I first met Mai Ghoussoub 10 years ago when she gave a lecture to my creative writing students. They were enthralled by this elegant, "cool and "awesome lady who was the legendary co-founder of Saqi Books in London. From that day on, I was blessed with a rare friendship that enriched my life in countless ways. Mai had much to offer, and her interests were wide-ranging. She was an exceptionally gifted writer, sculptor, choreographer, and publisher, who loved books and art and films and theatre and performance and culture in general. Her work was daring and original, her exuberance and inspiration contagious. Above all, she sparkled with humanity and curiosity, finding bold, innovative ways of making things happen by magically transcending barriers and transforming artistic imaginings into reality. Mai's writing was startlingly original, compelling in its desire to move hidden or taboo subjects out of the shadows and suggest daring possibilities to challenge and reshape inflexible mainstream notions. We shared a passion for cities, particularly for Beirut and London. Whenever Mai came to town, we took long walks, chatting about our lives, our work, and everything in between. On her last visit, we took our usual route along the streets of the Downtown area. Only this time it was different. Cutting through the tent city put up by the opposition, we talked about Lebanon's never-ending political troubles, before requesting permission from an army officer to stroll down Maarad Street. Mai was overcome with sorrow. She paused briefly to gaze at a shop window with five decapitated and bare manikins. The deserted shops and cafes cast an eerie deathlike stillness over the once vibrant heart of Beirut, making it difficult to imagine that the crowds would ever return. "I don't necessarily believe in Lebanon, but I always believed in Beirut, she said. I understood her anguish. During Lebanon's war years, London became her home, a city that she often described as the polar opposite of Beirut: "An Anglo-Saxon city that lives inside, in dim light, with no shore and no cafe life. Yet without the experience of Beirut-which "has always known how to include 'the other' and turn it into a 'self' -embracing life in London would have been impossible. Mai knew that Beirut had taught her to accept diversity and resist prejudice. "If I had not been brought up in a city that travels in many directions, I wouldn't have been able to survive and enjoy the London of today, with its multiethnic, fusion culture and juxtaposed realities. London, so different from Beirut, is also a space that generously lives its coexisting realities today. Mai's greatest hope was that Beirut was relearning to be a true cosmopolitan space in an age of global reality, where the "others are, again, also "us, and where juxtaposition fights hierarchy. Sadly, as dusk fell, our shared Downtown moments indicated otherwise. Reawakened confessional and sectarian tensions seem to leave no space for the language of coexistence. With hope on all sides slowly vanishing, we are moving in a landscape of hostility, with Beirut destined, once again, to be victimized by forces beyond its control. Last year, while attending a conference in Barcelona, Mai and I shared wonderful moments, wandering cheerfully through that fascinating city. At the time, she was writing a series of essays about the significance of the color red. We giggled our way through funky shops, purchasing strange red objects to add to her collection. Mai had an amazing ability to creatively convert such curiosities into meaningful works of art. She had a mind that could see through and beyond the visible, bringing together a jumbled mix of elements in unpredictable, imaginative ways. Two weeks ago, on the evening before she left for London, Mai gave me a little book by the Spanish writer Eduardo Mendoza titled "No Word From Gurb. It is about a shape-changing extraterrestrial named Gurb who has disappeared into Barcelona's back streets. His hapless commander, desperately trying to find him, records the daily pleasures, dangers, and absurdities of our fragile world. No stone is left unturned, no danger too great, in his search for his old friend Gurb. How could I have known then what a cruel twist of fate lay ahead? That Mai would, similarly, leave us behind-the family and friends she was fiercely devoted to. In an essay written shortly before her death, again as if foreshadowing what was to come, Mai noted: "Once more from Calvino before I go; no matter how far one wanders from the city, they will only pass from one limbo to another, never managing to leave it. One of the central themes in Mai's book "Leaving Beirut: Women and the Wars Within, was the dilemma of whether to stay or to leave. On numerous occasions, we discussed the experience of exile, along with what would have happened had she remained to Lebanon. Would it now be at all possible for her to return? I am in shocked disbelief at Mai's untimely and tragic passing. She will return to Beirut for good, but this time for those of us who love her-and we are many-the anguish is deep. Together we must celebrate her life because she touched and transformed our lives in extraordinary ways. I will now roam the streets of the city treasuring the moments we shared. But not alone, for Mai will remain in my heart. Roseanne SaadKhalaf is an assistant professor in English and creative writing at the American University of Beirut. She wrote this commentary for THE DAILY STAR.
