On the cusp of a new year Anouar Abdel-Malek remembers old friends What will the annals of Egyptian -- or for that matter world -- history make of 2004? People at the bottom, and many at the top, agree that it has been a bad 12 months all round. The only exception to this general consensus is that artificial elite that is groping towards the light of dependency in the name of globalisation. And globalisation has certainly asserted itself, most dangerously in the form of a monopolar order that has given rise, among other things, to the morgue of Abu Ghraib, to the fragmentation of the Palestinian people and to the epic battle of Falluja, the Arab Stalingrad. Darkness prevails, or at least that is how they want this part of the world to be. But Egypt's personality has always shone through the gloom. Egypt's pride and creativity confirms that deep down all is well with our people, a fact that allows us to re-examine our own sources of inspiration and guidance. The tripartite aggression against Egypt in 1956 was a rallying cry for all patriotic peoples to pool their energies. I had just emerged from the dark confines of Abu Zaabal Prison and immediately immersed myself in the lessons to be learned from the war to regain the Suez Canal and build the High Dam. These, and the meeting of the vanguard of the peoples of the East in Bandung, were foremost in my mind as I resumed my career in journalism. I worked for Al-Misaa, then run by Khaled Mohieddin, Al-Majallah, under the helm of the "Egyptian Sindbad" Hussein Fawzi and the Radio and Television Magazine, then headed by Helmi Sallam and for which I edited the cinema page. One day the telephone rang and it was actor and director Mahmoud Mursi, inviting me to assist in the programming of Egypt's Radio 2. Over the next few years our three-man team, which also included Salah Ezzeddin, produced 11 radio plays that combined Chekov with Don Giovanni and the new Japanese short story with the theatre of Bertolt Brecht. Indeed, we made many such leaps across time and space. I learned much from my two friends. The late Salah Ezzeddin taught me how to tailor and fine-tune my writing so as to give shape to the emotional stirrings and events that all people experience yet which many remain incapable of expressing. "Say the most in the fewest words," he would always advise me. Mahmoud Mursi always focussed on principles, on the significance of events and ideas and what he termed their "historical depth". He was, above all, an indefatigable philosophical questioner with a particular concern for the dialectic between deeds and moral values. In spite of the general deterioration in the content of the screen we see these days Mahmoud Mursi's message to a new generation of innovative writers, directors and actors remains very much alive. I also had the opportunity to work with the eminent journalist Mahmoud El-Maraghi -- our encounters may have been few but they were invariably enriching. Nevertheless, I made a point of following his writings in the many fora that welcomed the rare qualities that informed El-Maraghi's quarter of a century's contribution to elevating the stature of the Arab political press. His foremost quality was his faithfulness to his work: he was faithful to reality, which he studied closely and continuously; faithful to the dictates of accuracy and precision; faithful to the notion that his task was to guide opinion and hope, which led him to abhor the linguistic gymnastics and rhetorical finery that cloaks shallow thinking. Above all, however, he was faithful to the people of Egypt and to Egypt as the nation at the heart of the Arab world. Mahmoud El-Maraghi succeeded in keeping us focussed on our national aims and on the Arab national mission through a constant flow of precisely argued and thoroughly substantiated ideas. He provided rich nourishment in the face of the intellectual drought that prevailed in media chatter at a time when all were bowing to the glitter of the market economy. One of the most worthwhile enterprises that could be undertaken at this juncture would be to create a volume of El-Maraghi's best writings, thereby creating a valuable guide for young journalists and for those aspiring to positions of responsibility in public affairs. And then there was Mahmoud Abdel-Moneim Murad. Murad brought a patriotic and democratic spirit and unswerving dedication and persistence to his explorations of the realms of national, regional and global politics. His probings, I believe, were guided by a deeply held conviction that only by unearthing fundamental compositional elements could one begin to grasp the keys of a fluctuating reality. This, to me, helps account for the fact that throughout his career he was never satisfied with what we were told. He recoiled with evident distaste from the claim that "this is just how things are". If this is how things are, or how they appear to be, he would ask, how did things get that way? What was the nature of the chain reaction that created the so-called reality that people perceive at any given moment? What set it in motion to begin with? His fear was that if we accepted reality as it was presented -- just as we might accept a fast-food meal replete with artificial flavourings to make it at least taste palatable -- we would unwittingly make of ourselves extras in a play staged to realise the aims and interests of those who hold the strings that control the affairs of the world. Now, and with all due caution, I shall open the door of remembrance. The wheels of injustice decreed that the vanguard of Egypt's progressive movement, and the leaders of the national democratic movement, would meet in Abu Zaabal prison in 1955--1956. It was the parting of ways between the "people of competence" and the "people of confidence" -- the essence of the "crisis of the intellectuals" over the demand for democracy -- that led to the first wave of imprisonment of progressive political and intellectual leaders, students and syndicate activists. Abu Zaabal was the arena (if we may use the term) in which I met Mahmoud Abdel-Moneim Murad, with whose name I was already familiar. He was an outspoken proponent of the need to cement the struggle for national liberation with the struggle for democracy. We turn back to 1954. Gamal Abdel-Nasser was about to sign the Czechoslovakian arms deal and was turning to the Soviet Union for support in the nationalisation of the Suez Canal and the construction of the High Dam. We were at the threshold of a new phase, and it was at this juncture that progressive and democratic forces united in the call for effective participation in the leadership of a unified national front against the looming aggression against Egypt and its drive towards true independence and progress. Murad had been at the forefront of demands for this unified front and the simultaneous reaffirmation of the essential meanings of liberation, democracy and progress. Abu Zaabal never dampened Murad's resolve. After emerging into the light again he became chairman of the Egyptian Federation of Publishers in which capacity he continued to bring people together and to inspire, guide, support and enlighten. All who cherish Egypt converge on a field in which dreams merge with revolutionary duty. Such times have been celebrated by the likes of Mahmoud Sami El- Baroudi and Abdallah Nadim. Foremost among the pioneers who lit the way was the poet and prominent progressive activist Kamal Abdel-Halim. In those distant days of the National Committee for Workers and Students -- around 1946 -- his poetry so inspired the young that Prime Minister Sidqi regarded it as tantamount to the declaration of a people's revolution. Then, following the 1952 Revolution, at the time of the battle over the Suez Canal, Kamal Abdel-Halim faced a succession of arrests, imprisonment and torture. I eventually opted for exile. It was two tears ago, at the funeral of our mutual friend Ahmed El-Rifai, that I found Kamal Abdel-Halim seated in the chair in front of me. His health had begun to deteriorate. "Where have you been? Have you forgotten me?" he chided. He broke the tension with a laugh and we began to reminisce. Over the next few months he phoned me frequently, but I kept putting off seeing him because I had too much work. Anyway, we had plenty of time, I thought, as though time were something you could possess. But time had a head start. Kamal died before we could ever spend that evening together reliving the ideas and spirit that had always bound our generation together.
