Une place dans le cercle

Le mois de décembre passé je suis allée visiter Tunis, ma ville natale. Depuis quelques années, j’y vais tous les deux ans. C’est peut-être la vieillesse qui pointe à l’horizon et qui me rend nostalgique. Nostalgique des odeurs de mon enfance, des couleurs du ciel de l’été à la tombée du soir, après les journées de chaleur torride que je passais dans ma chambre en train de lire, presque collée au mur à la recherche, en vain, de fraicheur. Nostalgique aussi des amitiés que le passage du temps a graduellement effritées pour presque effacer. À chaque visite je regarde les photos que j’ai conservées. Comme si j’allais découvrir quelque chose de nouveau. Et pourtant je les connaissais par cœur. Les photos d’anniversaire où chaque enfant arbore un sourire, prend une pose particulière pour se distinguer. Celles de mariages, avec les robes blanches et longues, les cheveux coiffés pour l’occasion, le regard blasé, des ballons flétris qui trainent par terre. Mais la photo dont je me souviens le plus c’est celle que ma mère a prise à la veille des vacances d’été dans la cour de mon école primaire.

Me voilà avec trois autres filles. Quatre fillettes qui se ressemblent. Non pas physiquement, mais par leurs traits réguliers, les cheveux coupés à la garçonne ou tirés à l’arrière, des petites robes bien propres. Nous dégagions l’odeur de la classe moyenne, nous en exhumions le parfum caractéristique avec un sourire poli et un regard innocent. Les mêmes couleurs, les mêmes rêves, tous peints du même pinceau. C’est justement cette photo qui me revient à l’esprit quand je suis amenée à parler du Canada. Des petites filles de six ans dans une cour d’école et qui s’arrêtent le temps d’une photo.

Je suis arrivée à Montréal pour la première fois au mois de mars 1991. Ce fut pour moi une sorte de voyage initiatique de Tunis à Montréal après une escale de quelques heures à Amsterdam. Traverser l’Atlantique par les cieux. Tout est à la fois grand et petit. Le vaste ciel, les nuages à perte de vue et les terres qui paraissent comme des formes géométriques tirées d’un manuel scolaire. Montréal vue du ciel paraît si bien ordonné, des blocs d’immeubles, quadrillés è à l’horizontale et à la verticale par des rues et des boulevards. Rien à voir avec les cercles concentriques et les labyrinthes que j’aperçois de mon hublot en atterrissant à Tunis. L’ordre et la symétrie sont beaux à voir. Mais ça me faisait peur aussi. Quand on a grandi dans le chaos, on ne peut qu’être fasciné par l’ordre. Mais au bout de la fascination, il y a la peur. La peur de ce que cet ordre peut nous cacher.

C’était ma première rencontre avec des gens qui ne me ressemblent pas. Bien sûr qu’il y avait les livres et la télévisions. J’ai grandi avec les deux. Ils étaient mes guides du monde extérieur. Comprendre les autres. Comprendre ceux qui ne parlaient pas la même langue que moi et ceux qui ne me ressemblaient pas. Mais ce n’était pas suffisant. Rien ne peut remplacer le contact humain, le témoignage des yeux. Voir les rues de Montréal pour la première fois, c’est un peu comme traverser la manche à la nage. Les voitures qui arrivent par vagues successives, les feux de circulation qui commencent déjà à clignoter à peine qu’on a commencé à traverser la rue. Le plus souvent, je finissais presque en courant de peur d’être happée par la prochaine vague. Pas de marchands ambulants qui déballent leurs bric-à-brac, pas de policiers qui les guettent au bout de la rue pour leur faire un contrôle d’identité, et peut-être alors leur confisquer leur pacotille en fourrant le tout dans l’arrière d’un camion.

Quand je marchais dans les rues de Montréal, je passais inaperçue. Une étrangère parmi tant d’autres. En 1991, je faisais partie de ce 16% des Canadiens qui sont nés à l’étranger, aujourd’hui, il y en a encore plus et de toutes les couleurs : plus de 20%. C’est surtout ce mélange de cultures qui décrierait ma nouvelle vie au Canada.

En Tunisie, pendant les vingt ans que j’y ai vécu, j’ai rarement rencontré des personnes d’une autre culture ou d’une autre religion, à part bien sûr les touristes qui remplissaient les souks et à qui les « locaux » vantaient les attraits de leurs marchandises : un tapis pure laine, un plat décoratif en cuivre, une lanterne scintillante. Ces touristes étaient pour moi d’une classe à part. Un peu comme des objets exposés dans une musée. On regarde mais on ne touche pas.

Mais au Canada, les gens qu’on prendrait pour des touristes à Tunis, c’étaient mes concitoyens. J’allais à l’université avec eux. Je m’asseyais à leur côté, ils étaient caissiers au supermarché et certains étaient même mes professeurs. En Tunisie, les gens pensaient un peu qu’ils étaient le centre du monde, qu’ils avaient la meilleure nourriture au monde, bien avant de l’avènement de la diète méditerranéenne; qu’ils avaient les meilleures plages au monde même si celles-ci étaient remplies de baigneurs et de pelures de pastèques et, bien sûr, la meilleure équipe de foot au monde sans avoir une fois gagnée la coupe du monde. C’est un peu ce sentiment un peu villageois et provincial, qui fait que les gens s’aiment et se détestent à la fois et ne voient pas plus loin que le bout de leur nez, sinon de leurs frontières. J’ai grandi là-dedans. Avec des blagues sur les voisins libyens et algériens, un sentiment de supériorité éphémère pour oublier l’oppression.

J’ai rencontré une personne d’origine libyenne pour la première fois à Montréal. Tout d’abord, les mauvaises blagues me sont remontées à l’esprit mais tout de suite après je me suis rendu compte de la bêtise et la petitesse dans laquelle je me suis confinée pendant toutes ces années.
Car cette personne était l’amie d’une amie. Elle parlait français, elle entamait une maitrise en biologie et venait détruire en quelques minutes tous les stéréotypes que j’avais accumulés dans ma tête pendant des années.

