An Editor And A Gentleman
Al-Ahram Weekly staff pay tribute to a departed leader, and a beloved friend
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The Weekly celebrating its third anniversary; a trip to Ismailiya; celebrating a staff member's birthday at the central desk
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"We have our very own Kofi Annan." That's how Ustaz Hosny introduced me to the staff when I first joined the paper. I was fresh from college and my biggest achievement in life was having been the secretary-general of my university's Model United Nations. I was intimidated and overwhelmed and such kind comments were his way of making everyone at the Weekly feel important.
It didn't stop there. The smile that never left his face made all the difference. A slight smile from someone going through such pain reminds us of the huge difference small gestures make to a person's day.
Soha Abdelaty
Ustaz Hosny was like an older brother, always willing to listen to my problems. Now I feel bad about the fact that whenever I went to his office all I did was complain. I never thanked him for his tolerance. This is what I regret the most.
Amany Abdel-Moneim
When I first joined the paper Ustaz Hosny asked me to attend the editorial meeting. Newly graduated, in my early 20s, I was terrified. I wanted to drop dead but then Ustaz Hosny got up, welcomed me and brought me a chair.
I immediately felt like I had found a home. Whenever I looked into Ustaz Hosny's eyes, I saw peace, because the aura surrounding this most decent of human beings was always serene.
Rana Allam
Journalists are cynical by nature. Many viewed this particular exercise -- eulogising our late editor-in- chief -- with a somewhat critical eye. Not because they didn't want Hosny Guindy lionised, but more out of a profound belief in the weakness of words (amazing, considering their profession).
And in one sense they are right. No words -- not these few, and not the several thousand you'll find here -- can do justice to the essential spirit of this particular man, to his humanity and his kindness, and to the legacy he leaves just by having been himself.
Hosny Guindy was a survivor, profoundly proud of being Egyptian, Upper Egyptian, a Copt, a Cairene, a journalist, an amateur psychologist, a medical aficionado, an Arab, and -- most of all, I think, of being global in the true sense of the word.
He was a modernist with a traditional heart. His life -- and the project that defined its last 13 years (the newspaper you hold in your hand) -- was a crossroads, a meeting point between cultures, an indicator of what Egypt is all about.
We are at a crossroads. The language we speak, the way we express ourselves, will define social and political parameters, both now and in the future. Hosny Guindy -- and the Weekly he founded and moulded -- was the embodiment of how that dynamic is changing.
I depended on him for journalistic guidance and the wisdom of someone who had seen the world change over decades. And when I say depend, I mean it. The fact that Ustaz Hosny carefully examined every page of his beloved paper before giving the order to print was a comfort.
It will be extremely hard to adjust to life without him. We will all have to quickly grow older and wiser in order to realise the tremendous responsibilities that accompany our delicate task.
Like many earnest, hard-working Egyptians who don't act like movers and shakers (but are truly the ones who move and influence where things in this country are going), Ustaz Hosny and the Weekly were bogged down by constrained resources and the generally depressed popular and intellectual climate. And yet Hosny never ceased to soldier on. Perhaps we will slowly come to understand why. Via his example, we may discover that it is not bold proclamations about wide-sweeping reforms that matter, but an intense concentration on the way our profession can act to spark change.
Tarek Atia
Even though he is no longer with us I continue to wait for Ustaz Hosny to walk by the region desk, to say good morning to each and every one of us, and check up on how our families are doing.
On Tuesday nights, when we had to stay at the office till the wee hours of the morning to finish as many pages as possible Hosny would squeeze as many of us as possible into his car and give us a ride home. He made every single one of us feel important -- even the interns and trainees were left with the same feeling.
If Hosny needed to discuss an article with me, and I happened to be eating lunch, he wouldn't ask me to get up from my meal. Instead he would walk into the lounge where I was eating, kneel down beside me, and show me the correction he wanted me to make.
Sherine Bahaa
He wasn't interested in finding a place for himself in the spotlight. He refused to appear on television and preferred to manage the paper rather than write in it. He often worked till the early hours of the morning and never complained. He would, however, urge us to take a break and relax for a while when the going got rough.
Mahmoud Bakr
Ustaz Hosny would refer to himself as akhouk el- kebir as he tried to calm me down during a bout of temper, teaching me that it was important not only to strive after professional success but to develop as a human being as well.
Over the years, we became accustomed to Ustaz Hosny being away for weeks as his health deteriorated and he underwent treatment. And yet he would always be back, pale and fragile, standing there with us as the pages were laid out, lifting his glasses to carefully examine each page.
I can't find the words to express my gratitude and love, especially since I am now posted in Washington and was unable to attend his funeral and pay my last respects. My only condolence is that the last time I saw him in Cairo on 28 June, I hugged and kissed him, something I hadn't done in years.
Khaled Dawoud
He taught me everything I know about the ethics of journalism. He would tell me that having my byline on an article should not be my main concern, that I should give all my attention to content and style.
