Une vraie chanteuse, , departed peacefully in her sleep and was honoured with two funerals one in Cairo and an official state burial in Algiers. Gamal Nkrumah reviews her life of passion and her glittering career In later life, she shook out her damask like a cape enveloping her full figure, few realising that she had stowed her medical chest in her bedroom before she stepped onto the stage. She instinctively knew she had little time: the virulent combination of liver complaint and heart trouble is a swift killer. She rummaged through her medicine chest briskly, popped a pill or two and then she would summon the courage to sing on stage. She would not die a desiccated husk. Warda, towards the end of her life, was never out of immediate danger. Yet off stage she chatted in a desultory fashion. Eschewing make-up her and with a moon-pale complexion, she cut a striking figure. Warda Ftouki was born in France, to an Algerian father and a Lebanese mother. She spent her childhood in France, and as an adolescent briefly visited her mother's relatives in Lebanon, where an aunt Nazik taught her the rudiments of the Arabic language. Warda, however, never mastered the Arabic tongue and to the end of her life spoke Egyptian Arabic with a pronounced French accent. Yet, with her ready tongue, Warda she sang with a clear composed voice animated by ardour passion. A touch husky, her powerful robust voice and impressive vocal range and self-assurance on stage masked less than perfect command of the Arabic language. She promptly learnt how to write Arabic lyrics in the Latin script and when she moved more or less permanently to Egypt she enrolled in elocution classes. Warda would shriek in a rusty high-pitched voice when she sang about unrequited love, then she would shift swiftly to lower tones when feigning a dogged determination to let go of her love. Even in the latter years and after battling with heart trouble and liver complaints, when she dipped her powder puff in her crystal bowl and lightly dusted the hollows under her beautiful black eyes, the adulation of her fans brought a glow to her cheeks. Her initial shyness evaporated in the warmth of their praise and standing ovations. Warda was possessed by utter wantonness. The plethora of sensations that accompanied her on stage, in concert or when filming a scene in one of her many movies and later in life when shooting video clips were derived from the fact that when performing she was suddenly reckless of any consequences. And, so it was with her fabled love affairs and romantic escapades. She was never a whiner or a weeper. Yet when singing about unrequited love, she felt tears close to the surface, and her audience saw clearly that it was precisely because of her bursting heart that she did not try to force them back. At times, the roar of the ecstatic audience drowned out the sound of her own powerful voice. "Too late," lamented Warda without a note of contrition in her voice but she never lost heart. Her artistic beginnings were nationalistic songs rather than the sentimental and romantic melodies for which she would later be known. Her father was an Algerian nationalist and inculcated in her a strong sense of nationalism. Musician Ahmed Tijani, a friend of her father's first discovered Warda's musical talent and it was then the Tunisian musician, vocalist and songwriter Al-Sadek Thuraya who taught her the basics of music and the rudiments of singing. Warda performed her first song on stage, "Ya Merouah Lil Bilad" -- You who are returning to your Homeland -- at her father's nightclub when she was barely 11 years old. Her father told her about the Algerian "War of Liberation", or liberation struggle, the struggle for independence. Warda went on to build a formidable repertoire of nationalistic songs mostly about Algeria including "Habibi ya Mejahed" -- "My Beloved Freedom Fighter"; "Min Baied" -- "From Afar"; "Ya Horeya" -- "Liberty" and "Nidaa Al-Damir" -- "Call of Conscience" Warda's introduction to Egypt was in 1960 when she was invited by producer and director Helmi Rafla to participate in the film "Almaz and Abdo Al-Hamoli". It was her first film and was met with high acclaim. Starring opposite Warda was Addel Maamoun. The legendary composer Mohamed Abdel-Wahab and equally revered Farid El-Atrash breathed life into the otherwise plain movie. Warda was never the most talented of actresses, her less than perfect colloquial Arabic inevitably limiting the roles she could convincingly play. Nevertheless, what she lacked in acting ability she more than made up for in dramatic vocal style. Most of the themes of her movies, like her songs were carefully chosen. In the heady days of the swinging 60s revolution was the favoured genre. In "Almaz and Abdo Al-Hamoli", for instance the film revolved around a woman challenging the Khedive Ismail, a symbol of the ousted aristocracy. The aspiring Algerian adolescent knew that any Arabic-speaking singer must head for Egypt. Cairo was and still is the cultural capital of the Arab world. The artistic aspect of her personality was making her life much more gratifying. Moreover, she was sharing her new life with like-minded artists -- composers, singer-songwriters. She knew though, that she had to play her cards right. Success does not come on a silver platter. In the early 1960s, late Egyptian president Gamal Abdel-Nasser asked for Warda to be included in the operetta "Watani Al-Akbar" -- "My Greater Nation" with a bevy of the leading vocalists of the time. Rumours were rife that Field Marshall Abdel-Hakim Amer Nasser's right hand man was besotted with the captivating Algerian rose. Ironically, Warda was a friend of the Field Marshall's ravishing wife, actress Birlianti Abdel-Hamid. Warda's family in Algeria was incensed and her brother was dispatched from Tunisia to murder her in an honour killing to save face. It was like she was set adrift in Algeria in splendid isolation. Warda was not unhappy but she longed for the glamour of the stage. Out of the blue, her phone rang. "I am Houari," a gruff voice bellowed. "Houari, who?" she asked askance. "I am Houari Boumedienne, president of Algeria," came the tart response. "Your Excellency," she mumbled. Her knees felt though they might give way under her. Although Warda had known deep inside her heart all along her long years in Algeria that this must happen. She