Le quartier dans lequel j’ai vécu à Montréal, s’appelle Côte-des-Neiges. C’est l’un des quartiers les plus multiethnique du Québec sinon du Canada. Mais il n’y a pas d’ethnie ou de culture qui l’emporte sur une autre. Ce n’est pas non plus un ghetto où des gens s’entassent dans la misère ou la pauvreté. C’est un quartier dynamique, rempli de couleurs et de saveurs, dans lequel j’avais facilement accès au transport en commun et à l’université. J’allais à pied à l’École des Hautes Études Commerciales où je poursuivais mes études. Je pouvais aussi faire mes courses dans la multitude de commerces qui bordaient la rue principale qui porte le même nom que le quartier. Librairies, pâtisseries, marchands de fruit et de légumes, se côtoyaient en offrant des produits provenant du monde entier.

A chaque fois, que je passais par l’école du quartier, j’avais l’impression de passer par une mini-délégation onusienne. Rien à voir avec la photo avec mes amies dans ma cour d’école.
Les mêmes couleurs et les mêmes visages. Et pourtant la même ambiance bon enfant y régnait : les cris des enfants qui jouaient, les enseignants qui surveillaient de loin et les passants qui regardaient en souriant.

Même quand j’ai déménagé quelques années plus tard pour m’installer avec ma famille à Ottawa, la capitale du Canada, j’ai vécu une expérience tout à fait semblable. Le quartier Bayshore n’était pas aussi urbain que Côte-des-Neiges, mais tout aussi multiethnique. C’est un peu la banlieue où des personnes de différentes origines habitaient dans un même complexe résidentiel.

A l’époque, j’amenais tous les après-midis ma fille d’un an jouer au parc. C’est là où je voyais réellement la mosaïque du quartier : les petits canadiens de souche dans le carré de sable en train de jouer avec les petits chinois, que les grands-parents surveillaient du coin de l’œil tout en continuant leur conversation animée en mandarin. Il y avait aussi les garçons sikhs dont on essayait de faire pousser les cheveux enroulés en chignon dans un petit foulard de couleur vive. Les grands- parents jouent un rôle important dans ses communautés qui sont arrivés au Canada par vagues successives au grès des guerres qui se passaient ailleurs, des situations géopolitiques de certaines régions et des crises économiques.

Règle générale, les hommes arrivaient en premier, suivis par leurs épouses, puis les grands-parents, grâce au programme de réunification familiale. Ces grands-parents étaient un peu le point d’attache de ces communautés dans ce nouveau pays qui deviendraient ultérieurement les meilleurs « baby-sitters » de la famille.

Quand ma fille avait quatre ans, elle est entrée à l’école du quartier. C’est alors que j’ai pu voir de près cette diversité culturelle. J’allais une fois par semaine lire des livres aux enfants. Les enfants arrivaient avec des bagages différents. Ceux qui ont fui la guerre comme les somaliens et ceux qui ont été expulsés d’un pays qu’ils ont fait le leur mais qui les trouvait tout d’un coup encombrants, comme les palestiniens qui vivaient au Kuwait chassés du jour au lendemain. Il y avait ceux qui ont pu transférer leur fortune d’un compte bancaire à un autre mais aussi ceux qui malheureusement n’ont eu le temps de rien prendre, même pas une photo d’enfance. Je lisais des histoires à ces enfants qui, dépendamment de leur niveau de scolarisation, m’écoutaient les yeux avides et les oreilles remplies de cette nouvelle langue qui s’ajoutait à leur monde. Je ne comprendrais jamais leur monde. Quand j’avais leur âge, mon monde était simple, monochrome et dans un sens, prévisible. Le leur était tout autre. Un déracinement parfois involontaire, de nouveaux visages, et surtout de nouveaux rêves, multicolores.

Mais le Canada n’a pas toujours été celui que je décris, un endroit un peu idyllique où plusieurs cultures cohabiteraient dans une ambiance douce et sereine. C’est le défunt père de l’actuel Premier Ministre, Justin Trudeau, qui a introduit cette politique qui s’appelait multiculturalisme. Aujourd’hui, il y a certains qui ne jurent que par cela alors que d’autres n’y voit qu’un spectre qui va déchirer les valeurs traditionnelles européennes et chrétiennes qui ont bâti le Canada depuis sa création en 1867, et même défavoriser le Québec dans sa quête d’une identité nationale distincte.

Et même si cette politique a été mise en place en 1982 et inscrite dans la Charte Canadienne des droits et libertés, elle n’a pas été établie pour des raisons purement innocentes d’amour et de compassion. Si Pierre Elliot Trudeau possédait bien un atout, je dirais qu’il était fin politicien et excellent visionnaire. En fait, il a vite compris que le Canada ne pouvait pas perdurer politiquement si on n’y introduisait pas une politique de diversité culturelle qui garderait les communautés culturelles satisfaites et maintiendrait en quelque sorte la paix « sociale ».

En effet, ce n’est pas un secret que le Canada n’est pas seulement le fait de la colonisation française puis anglaise. Il a été construit par des communautés culturelles différentes issues de l’immigration. Les traces italiennes sont encore visibles dans certains quartiers de Montréal avec les maisons en duplex ou triplex où les propriétaires vont habiter l’appartement du sous-sol et louer le premier et deuxième étage, souvent à de nouveaux immigrants, pour rembourser un prêt hypothécaire. Toronto, une autre ville où les différentes cultures se sont succédé est aussi encore un vestige urbain de ces vagues migratoires : juifs, italiens, grecs, portugais, et polonais, tous y sont passés et tous y ont laissés leur empreinte. Le quartier chinois de cette ville constitue aujourd’hui une attraction touristique pour certains visiteurs avec ses restaurants où les nourritures coréenne, vietnamienne et japonaises se côtoient.