Reham El-Adawi
Dealing with Ustaz Hosny's death makes me feel like my father has passed away for the second time. My sense of security has been shattered.
Whenever I had a problem or felt I had been the victim of injustice Ustaz Hosny was always there. "Whatever happens, be yourself, and keep smiling," he would say.
Nevine El-Aref
It's difficult to walk down the corridors of the newspaper. It's not melancholy, just emptiness and void, something missing in the air. It left with Hosny Guindy.
I remember the first meeting we had, discussing the prospect of my working at the Weekly. This was not the job interview I had rehearsed and dressed up for. In the face of my black suit and well-thought out "goals" was a quiet, smiling man, in blue jeans and a sweater. He tried to relate the excitement he got every Thursday when he held the paper in his hands. Even after a decade it was still a thrill, every week, to discover that the paper had made it.
Instead of discussing criteria and objectives, he told me how he had first come to Al-Ahram with naive ideas about providing readers with the pulse of the nation, only to discover that things weren't that simple. He told me about the awe he felt working with editors like Mohamed Hassanein Heikal. He remembered how my own mother had held a hand or two while his generation of journalists rose up in Al-Ahram's ranks and I understood -- without his saying it -- that his was another hand being extended.
Three weeks after I joined the paper it was Christmas. I had barely made any friends and was too shy to join the traditional gift exchange game, involving each person choosing a random name from a hat and then being that person's "secret Santa". As we gathered around the tree (which stood proudly beside the fanous that December), Ustaz Hosni quietly came up to me and gave me a beautifully wrapped Millennium Tankard mug. "Merry Christmas," he said.
The first advice he gave me will remain long after he is gone. Don't bother looking for things to write about just yet, "I just want you to get used to the place, to feel comfortable walking down the corridors."
What keeps most of us anchored to the newspaper, despite the inevitable frustrations, is that we feel at home, that the Weekly is another family. I was a latecomer to the newspaper yet he never made me feel less loved just because I wasn't here when they used bromide to typeset the paper.
The lesson I will cherish forever is his elegance of understatement. For Hosny Guindy less was indeed more. This was a paradigm to keep in mind when writing (although as staff writers we often try to rebel, witness the obituaries) and especially when laying out pages. The visual effect of the newspaper was important to him, and he often stopped at the message a page was trying to bring across in images and words. He taught us to question why just as much as how.
Amina Elbendary
It is impossible to pay tribute to Hosny Guindy. He was the kind of person one is lucky to encounter once in a lifetime.
In the 10 years since I joined the Weekly I have seen Ustaz Hosny rejoice and cry with us, and torture himself to make our personal and professional lives happier. The grief I feel at losing my editor-in- chief is immense. We have lost a leader we not only respected but deeply loved.
My mourning has taken only one form so far: remembering my confusion on the numerous occasions when I spontaneously called him Daddy. His bemused, flattered chuckle still rings in my ears.
Injy El-Kashef
Despite being one of the youngest members of staff I was able to meet my editor-in-chief regularly, and he would listen to me attentively. "Don't ever be embarrassed to talk to me about whatever you like," he'd say.
A true friend to every member of staff, Ustaz Hosny possessed charisma, energy and eloquence. This becomes clear when the paper turns into a beehive of activity whenever special events or anniversaries needed to be covered and copy submitted on time.
Mustafa El-Menshawy
When Ustaz Hosny's secretary scheduled my first meeting with him, I was extremely tense. Nora told me not to worry because "he's a very nice man".
The welcoming smile that greeted me when I entered his office that first time has been the hallmark of his attitude towards me from that moment on. He was a person who commanded your respect. He was always there -- active, talkative and cheerful even when extremely ill. In Arabic "Hosny" literally translates into "one of the best people", while "Guindy" means "soldier". He was one of journalism's best soldiers.
Nesmahar Sayed
Death never takes the wise man by surprise -- he is always ready to go. Ustaz Hosny passed away peacefully, without the least complaint. He never made his sufferings known and when asked about his health "thank God" was his constant reply.
His smiling face and modest demeanour are most vivid in my mind. A true gentleman, he was modesty incarnate, and a friend to all people. For that he will never be forgotten.
Mohamed El-Sayed
Hosny Guindy devoted his life to promoting Al- Ahram's role as the most important media organisation in Egypt and the Middle East.
To make this come true Ustaz Hosny was always the first to arrive at the newspaper offices and the last to leave. He was a man with a mission, and he paid with his life for his cause.
Gamal Essam El-Din
My eyes were full of tears when I first met Ustaz Hosny. I was trying to transfer from one of Al- Ahram's monthly publications to the Weekly, which was being planned at the time. My former editor-in- chief was not ready to let me go and it was to Hosny -- whom I did not know at all -- that I turned for help.
Why would Hosny Guindy -- of all people -- be on my side in a dispute with a long time colleague? Simply because he is Hosny Guindy, someone told me. And he did help me.
