By Fayza Hassan Last Saturday I woke up with a feeling of great excitement. It was the dawn of the week of Al-Ahram Weekly's tenth anniversary. One quick look at the mirror informed me that in all that time not an extra wrinkle was visible on my face. I was as stylish as ever, I decided, and more than ready for the next ten years. Actually, come to think of it, all the parties and social events that I have to attend seem to have done me a world of good. Did I ever tell you how I managed to land the coveted position I have been in for the past decade? Well, let me recount the event. One winter morning, I met a friend who suggested I take myself to Al-Galaa Street and offer my services to editor-in-chief Hosny Guindy. "He may be able to use your skills," she commented cryptically, refusing to tell me which of my many talents she had in mind. Why not? I thought. Nothing ventured nothing gained. Invigorated further by this bit of packaged instant wisdom, I made an appointment for the following day. Knowing how important appearances are on a first interview, I spent quite some time surveying the various items of my wardrobe. Blue jeans were definitely too casual, my beige two-piece too drab. Should I attempt power dressing and don a tuxedo? Far too threatening, I decided. Finally I settled on nice tailored pink trousers and a sequined pullover. My love of sequins is immense and eternal and I have always believed that one can never have too many of them. I opted against jewellery, which could have offset the sequined effect, but threw a pink imitation boa over my shoulders to highlight my colour sense and the fact that I did not miss a beat where fashion was concerned. My prospective boss did not seem overly impressed by my efforts, however. He was rather non-committal and kept glancing at the boa with something akin to disbelief. He probably favoured a more conservative allure, but it was really too late to do even a spot of damage repair. Much later, when we eventually got to speaking frankly, he did tell me one day that I had made a terrible first impression and that he did not expect much. Little did he know, as you are all here to bear witness to my literary prowesses. Anyway, on that particular day, my fortunes changed suddenly with the entrance of our then managing editor, Mohamed Salmawy, who knew my family and was prompt to vouch for our infinite talent for spreading gossip. There I was, then, properly launched in a career where I could exercise my natural capacity for rumourmongering. What better place to start than on my home turf? We had our share of birthdays (with some of the female members of our staff beginning a backwards count -- no, not me, dears: everyone knows Madame Sosostris never ages), engagements and marriages, a few divorces, and the passing away of three very dear members of our staff, Mohamed Shebl, Steve Nimr, and Hamdi Saad El-Din whose memory is cherished by all of us and particularly remembered on this occasion. Lots of new babies were born too, and we can say in all modesty that we have personally contributed to the new generation of readers. In the meantime our paper has grown and developed and so has our readership; although we still have trouble understanding the deep meaning of the word "deadline" we managed to put our issue willy nilly on the market every week. Since by now we have become old friends, I thought that after ten years of togetherness you, our dear readers, should be entitled to a peek into the making of a great newspaper, a regular small miracle in its own right: Our editorial meetings on Saturdays are presided over by our editor-in- chief, Hosny Guindy, assisted by our daredevil managing editor, Hani Shukrallah -- he of the famous Reflections. They include assistant to the chief editor and mega-project adviser Mona Anis; chief copy editor and discipline enforcer Maurice Guindy; Assistant to the Chief Editor Wadie Kirolos, who carries the heavy weight of the Home pages on his shoulders; Pascale Ghazaleh and Nigel Ryan, whose clever editing and inspired writing has contributed so much to our good reputation; Fayza Hassan, whose twin obsessions are the preservation of ancient monuments and the eradication of spelling mistakes; Gamal "now you see him now you don't" Nkrumah of international repute (or so he claims), who has the curious and by now famous capacity to disappear at the most crucial moments, as well as our page editors, sub-editors, writers and reporters. Only missing is our dear David Blake, who adamantly refuses to attend, contending that our friendly weekly reunion spoils his ear for music and Culture Editor Mursi Saad El-Din who is so busy reading the Irish poets that he usually forgets all about the meeting. This little get-together can be described as the highlight of the week, the moment when hopes run high and articles are proposed and assigned to eager reporters who, before departing, take a solemn oath of bringing their completed work to the desk on time (whose time, however, is never specified). When will they be seen again? Your guess is as good as ours, let me tell you, but now with the advent of mobile phones Nora Koloyan, our editor-in-chief's executive secretary, can hunt them down and has, on occasion, been able to reach them hiding at a back table in Café Riche or in a corner at La Bodega. Eventually, with some vigourous coaxing, all the articles come home to roost, some