Mais le multiculturalisme n’est pas seulement une succession de mets gastronomiques ou des boutiques de saris indiens ou de marchands de fruits exotiques.

Entre 1885 et 1923, une taxe d’entrée à l’immigration fut imposée aux immigrants chinois, ceux qui ont construit le chemin de fer canadien qui relie l’Océan Atlantique au Pacifique. Ces hommes ont injustement payé pendant des années des sommes importantes pour pouvoir venir s’établir au Canada et pour ramener leurs épouses et fonder une famille. Ce n’est qu’en 2006 que le gouvernement canadien s’est excusé auprès de la communauté chinoise pour le tort qu’il leur a causé.

En 1914, le bateau Komagata Maru est venu accoster sur les côtes canadiennes. A son bord, 376 passagers d’origine indienne, tous venus chercher une vie meilleure au Canada. Mais le bateau a dû rebrousser chemin parce le Canada leur a refusé accès.

Il n’y a pas si longtemps, en 2010, un cargo, le « MV Sun Sea », qui transportait 492 réfugiés tamouls du Sri Lanka fuyant la guerre civile et cherchant un sanctuaire au Canada, a été intercepté par la garde côtière canadienne. Pire, les agents des services frontaliers canadiens sont montés à bord et ont arrêté enfants, femmes et hommes. Certains ont été détenus pendant des mois dans des centres de détention. Vraisemblablement, le multiculturalisme avait des limites.

Toutefois, depuis que je suis établie au Canada, j’ai pu voir à maintes reprises, surtout lors des visites scolaires que j’entreprends lors de certains festivals littéraires, que c’est à l’école que tout se passe.

Lors d’une rencontre avec des lycéens de Vancouver, une ville de la côte ouest du Canada qui compte l’une des plus grosses communautés asiatiques, j’ai pu parler avec des jeunes canadiens qui pour la plupart avaient visiblement des origines asiatiques. Plusieurs d’entre eux rencontraient pour la première fois une écrivaine arabe d’origine nord-africaine. Et pourtant, une fois notre conversation entamée, j’ai vite compris que nous avions des histoires à partager. Pour la plupart le Canada est sans aucun doute le pays natal mais certains restaient attachés à l’histoire d’un grand-père pêcheur d’origine japonaise à qui on a confisqué le bateau de pêche lors de la seconde guerre mondiale ou celle d’un épicier chinois dont on se moquait bien souvent de l’accent. Et pourtant, ces jeunes ont grandi en se voyant parfaitement Canadiens. Ils parlent anglais, parfois même français, ils s’habillent à la mode du jour, mais restent toujours mus par le désir de connaitre leur histoire et surtout de raconter la leur. Ce qui n’est pas toujours facile. Le multiculturalisme n’est pas la carte d’accès magique qui les y conduit automatiquement. Il faut autre chose.

Il y a deux ans, avec la fin de la Commission de vérité et de réconciliation entre le Canada et les premières nations, on a pu assister à l’affranchissement de plusieurs voix autochtones. Ses voix sont importantes car le multiculturalisme n’est pas seulement une mosaïque destinée à « vendre » le Canada au reste du monde. Mais aussi faut-il rappeler que le Canada est le pays qui appartient à des peuples qui ont permis à des « Jacques Cartier » et à des « Samuel de Champlain » de survivre les longs hivers rigoureux en leur faisant découvrir ce vaste pays et en les invitant à leur cercle. Le cercle, symbole si important chez les premières nations comme un lieu où aucune hiérarchie n’existe mais juste des places les unes à côtés des autres avec une parole autour ou bien un silence…

Un grand cercle où de voix diverses se joignent pour chanter ou se taire et contempler le ciel limpide, le fleuve qui coule et le soleil qui brille. C’est justement vers une telle image que j’aimerais voir le Canada se diriger. Un cercle de cultures. Un cercle qui s’élargit et grandit avec le temps.

Je repense encore à cette photo de la petite fille que j’étais dans sa cour d’école. Tous les enfants se ressemblaient. Aucun visage différent, aucune surprise. Rien que la vie qui passe.
Au Canada j’ai découvert la possibilité de voir le monde autrement et de le vivre d’une autre manière. Intense, complexe et surprenante. Je ne pense pas que le multiculturalisme tel que vécu aujourd’hui est parfait. Mais je crois profondément qu’il pourra le devenir un jour. Il faut juste trouver notre voix et notre place dans le cercle.

Une version courte de cet article a été publié au Magazine français, l’Express, Juin, 2018

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What misogyny looks like when you wear a hijab

Last week, I was on the bus travelling from Gatineau to Ottawa. I was taking that bus line for the first time and wasn’t familiar with the route and stops. Assuming that my stop was coming, I rang the bell, signalling my intention to get off. It turned out that I was wrong and that I was still far from my intended stop. The bus stopped anyway, and I didn’t get off.

A middle-aged man standing beside me asked, “why you didn’t get off?” Taking his question at face value, I replied, “it was a mistake.” To my surprise, he was quick to fire back: “Next time, don’t do it!”

I couldn’t believe my ears. The bus driver didn’t say anything to me and here is this man, a simple rider, who feels entitled to talk to me in a patronizing tone to teach me how to behave on the bus. “Don’t talk to me like this,” I replied to him, fuming. “Shut up,” he ordered me angrily. “You shut up,” I replied back. “I am going to report you to the bus driver,” I continued.

In the midst of this heated interaction, a white lady stood up, got closer to me, and moving between me and the man, asked me, “is there anything I can do to help?” The whole dynamic changed. Until then, I was the “isolated” Muslim woman facing her white male bully, and now this white woman decided to break the “domination” relationship and turned it into an allyship. In matter of seconds, a Black woman joined the circle and said, lightly, “what is the problem here? I always make mistakes when requesting bus stops.” Another racialized man, who so far had been watching quietly, became encouraged and said to the white man, “why are you behaving this way?” The white man was isolated and started to retreat.

