and gloomy. I was counting the minutes, but everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. At last we pulled up outside Kerry’s house. She was happy to see us; she would be coming back to our apartment with us, then helping to take us to our new house. We had to collect our belongings, bring the clothing we’d need, Barâa’s school bag, and whatever other important items we’d need for a week away from the apartment – which Maher had never seen. I’d rented it while he was still in prison. When he stepped through the door, he closed his eyes and said, “While I was dying in an underground grave, you were doing everything you could, day and night, to survive along with the children.”
Then he shook his head and tears filled his eyes. I just stood there, helpless. Across the room, the little red light on the answering machine was blinking steadily. I walked over to the device and pressed the button: “You have twenty-one messages,” it said in its mechanical voice. With an abrupt movement I pressed another button, this one to stop playing the messages. I didn’t want to know who’d called. Now was the time to put a few things together and get out. Houd wanted to bring along almost all his toys. Barâa wanted to show her father all her new clothes. And there I was in the middle, trying to sort it all out as best I could, trying to cajole the one and convince the other. After several attempts, our things were in order and our family was ready to go off to spend a few days in hiding, far from curious eyes and persistent journalists.
The house we would be living in temporarily was an attractive one. The owners, a couple we knew, had gone to stay with their parents for the duration. I wasn’t sure that it was necessary to move, but I was convinced of one thing: there would be plenty of telephone calls back at the apartment, and all that new pressure would not be helpful to our family in its search for peace and quiet. Maher hadn’t yet told me the details of his ordeal; most of what he said were flashbacks, snapshots. I asked him nothing, leaving him free to talk about his experience when he felt ready to do so. I knew it would be coming, and I was afraid of listening to his story; even the thought of it gave me the chills. We were sitting in the living room while the children played in the next room. Two days had gone by since Maher had returned, two days that seemed to weigh on us like two long years. He looked at me long and hard and said, “You know, for ten months I lived in a grave, an underground cell. It was dark, narrow, and damp.”
It was the second time he’d used the word grave. Then he began to describe the place in detail; my heart was pounding.
“After every interrogation session, they’d take me back to my cell,” he said. “I was always thinking about you and the children. I was buried in my misery, but the thought of you helped me forget. At the start, I didn’t know where you were, I was afraid maybe they’d thrown you in prison in Tunisia; I was so worried about you. When I was still in the United States, I begged the FBI agents to let me call you, but they refused. They kept telling me I would soon be on the plane for Montreal and my family. The first day I thought I would go mad; I walked up and down in my cell, I couldn’t even think about sitting down on the metal bench. I kept telling the American agents, ‘Let me take a plane to Canada, I want to go home,’ but they wouldn’t answer me. Every instant I dreamed I’d be set free, that it was only a nightmare, but things got more and more complicated. When they woke me up early in the morning in the New York jail and put me on a plane, I realized I’d never see you again. You know that little suitcase of mine, the American Tourister with my shoes, a light jacket, and the tea glasses we bought together? They took them away from me; I never saw them again.”
Maher was gasping for breath, jumping from one story to another, as if he wanted to say everything all at once and couldn’t manage to get anything out. He wanted to talk about the pain he’d suffered. He needed to be heard; I was caught up in this whirlwind of emotion.
“I bought some chocolate in Zurich, for my mother and for you, when I’d come back to Tunis. I put them in my little handbag, along with a pair of pants and some underwear. Well, they let me keep it. It was my pillow in my cell in Syria. When I got to Jordan, I still hoped they’d send me back to Canada. But after several hours of detention, they put me in a car. I was kept blindfolded and head down for the entire trip. I couldn’t see a thing, and anytime I said a word someone would hit me on the neck, curse me, or threaten me. I had no idea where they were taking me. I thought my arms would come loose from my body I hurt so much. Then, many hours later they shoved me out of the car. The guards took me to a place where I could hear people speaking in loud voices, then they led me into a room and took off my blindfold. I lifted my head and saw an old photograph of the former president, Hafez al-Assad, and I understood I was in Syria. Then, all of a sudden, a police agent came into the room. He bared his yellow teeth and said, ‘I heard you’re from Canada, so what goodies do you have for us?’ I realized he wanted cigarettes or money. I looked around me; there was my little travelling bag. I opened it and handed him the bar of Swiss chocolate. What an idiot I was, thinking I could get out of there with a piece of chocolate. The agent took the chocolate and left, then another one came and it was the same story; in a few minutes a whole lineup of agents trooped in demanding chocolate. They took all of it and vanished.
“But the worst was still to come. They took me down a staircase. The stench of urine, mould, and filth turned my stomach. When my eyes got used to the darkness I saw I was in a kind of cave. I would live there for ten months before they transferred me to Sednaya Prison. My cell was around two metres long, one metre wide, and two metres high. It was very dark, with no light except a little coming through a small hole in the ceiling with iron bars. The door was metal. It had a tiny opening where they gave me my food. There was a dirty sheet, two plastic bottles, and two plates on the floor. I often had to pee into one of those bottles.”
