I have lived the time of the press of dreams: the value, the meaning and the message of the press. Then I was told that the press is an industry and I became confused, having to comply with what I was told by my masters. After 20 years, I understood what this meant. The press I had learnt is Om Kalthoum's singing, Abdel Wahhab's music, Naguib Mahfouz's novels, Yousef Idris's short stories and Abbas Al Akkad as the summit of literature, politics and the human capacity to meet challenges and show self-pride. It was Gamal Abdel Nasser's leadership, Dr. Mustafa Mosharafa's physics, and Egypt with its pioneering role standing amid small people, taking their hands and trying to make them reach its status. The press for me was the summit and the press meant Al Ahram or 135 years in the profession. But this time has gone, now, and there came a time when the press of the nightclubs blew off. I will not mention the names of the newspapers in respect for the readers' intelligence. The press I joined did not accept throwing away its stars during this (sarcastically) wonderful time! I lived the time of the press of those insignificant stupid people who learnt the meaning of life while they were old and decided to marry younger women or, yet, those who shiver if the lowest ranking informer calls them from the state security headquarters. I also mean those who describe themselves as real editors in chief in Amr Dieb's time. The giants I mentioned above have all passed away and Naguib Mahfouz got the Nobel Prize and then became history. Please, do not make me go into details. This is how I live between paradise and hell, between oriental singing - according to accurate musical standards - and haphazard singing which relies on light effects and beautiful costumes. I have lived a time when the press was made up of noble words and respectable journalists. When readers started to be taken by amazement, they forgot values and the past and started fighting for survival. Therefore, I forgive them although they have forgotten respectable press. As for those who are now steering the ships of the national press across the world's oceans, they have been hit by madness or, to be exact, senility. They imagine themselves as sailors on dry land using their oars and imagining they are sailing on their ships in the middle of the sea. They write under pseudonyms to please those officials who have been hit by Alzheimer. I have lived the time of respectable press and I am now living in the time of the nightclub press, which – and I say it proudly – has rejected and indeed mocks me. As I am a reasonable person, I respect pop music but I cherish Om Kalthoum's songs. If you accuse me of going backward, I advise you to have a look at the press in Europe and the United States and although respectable country because they have returned to Om Kalthoum, Al Akkad, Mahfouz, Idris and Mosharafa while we have fallen back to Ruby, Mohammed Saad and all the other soft drink stars who will continue to spark because the director of the nightclub has not changed. My words are just hopes, even if they are being attacked by waves of frustration and despair. Let me give them to those whose words have dried out because their consciences are dead.