No longer on the offensive, he started saying he was “just wondering.” “No,” I corrected him, “you were simply mean.” He didn’t say a word. I was still shaken, but because of the solidarity I felt surrounded with, I decided to go to the bus driver and tell him about what happened. He was very cooperative. “If you want me to report him, I can do it immediately; I can even kick him off the bus.” I was not on a power trip. I was just trying to go home. I told the bus driver that this time I will let it go and then I got off. The white and Black ladies who stood by me both got off the bus; I thanked them for their actions and words, and each one of us went on her way.

This incident might look trivial, but shook me to the core, physically and morally. I thought I was much stronger than this but obviously I was not. I thought that words would come more easily to my rescue, but they were trembling and slow. I speak three languages: Arabic, my mother tongue, and French and English. It is known that in tense and emotional circumstances, when a person is at risk or in a situation of fear, she finds it easier to communicate her emotions in her mother tongue. Not only did I have to reply to this man in English but also in a manner that accurately reflected my emotions. I became so overwhelmed. Once at home, I felt I needed to cry.

Crying would help ease the tremendous anger raging inside me but also would bring me to my humanity — the simple humanity I constantly have to prove exists under my hijab.

Since the attacks of 9/11, I’ve felt insecure on the street; I am not exaggerating. As a woman wearing a hijab, I became an easy target for glares, rude behaviour, bigotry, and Islamophobic comments. I don’t claim that I am constantly a victim. Nevertheless, fears are always in the back of my mind, and unconsciously or consciously, they shape my actions and my attitudes, my words and even my silences. The hypervigilant state I am always in drains me emotionally, and nothing can calm me down until I am at home.

Despite who I think I am or describe myself to be, my appearance speaks more quickly than me in public spaces. The decade-long hammering about the question of “reasonable accommodation” in Quebec, followed by the failed attempt to ban “religious symbols” specifically targeting women in hijab by then premier Pauline Marois in the 2013 provincial election, later taken over by former prime minister Stephen Harper during his “niqab ban” in 2015, created this atmosphere of a vigilante attitude by some Canadians.

These tactics of identity politics are not merely political experiments that magically disappear once an election is over or after a politician is defeated. They are not merely words that fade away with time; they have a long-lasting impact on people and they can lead inevitably to actions.

The dehumanization that Muslim women are subject to — either through classic Orientalist depictions in paintings like The Women of Algiers in Their Apartment by Eugène Delacroix or through stereotypes like the cute Jasmine character in Aladdin by Hollywood — is ingrained in people’s imagination. The common, simplistic and wrong perception that the hijab is a symbol of oppression is still alive and thriving, even though many books have been written by Muslim women to declare otherwise.

I don’t know what exactly pushed that man on the bus to ask me that question and to treat me the way he did. Is it just the fact that I was a woman? That would be misogyny. Or is it the fact that I was wearing a headscarf that invested him with the mission to “teach me a lesson”? I can’t ever know for sure. However, as someone who lived through that experience, looked into his eyes and saw his expression, I have a strong feeling that he wouldn’t have talked to me if I wasn’t a woman wearing a headscarf.

As someone who just read that “one in four Muslim women wearing a headscarf in New York City has been pushed on a subway platform,” I do not have the luxury to give that man the benefit of the doubt. I have every right to feel insecure.

My headscarf “told” him that I was “oppressed” anyway: most likely, my husband, my father or my brother are already oppressing me, so why wouldn’t he be able to do it, too? My hijab allows him to oppress me.

Moya Bailey, a queer Black feminist, coined the term “misogynoir” to describe misogyny towards Black women, where race and gender both play a role in bias. “Misogynijab” would perhaps be a term to use in those cases where both misogyny and hijab-wearing meet intersectionally.

I believe that populist politicians, with their simplistic and dangerous rhetoric, empower their bases to act upon their words. The dangers of populist politicians like Donald Trump or Doug Ford are not “simple talk” or “controversial tweets” shared in virtual platforms. The impacts of these politicians are what happens to vulnerable people in the streets, on public transit, or in detention centres. Their words are calls for actions. Their words act as green lights for some to “defend” their territories from people who seem weaker than them.

I have never considered myself oppressed. In fact, I think I am privileged. I came to Canada to pursue my graduate studies. I have a family. I have a house and I drive a car. If I didn’t take the bus that day, this incident wouldn’t have happened to me and I would have thought that the world is still a wonderful place and Canada the most “tolerant” city. But obviously, it is not.

Imagine I was a Syrian refugee or any other hijab-wearing woman who doesn’t speak a lot of English, on the bus in the same place. What would have happened? What if the two women who offered support were not there? What if everyone else behaved like bystanders, felt unconcerned by what was happening? What if the bus driver wasn’t cooperative, or worse, indifferent? Most likely, the white man would have been more empowered and even more invested with missions to defend his “public space.”

When I give presentations about Islamophobia, people wonder how it concretely happens. I usually share statistics with them or refer them to examples from the media. Next time, I will tell them this story.

This blog was published on rabble.ca

The torturers’ bargain: Crime and no punishment, but many rewards

Despite being deeply implicated in some of the worst crimes of the Bush administration’s torture regime, Gina Haspel has been promoted to Director of the CIA.

Haspel managed the CIA’s Site Green detention camp in Thailand, the blueprint for the rest of the Agency’s “black sites” around the world: a matrix of secret prisons where the captives could be brutalized with impunity.

Black site detainees were broken physically and psychologically; kept naked, beaten, hooded, waterboarded, threatened with electric chairs and military dogs, sexually abused (including through medically unnecessary rectal feedings so forceful the effects resembled those of violent rape), locked in boxes filled with insects, and forced to lie in their own excrement. One lost an eye, at least two died, and many hallucinated or begged to be killed.

Even more damningly, it turned out that almost one-quarter of the detainees had been sucked into the CIA’s system of black holes completely by mistake, according to the U.S. Senate Intelligence Committee.

