I'll speak in French.
Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to thank you for your kind invitation to appear before the Committee to discuss my experience which, to a great extent, is the same as that of my mother, Ziba Kazemi, as she was known to her friends and to me.
I want to begin by saying that preparing this brief was a painful exercise. Too often, I have come up against the indifference and incomprehension of others, who are incapable of imagining the pain that I felt and that I still feel, almost six years later. Too often, the harm caused by the loss of a mother and of her love, in such tragic circumstances, seemed to escape the people I was addressing.
And yet, writing this brief, one action out of so many others, also gave me tremendous satisfaction, because seeing that justice is done is really my only concern. As I see it, where there is no justice, there can be no peace.
When I arrived in Canada in 1993 from France, where I was born, with my mother, Ziba Kazemi, an expression used here struck both of us and got us talking: « C'est pas pire » or, literally, « It isn't worse ». It is a popular expression. Well, my message today is simple: when it comes to torture, there is nothing worse.
Is that obvious? And, if it is obvious, how can Canada give immunity to torturers? What sovereignty-related pretext could justify a decision not to bring to justice people who take extreme measures to torture their fellow human beings, who wound and bruise the human body? To what extent can these rules and precepts be disembodied, dismembered, even detached from human reality, in order to guarantee impunity to those who would mutilate, burn or cut apart this body and this heart that we were given?
My mother was a professional photojournalist. Through her art, she wanted to inform, connect with and educate people. She gave a voice to the people of those countries she focused on—she even gave them hope. Her greatest desire was, and I quote: “to put an end to the quasi-unanimous silence of the international community, when one country legalizes torture and the other legislates absolute power; to break the silence of some and the brainwashing of others.”
With me today are my lawyers, who will be able to answer any legal questions. However, my testimony today is of a more personal nature, and is intended to perhaps put a face on the tragedies experienced by millions of people every day in silence, far from the cameras, too often forgotten.
So, I am her son. I am the one who shouted, who protested, seeking justice. The one who refused to wait passively for diplomatic notes to produce an effect. I am the one who wanted the entire world to know what happened to my mother, and that our government and our laws too often betray us, unworthy of the memory of a mother, her son and a country of openness and respect that welcomed them some years ago.
I would like to quote a brief passage from something written by my mother, Ziba, about her country of origin, Iran:
For 20 years now, Iran has been transfigured as horrified and dazed children looked on. They see their country bending under the weight of the political illiteracy so deeply entrenched at the very pinnacle of the power structure and which despoils their fortune even as the population multiplies. Iran, an ancient country built around a mosaic of racial, cultural, linguistic and religious diversity. Iran, stretched across a vast land of riches and with a geopolitical status of great significance, the same Iran that nourished the dreams of so many creators and sensitive souls and which now strikes terror in the hearts of its citizens.
So, here I am, almost six years after my mother's violent kidnapping by the Iranian government. After throwing her in prison, slapping her, bruising her, beating her, depriving her of her dignity, and then murdering her, they, the members of the Iranian government, buried her six feet under.
Before the death of my mother, and even in the days and weeks that followed her death, I was very naive. Naive like others, of course, who believed that the government of a country is responsible for protecting its citizens. Today, I am aware that, in real life, that ideal has many limitations, limitations which flow in part from a lack of political will, including inside the Canadian government. In fact, too often, the best interests of the government take precedence over the freedom or even the lives of the individuals who are citizens of that country.
I understand that you asked me to appear today to tell you about my feelings and my experience in this regard and to discuss legislation that we have here in Canada and which gives governments, as well as their brutal, bloodthirsty officials, complete immunity in relation to their victims. So, there you have it: that is the impression and the feeling I have been living with for five and a half years—that of a government that has and continues to make it clear that it could not care less. Because, not only were its initial efforts in vain, but it resists and expresses opposition to the action taken against the Iranian authorities, preferring instead to support enforcement of the Law of State Immunity in relation to Iran and its officials, in this case.
Thus far, I have sacrificed many—indeed, some of the best—years of my life, simply to make an example of this case, of my experience and especially Ziba's, so that these kinds of events never occur again. I am proud to take my personal responsibilities in this affair, and I would like to see the federal government do the same, be it in relation to my mother's cause or in terms of actions it can take to ensure respect for human rights internationally, both in Iran and elsewhere on the planet.
The Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, as well as the Committee Against Torture, recently strongly recommended that the Government of Canada allow victims of torture to seek redress before Canadian courts of law. The relevant documentation can be found on the website of the Ziba Kazemi Foundation—zibakazemi.org. There you can also find the report of the Special Rapporteur on the right to freedom of opinion and expression in Iran, Mr. Ambeyi Ligabo, a man I like very much. He devotes several pages to my mother's case and emphasizes the climate of impunity that prevails in Iran, a climate that we reinforce by maintaining that same immunity here in Canada.
Indeed, some time after the release of his report, the Special Rapporteur on the right to freedom of opinion and expression in Iran joined with other UN special rapporteurs to make the entire world aware of their deep concerns with respect to the climate of impunity that has yet to be resolved, the same climate in which the worst human rights violations continue to be committed.
I have expressed to you my bitterness and my feeling of helplessness, but I am also aware of and very much appreciate the flowers that have sprouted even in the midst of this field of misery. I am talking about our system, the Canadian system. I am talking about laws and mechanisms that work and that are there for the people. I am also talking about the flowers these same people have planted all along my path, and I now believe deeply that the time has come to plant a new flower—that it is time for justice to be done to the worst victims of this world. It is time to send a clear, concise message to the world at large—that we, the people of Canada, will not tolerate torture.
I would like to see Canada take a leadership role; to see the torturers of this world on their guard, knowing that, from now on, they might have to face their victims and possibly lose a commercial shipment or two as compensation for the pain they have inflicted through their own folly. A futile move? No, because these executioners, be they in Iran or elsewhere, often only understand one language—the language of dollars and cents. By allowing their victims to receive compensation through the Canadian courts, we hit these people where it hurts them most. We will not cure them quite so easily, I fear, but putting an end to the immunity they currently enjoy will gradually force them to stop doing what they are doing. Is there any greater disincentive that the certainty that you will have to answer for your actions?
What I am seeking is justice. That is obviously not a matter of money for myself, as someone who has been fighting for more than five years, standing before the gates of Hell—I, who have been living from day to day with my every thought, my every emotion focused on this affair. I consider it my mission to make a significant contribution to justice, in the light of my own experience, and to turn a tragic event into the seeds whence will sprout millions of flowers, a living monument to my mother's memory.
Finally, at every step on this path, along with the failures, there has been one tremendous victory: the people. We have had a chance to reach out and touch the hearts of people. Even six years after this tragedy, I am still receiving words of encouragement, greetings, letters and tributes from people whom I do not know but who, like me, believe in goodness, in truth and justice, who believe in my mother, in me, who have not forgotten us, and who look to us still.
Even though justice has eluded us thus far, and even though, in spite of the beauty and perfume of the other flowers in our midst, justice remains unattainable, we, the people, still believe in it and want to breathe new life into it. Justice that does not help the people is no justice at all; it is justice that is sick and unbalanced. In Canada, justice means allowing the citizens of this country to be tortured with impunity. That is the reality; those are the facts.
Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for allowing me to take some of your precious time today. I hope to meet with you again, in the near future, in a world where there is no fear, a free world, a world that can begin right here, in Canada.
I hope we will meet again soon.