I stared at Maher. He was ashamed to be saying such things about himself. I tried to react calmly, but deep inside I was shaking.
“Every time I told the truth they would beat me,” he said. “George, the officer in charge of my file, kept calling me a liar. He’d say, ‘You’ll see what we’ll do to you, you …’ and he’d slap me across the face. He had a sort of electric cable that he’d wave at me threateningly, and I don’t know how, I’d feel the cable hitting my hands, it was like being cut by a razor. One day the session lasted for several hours, I was terrified. George threatened to send me to the torture chamber; I urinated in my clothes.
“They only let us take one shower a week, with cold water. The weather was hot at first so that wasn’t bad, but when winter came I was shivering all the time; all my body shook when cold water touched my skin. George kept on telling me I was a member of al-Qaeda, that I was a terrorist, that I’d never get out of there alive. He’d beat me with his cable and would only let me go back to my cell if I told him what he wanted to hear …”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to hear those words, I didn’t want to hear of my husband being humiliated one more time. Maher told me about the days he spent in that prison, about his solitude, about how he constantly wanted to scream and, worst of all, about the cries of others who were being tortured.
“After each interrogation session, they’d throw me into a room where I could hear the screams of other inmates, their moaning and weeping. I couldn’t see a thing, but I was terrified. I wanted to rip my ears off, their screams were so piercing …”
He told me the despair he felt, then suddenly the consular visits began and he believed he would soon be set free and returned to Canada.
“I couldn’t say a word about my conditions to Leo Martel,” Maher went on. “The guards made that clear to me before the meetings, but sometimes I tried to signal to him with my eyebrows that what I was saying wasn’t the truth. I don’t know if he understood me.
I couldn’t see the sun. The food was disgusting. I hated the gluey rice and the dry bread we had to eat. Often, I thought I was going mad. It must have been a few months before they gave me a copy of the Qur’an and I could find comfort in its words. Your letters were like beams of light for me; I read them and reread them hundreds of times over. They kept me company. I didn’t know exactly what you were doing in Canada, but I was certain you wouldn’t let me rot in that hole.”
Maher had been talking for more than an hour now. The children were watching television, so we weren’t interrupted. I was feeling more and more ill at ease; Maher’s words were echoing in my mind. He continued:
“When the consul’s visits stopped, I was sure I was going to be buried alive in that prison for years. I hadn’t heard anything from you, the pain was more than I could bear. I’d been there for months, I knew, I’d counted the days in my cell. Then one day the guard took me upstairs and I realized I had a visitor. Then I saw Leo Martel, the consul, and I was overjoyed. But it was a special visit. We were in the office of Hassan Khalil, the general in charge of military intelligence. The general himself was there. It was my last chance. I had to talk about the hell I was living through, about the torture and the abuse. I was taking a huge risk, but I knew I had to speak out, even if they killed me after.”
Maher’s face suddenly lit up as if he were proud to have rediscovered the courage that had been broken under so many months of torture.
“I spoke openly of the beatings, what I had to endure, the way I was being treated, and I demanded justice. General Hassan Khalil sat there like stone. Leo Martel glanced at him nervously. I demanded to be treated humanely. I demanded to see a lawyer. My little speech was over in a minute. I was sure they would beat me to death after what I’d said. But a few days later they transferred me to Sednaya Prison. No matter how bad the conditions were there, it was like paradise compared to the underground cell I’d lived in for ten months. I could see other prisoners, talk to them. I began to hope again …”
We were still sitting there, talking, when Houd came running in, climbed up onto Maher’s lap, and for the first time said, “Ba-ba, Baba.” At last he was pronouncing the word for daddy, and yet for months he’d only been able to babble. Was he imitating his sister or had the sight of his father made Houd speak, made him say “Baba” to his father? I didn’t know what to think, I was so moved by Maher’s story, and by Houd’s first articulate words.
Living in our borrowed house was like living in a hotel. We had all the comforts of home, but I was homesick for my apartment. Maher didn’t really much feel like going out. He was afraid of being recognized. On his first Friday back in Canada, three days after his return, he didn’t even go to the mosque for the Friday congregational prayer, an obligation for all Muslim men.
Instead, Riad and a friend came to our house and we prayed together. It was a good idea to keep away from crowds and large gatherings. Later we found out that journalists and cameras had been on hand that day at the main Ottawa mosque to get reactions from Muslims about Maher’s liberation.
Maher had lost a lot of weight and was so weak he couldn’t make any physical effort. He figured he’d lost twenty kilograms by the time he left the underground cell, he told me. In Sednaya Prison, he ate better. Some prisoners even had the right to cook their own meals and share their food; he’d been able to put on some weight. He could also see daylight. But he’d brought a profound mistrust of humans back to Canada. He was no longer the natural, spontaneous person I’d known for all the years we’d lived together. He’d become suspicious, touchy, and would worry constantly that we were being followed. At first I thought those were reflexes he’d picked up in prison; I was sure he’d soon revert to the good-natured, natural man I knew. But every passing day drove home to me that this year of suffering would haunt us for many years to come.