One of the prisoners over whose torture Haspel presided, Abdal Rahim al-Nashiri, was described by a U.S. Navy reserve doctor as “one of the most severely traumatized individuals I have ever seen … in my over 20 years of experience treating torture victims from around the world, including Syria, Iraq, and the Democratic Republic of Congo.”

The prohibition of torture in international law is universal and absolute, and the UN Convention Against Torture requires all forms of involvement in it to be criminalized. But instead of being punished, many of the officials responsible for America’s torture program have been advanced to positions of even greater power — a tradition started by Presidents Bush and Obama, and now extended by Donald Trump.

Government lawyer Jay Bybee, for example, who helped construct the legal framework used to justify torture, was given a lifetime seat as a judge on the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals.

Bybee’s co-architect of legalized torture, White House Counsel Alberto Gonzales, was elevated to U.S. Attorney General.

Former Deputy Secretary of Defense Paul Wolfowitz, who approved the torturous interrogation techniques employed at Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib, went on to become President of the World Bank.

John Brennan, who endorsed extraordinary rendition and torture as a CIA official during the Bush years, was appointed first as White House Homeland Security Advisor and then as CIA Director by Barack Obama.

George Tenet, who authorized and directed the use of torture as Director of the CIA, received a Presidential Medal of Freedom from George Bush — while Bush himself is now being memorialized in nostalgic hindsight as Trump’s contrast in presidential virtue and restraint, rather than his precedent in lawless brutality.

In Canada, too, individuals complicit in torture have long been rewarded instead of removed.

For instance, psychiatrist Donald Ewen Cameron — who conducted electroshock experiments on humans at McGill University in the 1950s, for a CIA-funded project on mind control — ascended to President of the World Psychiatric Association.

More recently, the O’Connor and Iacobucci Inquiries determined that Canadian security agencies wrongfully labelled four innocent Muslim men as terrorists on the basis of racist stereotypes in the wake of 9/11, and then took advantage of their resulting incarceration in countries infamous for torture to try to extract information out of them.

But none of the authorities inculpated have been prosecuted. On the contrary, several were promoted — among them Mike Cabana, the inspector in charge of the RCMP’s torture-enabling A-O Canada investigation, who climbed the ranks to Deputy Commissioner; and Stephen Covey, the RCMP’s liaison with the torture-mongering Syrian regime, who became a Superintendent.

At least three of the participants in the torture scandal, including Cabana, were subsequently honoured with the Order of Merit of the Police Forces for “exceptional service.”

Giuliano Zaccardelli — who was pressured to resign from his post as Commissioner of the RCMP after lying to a parliamentary committee about the torture of Maher Arar — was given a senior position in Interpol, the global police force.

Last month, Kelly Pocha was fired from her job in a British Columbia car dealership, following outrage about her racist tirade in a Denny’s restaurant denigrating a group of Muslims as “not Canadian” — while the planners and executors of a global system of abuse designed to treat scores of Muslim detainees as non-human have not only been spared punishment, but permitted to rise to the heights of institutions entrusted with enormous amounts of power.

The logic required to rationalize the apparent paradox — the bigger the scale of the transgression, the smaller the penalty — can only be described as tortured.

This article was written in collaboration with the legal analyst Azeezah Kanji and first published at rabble.ca

When it comes to Palestine, many Canadian politicians are silent

In June 2009, I joined a delegation of Code Pink to visit Gaza. The main purpose of our delegation was to build playgrounds for the children of Gaza after Israel’s brutal aerial, naval and ground attack named Operation Cast Lead. It was estimated that 1,400 Palestinians were killed by Israeli security forces. Schools, hospitals, universities and a major part of Gaza’s infrastructure was destroyed. The ultimate objective of our delegation was an attempt to break the siege imposed since 2007 by the Israel government on the Gaza strip — a densely populated 365 square kilometres where 1.8 million people live, many of them in precarious conditions.

Our delegation was composed of U.S. human rights activists, mostly women, and a few Canadians. We were motivated by our quest for justice and our will to see with our own eyes the conditions Palestinians were living in after the devastation caused by the military operation. Armed with patience but mostly a lot of good luck, our delegation was able to cross the Gaza border with Egypt, another country complicit in maintaining this unfair and humiliating blockade.

Since then, two other brutal military operations (Operation Pillar of Defense in 2012, Operation Protective Edge in 2014) targeted Gaza, and the humanitarian crisis has deepened. Last week, on March 31, Palestinians from Gaza gathered along Israel’s borders for a “Great March of Return” to demand that refugees obtain rights to return to their land. It is a symbolic but strong move, expected to continue until May 15, the commemoration of the Nakba, when Palestinians were expelled from their homes in 1948. Israeli soldiers responded to these demonstrations by firing live ammunition and killing 17 Palestinians and injuring more than 700 hundred people. Israel claimed that the protesters killed were either violent and part of Hamas.

Last December 2017, when Donald Trump decided to move the U.S. embassy from Tel-Aviv to Jerusalem, Canada issued a statement where it described itself as “a steadfast ally and friend of Israel and friend to the Palestinian people.”

One assumes that if a state is an “ally and friend” with another state, both offer condolences to each other in times of tragedy and share “good advice” or at least “restraint in using force” if an “ally and friend” has fired on demonstrators, killing 17 of them and injuring more than 700.

But this is only if the “ally and friend” is not named “Israel” and if the victims of the military operation are not named “Palestinians.” So Canada sheepishly didn’t say anything to its “friend and ally” and once again let down the Palestinian people.

This position — choose what you’d like to name it — of “cowardice” or “self-censorship” or “who really cares,” not only defines the action or inaction of the Canadian government in general, it also applies to individual members of Parliament, who in a democracy are supposed to enjoy freedom of opinion and some sort of immunity to speak their minds. But, once again, apparently this applies only to “some issues” and to “some countries” and not when it comes to Israel and the Palestinian people.