by contributors writing from the farthest ends of the globe. They settle in front of our able copy- editors, whose job is to check both facts and flights of fancy. In their new improved state, the articles continue their merry voyage and reach the proof readers, who, armed with red pens and dictionaries, try hard not to add their own mistakes to the existing ones. Our reporters' labour of love is now ready to be laid out on the pages, a technical procedure requiring complicated computations and much adjustment, which is overseen in its minutest details by our layout editor Samir Sobhi. During all these steps, Madame Sosostris does not stand by idly watching, as you may well imagine. Between a cocktail and the opening of an exhibition, she finds time to make high-profile, albeit brief, appearances at the paper, during which she generously gives all and sundry bits of invaluable advice. The fact that it is never heeded is only an indication of the impossibility of perfecting human nature. Strangely enough, come Wednesday, we can all draw a sigh of collective relief: Notwithstanding the propensity of the network to go down at the most inconvenient times, the acting up of overused, less than state-of-the-art equipment which reminds one of the unruly behaviour of a bunch of restive old horses, the late nights, the missed appointments, the occasional personal tragedies and the last-minute adjustments, we are eventually invited to contemplate the front page in a film form, a (fairly) sure indication that we have finished the paper once more (almost) on time. We part with congratulatory slaps on the back and loud good-byes, swearing that all we will be able to do during the weekend is catch up on much lost sleep. But of course Cairo beckons and sleep can be postponed indefinitely. How else could I keep abreast with the social scene? On the whole, our staff, of which the only fitting description is "diverse," have bonded and our relationship has become closer, less charged with the normal petty jealousies that are customary in our endemically competitive environment. New faces have appeared while familiar ones have disappeared, never failing to keep in touch however. Having tasted life at the Weekly -- and survived - - of their own admission they have never found anything quite like it. Many have come back and been welcomed into the fold once more. With all our ups and downs we can pride ourselves on being one big happy family, which of course has left me with precious little ground on which to deploy my natural cattiness. Not one to be discouraged, however, I have trained my sights on the outside: surely there are people there in need of my sharp eye for defects. After a thorough overhaul of my wardrobe, I have undertaken a brilliant regimen that entails the frequent ingestion of canapés and fruity cocktails at the most sought-after venues in the city and beyond. My popularity has increased in proportion to the expansion of my waist-line, and had it not been for all of you, my pumpkins, I would really have been lobbying for a new job by now, one in which I could promote less conspicuous consumption and the adherence to a strict diet. Anyway, strange as it may seem, I discovered that people are generally nicer than I imagined. So I have been seriously thinking that on the occasion of this tenth birthday the paper should give serious thought to the idea of renaming me Tinkerbell. I sit amidst an array of colourful beings plugging away on their keyboards to a background track of laughter and conversation. They guide their mouses like cultured rodents, sending their thoughts hurtling towards the screen. Their clacking keyboards are all composing the same tune, whose title, chorus and refrain is "The Weekly". As the letters come together, and show up on the screen in their final form, the layout department comes alive. Mahmoud calls Hani, Maurice calls Mona and Fayza, while a distant discussion is taking place between Ayman and Khaled. They all look like they're about to enter their screens. Nesmahar sits like a tree whose roots sink down the nine floors of the large Al-Ahram building, as she stares at one of the pages she's designing. Salama's column arrives, and so does Mursi Saadeddin's, and on Wednesday morning in comes Ibrahim Nafie's article, which has been elegantly translated by Peter and edited by Nigel. Editorial advice is provided by Wadie, while Samir puts his artistic touch on the designs; then it all goes to Shukrallah, through the small door to his office, where he stands conversing with Hosni, discussing the issue. Hosni takes off his glasses in thought, as he confirms and dissects the headlines, and the phones ring, the faxes come through, along with the e-mail. Articles and drawings arrive from all over the world into Nora and Heba's hands, and all the while in comes the giant Oweis carrying glasses of lemonade and apple juice, while Magdi brings in the clinking glasses of tea. At the end of the day I come in with my copybook, squatting inside the sidecar of a Vespa motorcycle driven by an upper Egyptian like myself, Mirgawy. Their faces fascinate me as they are absorbed in finishing the issue. For the anniversary I sat most of them down in front of me so I could draw them one by one. I sat them at a 45 degree angle from me, since that is the best angle from which to discern the lines that make up their faces. Issue 523 - 1 March 2001