had to desert her family. It flew in the face of all her upbringing and beliefs. Warda became absorbed in her task and her reward was a gratifying sense of power and reinvigoration, a new sense of life. Warda was forced to choose between her marriage and her singing career. Her Algerian husband, General Gamal Koseiri, a prominent Algerian political leader disapproved of her public appearances as a singer on stage. He did not want her to sing in public, and so for 10 long years she sang in her kitchen while preparing meals for her husband and her children. She still, however, yearned for stage singing. Warda realised at that particular moment how close she was to succumbing to hysteria and, with colossal effort, she controlled herself. "Give me your Lion," Boumedienne commanded in no uncertain terms. He was referring to her husband, in Algerian fashion. Warda knew that her hands were trembling and she clenched them into fists to keep them still. She beheld Boumedienne and her eyes were at the same level as his waist. Warda felt her resolve melting. She was to sing at Algeria's tenth independence anniversary, the year was 1972. She was to be the diva of the defining moment in the country's history. An inexplicable rash of goose pimples rose round her entire physique. She made an elegant gesture of refusal to her husband's objections that cost her the marriage and family life she cherished. She yearned for something tremendous to happen but she was not sure what. "Do as I tell you," Boumedienne bellowed. She had an irrepressible sense of dedicated purpose for music and singing, and she willingly obliged. The memories of her familial sojourn in her homeland, Algeria, haunted her. But she did not regret her decision to return to Cairo for the sake of her art. She could no longer bear the hunger for singing on stage and the denial of her appetite for her chosen artistic expression. She was no longer the solitary hermit, so to speak, in her homeland. "He was a great freedom-fighter and I admired his strength of character but he was not an understanding husband. He was uncompromising in his conservatism", she said of her Algerian husband. With a sharp surge of anticipation Warda returned to her familiar musical career. Boumedienne noticed Warda's inadvertent response to his overtures. Warda rose, made obeisance and backed away from Boumedienne to her husband. She set herself to remain aloof and unmoved by her husband's threats. She picked her way through the artistic scene of Cairo. Egypt was at a crossroads, she arrived at a time when the country was reeling from the aftermath of the passing of Nasser and the triumph of the 1973 October War with Israel. The 1970s were a time for cultural and artistic renaissance. The preparations for Warda's departure from Algeria were long drawn-out, seemingly interminable. After her divorce from her Algerian husband, Warda returned to Egypt and instantly hit the headlines with her sensation "Al-Ouyoun Al-Soud" -- "Black Eyes". She felt her nerves tingle with her success. It was at this decisive moment in her life that she rekindled the old flame of a melodramatic working relationship with Egyptian composer and musician Baligh Hamdi. Warda wasn't that disillusioned after her divorce. She was in no rush to head for the studio. Like a skilled groom with a nervous filly, Baligh Hamdi guided her faltering steps. She had no immediate intention of doing a record at that stage, but Baligh Hamdi persuaded her. His voice was oily and unctuous, but as Warda's own son, Riyad, grudgingly admitted Baligh Hamdi was a genius, the Beethoven of the Arab world, he learned to love his stepfather. Had she long hankered after a greater role in the Egyptian art scene? For sure. Her contemporaries, pop singers like Nagat El-Saghira, Shadia, Faiza Ahmed, and Sabah stand to a slightly different acclaim than Warda. Her genre appealed to the common man and woman -- it was a genre that more high-hat society ladies of Egypt shunned. Warda was a pop star and Baligh Hamdy, a bohemian womaniser, was no easy man to live with. But she loved him a great deal and she was prepared to forgive him his follies. "I told him, instead of buying me roses everyday why don't you invest in an apartment block, or a villa?" If that anecdote suggests arrogance or materiality, it is an inaccurate guide to the personality and demeanour of Warda. She was recalling her life with Baligh Hamdi, in jest, live on a Lebanese television talk show. The experience of divorcing her Algerian macho man and marrying her Egyptian beau was a liberating one. Warda was a free spirit. Working with Baligh Hamdi was another notch on Warda's belt. She was once again a newcomer on the Egyptian artistic scene. She was a formidable culinary prodigy, adept at preparing Algerian dishes. Her beauty was for his eyes alone to gaze upon. And, her melodious voice was for his ears alone to listen to. "He loved me because of my voice but didn't want others to enjoy my songs," Warda would recall years later of her Algerian husband. Baligh Hamdi was equally difficult, he was the antithesis of the general, a mercurial free spirit which brought with it its own problems, but at least he let her be. Throughout her married life to composer Baligh Hamdi he sent her roses in honour of her name Warda -- Rose -- and as a tribute of his love for her. Even after their divorce, after a seven-year marriage, they remained friends until his death in 1993. Actress Nabila Ebeid was another dear friend. When Warda woke up after the anesthetic wore off she would find Ebeid beside her on her hospital bed. The friendship between the two women blossomed. Warda prepared Ebeid's favourite meal, couscous with peas, mesfouf, as the Algerians call it. She left her son Riyad in Algeria with his father when he was six years old. "Sometimes I ask myself if it was worth it. Yes, the separation was painful, unbearably so at times. But in retrospect, I regret nothing. It was my art, after all, it enabled me to send my son to be educated in the United States," Warda confessed on a Lebanese documentary reviewing highlights of her life. Similarly, Warda had issues with her daughter, Widad, or rather her estranged daughter who never forgave her for leaving. Warda always longed for their reconciliation. Warda is survived by her daughter Widad, her son Riyad, and grandson Gamal.