Last year, when a simple “harmless” motion, M-103, that led to another “harmless report” with no serious recommendations regarding Islamophobia was presented in the House of Commons to study the extent of Islamophobia in Canada, many members of Parliament were panicking, speaking out, and raising the spectre of the loss of freedom of expression and a creeping sharia invading Canadian streets. They were claiming that people should be able to criticize everyone — even Muslims and Islam. Over and over, we heard the argument that “no one is above criticism, we are a free country.” No one or maybe except when you kill 17 people and they happen to be Palestinians, then freedom of expression isn’t used — it is replaced by silence.

Even our Foreign Affairs Minister Chrystia Freeland — whose spokesperson explained her silence on the U.S. moving its embassy to Jerusalem with the reason, “The minister does not make statements about world events before they happen” — didn’t say a word about the killing of 17 Palestinians by the Israeli army.

However, Minister Freeland was eloquent in speaking out about the expulsion of four Russian diplomats from Canada, because of the alleged Russian poisoning of an ex-Russian agent and his daughter in Britain. There is not an investigation into the poisonings yet, no report yet and still she was quick to take strong actions and words. But on the killing of Palestinians, despite the flagrant casualties, the pictures on social media, the dead bodies shot by the bullets, the denouncing of Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, she kept silent.

In about a year, there will be a federal election. I really hope that Canadians will remember this troubling silence and think of the MPs that communities worked so hard to elect, the ones they distributed flyers for, the ones they went door to door to help elect, the ones they helped to raise funds. These hard-working communities should remember how their MPs reacted during these moments of tragedies. Did they react with silence or did they stand up for justice, even with a simple word? I am not saying that federal MPs should be elected solely on a single issue, in this regard their positions on Israel-Palestine. But rather, these positions are very eloquent. Sometimes silence is more telling than words.

This article was originally published at rabble.ca

The troubling silence of the “Sheikhs” about the fate of Tariq Ramadan

I stopped going to the Revival of Islamic Spirit (RIS) years ago. I found the event super commercialized, and less and less intellectually challenging for me.

It became a big fair of many self-proclaimed sheikhs who are carefully chosen and who lined up according to certain criteria that is more linked to their gender, celebrity and popularity status.

Those same scholars were more interested in the pursuit of their “religious careers” and the building of their “fans club”. The topics were ascepticized, superficial and the speakers were very careful in the choice of their talks so as not to ruffle any political feathers.

Aside from few speakers, the majority would come there and maintain a very shallow and fluffy talk about good manners, good behaviour, and most of all would avoid criticizing or denouncing unjust policies in a North American context or in the Middle East where a large part of the audience is originally from.

Not a single word about Guantanamo, not a single word about the dictatorship of the Gulf countries. No fiery political speeches, no thought provoking conversations. Just a preacher and good listeners who would come back home feeling good that they spent few hundred dollars on a hotel package and entrance fees. This is of course not to mention the shopping discounts of boxing day (the event usually takes place during Christmas period).

One of the rare speakers at RIS who defied these almost implicit rules was Tariq Ramadan. He challenged the audience with his opinions. He stopped them when they were trying to clap when he said something appealing, encouraging the crowd to be rather rational instead of emotional.

In 2014, he rightly decided to stop participating in this big fair of “halal entertainment”. My understanding of the rational behind his decision is the problematic positions of some invited “sheikhs” who kept silent, or even worse, sided with the counter-revolutions of the Arab Spring.

Indeed, in 2011, when the Arab Spring traveled from Tunisia to Egypt, to Libya, to Yemen, to Bahrain and to Syria, a new era was about to open in that region. An era of fearless populations who were ready to put an end to dictatorship and arbitrary rules, the start of an era towards building a new life full of dignity.

No wonder that one of the slogans branded at the numerous demonstrations that went through the streets of Sidi-Bouzid in Tunisia or Dara’a in Syria were “The people want the system to fall”. The “system” (or the regime) means the government running these countries and the corrupt regime suffocating the lives of all the citizens.

This new era wasn’t accepted with wide arms by all. It was actually stopped with arms and blood. Among the countries that were so frightened of the changes were Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates. Both of them, with a long history of oppression and flagrant absence of civil society, had a lot to fear from this change that not only threatened their thrones but “the system”.

The whole world watched these political and social changes unfold. Youth were especially excited and optimistic. Many of the societies of these countries were composed of young population with no serious opportunities like jobs or even mariage prospects.

During this period of turmoil, very few “sheikhs” sided with the change. To the opposite, many of them sided with the statu-quo, reminding the youth of the importance of obedience of the parents and of “those who are in charge of their lives”, aka the “system”.

At the RIS, the year after the start of the Arab Spring, nobody spoke about the events in those countries. Only Tariq Ramadan did. He even wrote a book about it. Even though, I disagreed with some of his opinions about few matters, I still thought that his voice was needed and relevant. The whole world was anxiously watching the change, so why shouldn’t he be speaking and discussing it.

But the RIS organizers invited the “Sheikhs” who are officially close to the United Arab Emirates or other similar monarchies. These “Sheikhs” kept silent about the tragedies happening in the Middle East and the dawn of change that was stopped with a fierce military intervention in Bahrein and Egypt and with literally bloody wars in Yemen, Libya and Syria.

This was a shameful and problematic position. The history wouldn’t forgive whoever sided with the oppressors. The “sheikhs” who are supposed to have a duty to support the oppressed and speak out for their rights, sheepishly took the side of the oppressors, the one who has the money and power, basically they sided with the “system”. I am so glad that Tariq Ramadan was not like the “Sheikhs” and that he decided to stop attending what became like a “circus”.

Today, Tariq Ramadan has been accused by three French women of violent rape. In France, he was interrogated by the police and subsequently preventively arrested. For the first days of his incarceration, he was in Fleury-Mérogis, an infamous French prison where many French Muslim suspects of terrorism have been held.

This is a highly symbolic gesture by the French legal system. It is intended to humiliate one of the most known public Muslim figures. But his treatment went beyond this mere symbolism. He was denied family visits for 45 days. His medical treatment was not proper and adequate. On the other hand, his accusers were given a platform to go to all popular TV shows and tell their stories. He was kept in prison in total commnunicado.

