Egyptian journalist and intellectual , who died last week, was a favourite writer for many older people. But he had his younger admirers too, says Ameera Fouad transcends the generations. The members of our generation, still in our 20s, who lived through the 30 years of former president Hosni Mubarak's rule and who have long been criticised for "not reading" and for sitting in front of whatever screen we might find, were able to prove the world wrong when the 25 January Revolution came. Similarly, , though of senior generation, was a man who attracted many of us by his writing and was something of a mentor and role model. We always read his daily column in Al-Ahram, Mawaqef (Situations), in the morning, even before posting news on the Internet or competing to upload the most intriguing material on one of the social networking sites. Mawaqef became an indispensable part of our daily routine, like sipping coffee in the early morning or checking mail before going to bed. However, reading Mansour's column was much more than this: it was our favourite column as it talked about and speculated and reflected on Egyptian society. had a grasp of our everyday problems as if he had been there with us in our homes, at our clubs, our schools, universities, streets, in our mail boxes, or on our Facebook pages. Last Friday morning, and then throughout the day, Egyptian and Arab news sources were all reporting the passing of . His death blotted out the news of Muammar Gaddafi's death the day before, and the newsfeeds were awash with prayers for him, as well as links and statements about his death. People were challenging each other to share quotes, famous words and photographs of the great man. The most important and widespread bore the caption, "RIP , the man who taught us reading." To many of us, Mansour had done just that, teaching us how to read from our earliest years onwards. For my own part, he was the first writer whose writing I could truly understand. He was the first one whose writing I read when I was just seven years old. Not knowing all the words he used at that time, I still loved his straightforward way of putting together a column. It seemed to me both the easiest and the most sophisticated way of writing. I used to laugh at the expressions he used and the way he was able to connect events together in a comic yet always fair way. Though he could criticise, he would do so in such an elegant way that you could not help but listen to what he wanted to say. I always wondered when I was small how he had managed to understand the problems of our family so well, and how he had been able to appreciate what I was going through at school. I did not get an answer to such questions until many years later. Last week, many of us Apple users may have been posting comments about the death of the late Steve Jobs, the founder of Apple computers. But this week we have been posting myriads of posts and photographs about . We have created many online groups about him, in order that his words will never die. His vibrant expressions will continue to live on the Internet, even as his easy style disguises thought of great profundity. Nancy El-Zeini, for example, a 22-year-old pharmacy student, has written on her Facebook page that, "I would like to express my condolences at the death of , a spiritual father whom I've never met but have always felt close to." Another young woman, Dina El-Odessi, a 27-year-old teacher in Cairo, writes that " once wrote that life is a bridge that one has to take to reach the other side. While the road is long, there is always light to guide us across the bridge." "What we do in our lives will be tallied up on the other side. If we have lived well, things will go well for us; if not, we will receive our just reward," El-Odessi continued in the vein of Mansour. "This life is transitional while the other one is permanent. Everything we do here is for the purpose of our being there. Our bodies, once so new, wear out, and death comes when they can no longer support us, allowing us to cross to the other side. In a sense, life is the world's hospital. We join as patients on our way to the other side." No words can explain these things better than those of Mansour. No one has been able to express the deep philosophical questions better in just a few sentences, or a few words. However, no words can really express the pain we now feel at the loss of . May God bless his soul. Another friend, whose Facebook page is named Salma Sami, wrote "RIP the man who taught me the pleasure of reading and the pleasure of writing. May Allah bless the man who taught me everything in life." Truly, Mansour was a role model for many people of my generation, inspiring us to fight, to struggle against what is wrong, to fight for our rights, and to express our solidarity with humanity as a whole. He taught us how to be human and how to think and behave like human beings. In his famous book 200 Days around the World, an unforgettable read that no one should miss, Mansour bridges the gap between us and other countries and between human beings of different colours, races, ethnic groups, nationalities and religions. We never really asked if Mansour himself was Muslim or Christian. We never asked about his patriotism, as we sometimes did with other established writers, thinkers and artists after the revolution. For Mansour was like Egypt itself. For us, he was the 23 July Revolution, the October War, and the 25 January Revolution. He was like the banks of the Nile, as Egyptian as the Mediterranean Sea, the Delta's soil, or the desert with its yellow sands. He was a world traveller, a philosopher, dramatist, columnist, prolific author and editor of many publications. For us, he was the greatest writer alive. Mansour also loved women, which is why women loved him. If depression has sometimes loomed over the cultural field in Egypt, it has loomed all the heavier over Egyptian women. Mansour could sometimes attack women in his columns, blaming them for the mid-life crisis suffered by many men. However, women only loved him for it, seeing someone who was able to say what he felt directly. He would lay into women wherever he found them, in their homes, their kitchens, bedrooms and living rooms. He would attack them vigorously, whether for being single, newly married, unhappily married, divorced, old, or even young and beautiful. He used to criticise women who did not take care of themselves, and he would criticise them for being beautiful and dazzling his eyes. In return, many women would say, "we love , however much he criticises us. We love him because he mentions us in his books and articles and in every word he writes. If he didn't like and adore us, he would ignore us like other men do." That, at least, is the opinion of Sherine, 54, and the mother of four daughters. Ironically, many women used to read with passion what Mansour had to say about them, even if it was not always flattering. , many women felt, analysed the feminine character better than many women could themselves. It was here that his excellence showed, affecting the lives of millions of women across the Arab world. I know a group of women that would cut and paste every word wrote in his famous Friday column in Al-Ahram in their diaries, on kitchen walls, on refrigerator doors, and sometimes on their bedroom doors, if his words were addressed to men. He was able to look into women's minds, being able to express what few women show. In December last year, Samir Sobhi wrote an article in Al-Ahram Weekly in which he said that Mansour was "the kind of person who says things like, 'be patient. Wait another 10,000 years. There are many other universes left to discover'". Many of us are not that patient, however, and we used to wait impatiently for Mansour's next book or article, being loath to wait to read his words and opinions. His words would tangle themselves up with our emotions, and their author was one of a kind to us, teaching us the pleasure of writing and how to criticise others in the most graceful way and never get caught out. He taught us how to argue with others and how to respect others' opinions. He taught us how to protest against authority and never to give up. He taught us everything, but perhaps he never knew it. Rest in peace, , knowing that your words will live on in us. We shall not forget your works, which are graven in our memories.