This case came in the aftermath of the #MeToo movement where the women are supposedly liberated so they can confront their harasser and raper. In the case of Tariq Ramadan. There was no confrontation. There was one side talking about their stories and the other side was silenced. The whole principle of the rule of law was denied to him. Worse, today, we are hearing from the lawyer of Tariq Ramadan, that even the versions of some of these women have been questionable and very problematic, to say the least.

Meanwhile, faced with this complex case, the “sheikhs” who are usually very quick in condemning every thing from terrorism to bad muslim manners, have been utterly silent. An uncomfortable silence. Usually they are very prompt to have an opinion on every thing including what you wear, who you marry and what you eat. But when one of the prominent and intellectual voices from the Muslim community, whether we agree with him or not, is silenced, is denied due process, is humiliated by being transferred from one prison to another, they have nothing to say.

Actually, for me, their silence means a lot. It means that they have no intellectual courage to defend the “Right”. And we aren’t here defending Tariq Ramadan the person, as it is not our purpose. The courts can do better jobs, at least we still hope so. But we are defending every one to be treated with dignity. From terrorist suspects to any other accusations, be it allegations of rape after the #Metoo movement. Anyone has the right to defend himself. And those who are looking for the spotlight in the RIS or any other “halal entertainment” event, and would keep silent about Tariq Ramadan have miserably failed the test of the integrity.

But here’s what they don’t get: Today is Tariq Ramadan, tomorrow, it will be them.

Islamophobia continues to fester in wake of Quebec City mosque shooting

On January 29, 2018, Canada will commemorate the first anniversary of the horrible and shocking killing of six Muslim men, shot by Alexandre Bissonnette in a Quebec City mosque.

Beyond the unanimous condemnation last year (rightly so) of such a violent and terrorizing act by politicians from all level of governments, I believe that nothing was achieved in fighting Islamophobia and stopping the wave of hate sweeping across Canadian cities.

Even the recent symbolic proposal to declare January 29 an official day of remembrance, initiated by more than 70 Canadian organizations, was met with staunch opposition from political parties in Quebec’s National Assembly — the Parti Québécois and the Coalition Avenir Québec — and tergiversation and non-committal replies from both Liberal parties in Quebec and Ottawa.

Like classic arguments used in France or by some conservative politicians during the debate around anti-Islamophobia motion M-103 last winter, each time the issue of hate against Muslims is evoked, it is turned into a semantic debate about the exact meaning of the word “Islamophobia” and about the imagined threats that such initiatives would pose to freedom of speech. As if the killing of six hard-working citizens in a place of worship came out of nowhere or the statistics revealed by Quebec City police last December were just another case of “crying wolf” by victimized Muslims interested in muzzling free minds.

Meanwhile, groups propagating hate, reinforcing stereotypes and ignorance, and inciting violence are left unbothered — or worse, they are growing in intensity and virulence.

During the summer of 2017, a controversy was falsely created about an organized trip at the Parc Safari zoo near Montreal. A group of Muslim families prayed on the lawn, a practice that as a practising Muslim I have been seeing in North America since I first arrived in Canada in 1991. On Facebook, some individuals criticized and attacked the park management, accusing them of allowing Muslims holding prayers in a public space and spreading their religion. With the administration standing by their decision to accommodate visitors as long as they don’t violate park policies, this manufactured crisis became another one added to the long list of incidents in which Muslims are portrayed as threats to the public order, and thus fuelling Islamophobic reactions and fear.

More recently, a Montreal mosque found itself in another fabricated controversy when a TVA journalist alleged that there was provision in the construction contract between the mosque and the builders working for them, barring women from the site on Fridays. Quebec politicians were quick to jump on the bandwagon and denounce the “misogynistic behaviour” of Muslims. There were no second thoughts, no calls to be cautious; every politician had a piece of wood to add to the fire. This time it was not the freedom of speech argument that was raised; instead the principle of gender equality came in handy for some.

Even when the news turned out to be plainly wrong, there were few calls for investigation, no serious reprimand and a very shallow apology by the media outlet.

The accumulation and repetition of these “stories” build on a suffocating atmosphere many Muslim communities breathe across Canada.

A recent media report showed that Toronto is another city where Islamophobia has been growing and left unchallenged by politicians. Anti-Muslim rallies have been held regularly in front of mosques, the Quran was torn in a Peel District School Board meeting about religious accommodation and a Toronto Imam has received death threats because he is helping the board with religious and accommodation issues.

Last December, Pamela Geller, a U.S.-based Islamophobic blogger who once described President Obama as a “third-worlder and a coward,” and said that “[h]e will do nothing but beat up on our friends to appease his Islamic overlords,” was invited to speak by the Jewish Defence league in Toronto, and Ezra Levant joined her at the event.

Once again, freedom of speech was a fine pretext for allowing a blatantly Islamophobic event to take place and hate speech to flourish and become normalized.

I believe there are three categories of people responsible for this troubling situation.

The first are politicians. Many of them have been playing with identity politics for a long time while others have remained sitting on the bench. Not long ago we had a prime minister named Stephen Harper who said that “Islamicism is the biggest threat to Canada.” The uncommon word “Islamicism” amalgamates Islam, fundamentalism and terrorism, making the terms interchangeable. Later, he even gave the example of a mosque as a potential place of youth radicalization, immediately making a connection in people’s minds between Islam and violence.

Even if Justin Trudeau considered the Quebec City killings a terrorist act, his government took very little initiative to help provinces and cities come up with education campaigns in schools, in hospitals or public transit to fight Islamophobia. He didn’t make any changes to hate crime laws to dissuade white supremacist groups, that are on the rise in Canada. Instead in 2015, Justin Trudeau and the Liberals voted for the anti-terrorism legislation introduced by Stephen Harper, formerly known as Bill C-51. Once again, they used laws to create two specific kinds of crimes: ones committed by Muslims and ones committed by other people whose faith doesn’t matter.

Here, it is ironic to remember that Alexandre Bissonnette won’t face anti-terrorism charges.

Even the recently passed amendments to the anti-terrorism law keep the heavy feeling that Canada is constantly under threat by terrorists, a.k.a. Muslims, allowing for secret trials to take place, a practice so far only applied to Muslim suspects.

The second group is media. Some media outlets have also been dangerously playing the card of fear against Muslims. They choose which incidents to report and over-represent, like the issue of the niqab during the 2015 federal election. That was not the only time. In 2008, during the reasonable accommodation crisis, many media outlets in Quebec inflated and distorted the cases of religious accommodation demands, making them seem overwhelming. In Ontario, during the “Sharia debate” crisis, some media invited only extremist views from each side, helping to polarize the debate, and leaving the population with more fear than real answers.

And finally, the third group is the general public. When violent events committed by Muslims occur around the world, the onus is placed on Muslims to distance themselves from violence, from their faith, and from the violent ideologies espoused by some Muslim groups. I lived through that and I keep going through it each time a terrorist act is committed in Western countries (mind you that when terrorist attacks happen in other places in the world, they go almost unnoticed).

I wouldn’t expect people to condemn every single Islamophobic act committed as this is not possible and it isn’t fair to make people guilty by simple association. However, I think that there is a huge duty for self-education about Islam and Muslims, and to make an effort to get out of our comfort zone and make new friends who are Muslims. They can be good or they can be bad, as anyone else. But the effort is worth it. Critical analysis of the news and of politicians’ words and actions should not only matter when it comes to work, health and the economy but also when it comes to national security too. Fear shouldn’t blind us and give a blank cheque to politicians. It should rally us to fight darkness and hate.

This article was first published at rabble.ca

Public apologies serve crucial role in democratic societies

Last week, some voices rose up criticizing Prime Minister Justin Trudeau about the list of apologies he has made since he took office in 2015. Some argued that his late father, Pierre Elliott Trudeau, would not have done so; in this patriarchal analogy, a son has to follow in the footsteps of his dad, whether he is right or wrong. Other critics insisted that apologizing to victims is a symbol of current attitudes which find fault in outdated traditions judged to be colonizing and discriminating by today’s standards.

As a victim of government policies of systematic discrimination towards Muslims after 9/11, I totally disagree with those arguments. Apologies are not merely monetary gifts won through a lottery ticket, or hollow words pronounced in public by teary politicians. They are crucial steps for mourning victims and supporting survivors. They are highly symbolic gestures that are instrumental in building a collective memory, defining our history as a country and restoring faith in institutions. On a personal level, I was adamant about seeing words of apology written down on paper. I keep this paper framed on my desk. The words represent a path of light for my children’s future, always mixed with the clouds associated with their names.

Acknowledging the wrongs of past policies is a crucial pillar of the accountability principle that underlies our democratic system. Our judiciary system is built on the notions of due process and personal liability of citizens and institutions. It is not a coincidence that many countries with difficult pasts (ethnic violence, corruption and apartheid) and which afterwards chose to enter the democratic circle held truth and justice commissions. These were not acts of vengeance or weakness or the defeat of some groups by others, but a strong signal to building a new social contract together on a level playing field.

When some criticize the redress and apology received by Omar Khadr, who spent more than a decade in Guantanamo, or Abdullah Almalki, Ahmed El Maati or Muayyed Nureddin, who were all tortured in Syrian jails with the complicity of Canadian law enforcement and intelligence services, these criticisms overlook the fact that the compensations and apologies didn’t arrive overnight on a silver plate. They didn’t miraculously happen because of a change of heart or a feeling of guilt. They came after years of judicial inquiries and legal battles. They came after years of public calumnies by anonymous sources. They came after years of physical and psychological torture. They came after families lived in anguish and social exclusion. They came after reputations were damaged forever. They came after employment opportunities became inexistent if not null.

Those voices should direct their criticism to the government policies that allowed such discrimination to take place in the first instance. When Muslim asylum-seekers are stopped at the border and questioned about how many times they pray a day or about their religious opinions on women’s headscarves, this is called religious discrimination. When young men are arrested in the street, frisked and asked to supply personal information just because of the colour of their skin, this is called racial profiling and carding. When men and women are rounded up at social gatherings or laid off from their jobs because of their sexual orientation, it is called sexual discrimination. When Indigenous children are separated from their communities and sent thousand of kilometres away from their families, prevented from speaking their native language and then physically and morally abused, this has a name: it is called cultural genocide.

When Canadian professor Hassan Diab was extradited to France in 2014 to face accusations of bombing a synagogue that were shown over and over in the court system to be unsubstantiated, and to say the least, untrue, very few voices rose up to ask Trudeau to call his French counterpart and explicitly request Diab’s release and return to Canada. The minute this Canadian citizen is able to return safely to Canada and eventually sue the government for abandoning him in jail despite eight French legal decisions to release him, then those voices will likely complain about how the government is wasting its tax dollars and throwing out apologies.

It is also worth mentioning the case of another Canadian, Abderrahmane Ghanem, who was a youth radicalized in Calgary but who didn’t join any terrorist groups or commit any violent acts. Nevertheless, while travelling to Algeria, his parents’ country of origin, he was arrested, charged and spent 13 months in prison, in very bad conditions. After his acquittal by an Algerian court, his Canadian lawyer, Gary Caroline, linked Ghanem’s ordeal to Algerians acting on information provided to them by the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.

As long as our systems allows injustice to happen, we are all responsible for these wrongdoings and one day, apologies are needed. It is up to voters to decide what kind of society they would like to live in and leave for their children. Is it an arrogant society looking at the past with nostalgic eyes, or a fair society that is ready to look at the past with critical eyes and ready to build a better future, even if this costs money and entails more public apologies?

This column first appeared on rabble.ca