For the next few months Hosny -- extremely busy with preparations for the Weekly's zero issues -- was always willing to receive and comfort me.
A few months later I was summoned to Hosny's office. "This time I am not going to offer you a tissue. We made it. He [my former editor] kindly gave us his approval. Please go and thank him." That day Hosny's smile was bigger than usual, making me feel he was genuinely happy that he had managed to help me.
On Monday, as I was stuck in traffic on Galaa Street, my taxi driver pulled out a copy of the daily Al-Ahram. His eyes immediately fell on Hosny's front-page obituary. A few seconds later he said: "Dedicated. Honest. Humble. Kind. Do people with such good qualities really still exist?"
"Yes," I said, unable to contain my pride. "He is my editor-in-chief."
Dina Ezzat
For all the talk of liberation, freedom and democracy today a liberal and independent press continues to be elusive. But in the midst of the mayhem that is the modern world, and despite the odds, Hosny Guindy made of Al-Ahram Weekly a national paper that is not only progressive but that upholds the highest professional standards.
It was five years ago when I first walked into his office in search of the man behind this project and found Ustaz Hosny: soft-spoken; and almost excessively courteous. But I was soon to discover that this was a man of steel: a man committed to respecting his profession. He sent me out on my first assignment for the Weekly -- which resulted in a story he summarily refused to print a couple of weeks later. It was one of the first lessons, perhaps the most enduring, that he was to teach me: that ours is not a profession by which to indulge our outrage at the many injustices of the world. Such self- indulgence is self-defeating. Our job is to be diligent in searching for the truth.
He threw out the piece but took me on. He encouraged me to refine my skills, take on greater challenges, and take pride in my work. As I progressed it was a pleasure to see his face after reading a piece I had written that he liked.
He made it clear that the Weekly took the motto "giving a voice to the voiceless" seriously. He wanted the newspaper to deal with every facet of life, to uncover every scam, to search out every truth, and we did so, assured that he stood behind us, defending our right of access to information and to respect for our persons.
Fatemah Farag
Some people are unforgettable. Because of all the love he gave us he can never really be gone. He will always be in our hearts. The way he inspired the best in his staff was incredible. I once overheard him reprimanding an editor for speaking too harshly to one of our colleagues. "What if she was your daughter, how would you feel then?"
Impeccably decent and polite, Ustaz Hosny believed the most complicated of matters could be solved through dialogue and civilised exchange. Only by learning how to respect each other's differences could we claim to be civilised.
I recall an argument I had once with a page editor over how a story should be handled. He had re- written my story -- completely ignoring my point of view. I felt so offended that I ran to Ustaz Hosny's office, complaining hysterically about how humiliated I felt. Having only been at the place for three months, and the editor being an indispensable veteran, I was truly amazed when Ustaz Hosny disregarded the potential sensitivities and decided to use my version. Most importantly, he did it in a way that left both my editor and I satisfied.
Jailan Halawi
Whenever I think of Ustaz Hosny the first thing I picture is the big smile. He would walk the corridors flashing that smile at everyone he happened to bump into, and I always felt like he was handing me a piece of his heart of gold.
We went to him with our thoughts and our problems. Even in the midst of the responsibilities and difficulties involved in running a paper like ours he always had time. We would walk into his office, many times unannounced, often without even knocking.
However many times we endure the loss of loved ones we are never prepared. Losing Ustaz Hosny is particularly painful because we never really got round to telling him what he meant to us. I hope he knew how we felt -- that he was the backbone of our paper, not only our mentor and idol, but our friend.
Dahlia Hammouda
Over the past 13 years, every conversation I have had with any journalist, worker or driver at the Al- Ahram organisation, had to include a bit about Ustaz Hosny. And no one had a bad word to say.
Rania Khallaf
Ustaz Hosny was a living example of humanity, dedication and magnanimity. Even when he was at his most ill he never stopped worrying about his colleagues, or asking about those who were not feeling well or had recently had a baby.
When he was unable to make it to the office he would urge me to convey his apologies to Hani Shukrallah, our managing editor, and Mona Anis, the deputy editor, for placing the burden of that week's edition on their shoulders. Upon delivering the message we would all smile in wonder at this man who would apologise for being ill. We knew full well he loved his job with an infinite passion, and would certainly be at work if he could.
I remember my first day as his personal assistant. He asked me not to prevent anyone from contacting him -- whether personally or by phone. I was not sure what to do about this but as time went by and I began to understand his humane approach to life I realised that his door really was open to all.
I used to spend long hours with him, more than I spent with my own family. He did not ask me to but his charismatic personality and the nature of his approach to work made me unaware of the passing of time.
He made no distinctions between the most distinguished of editors and the buffet staff. For him they were all colleagues. He was the mentor but saw himself as the pupil, ever hungry for knowledge.
Nora Koloyan
Although many might think my family name would have served to make my life easier at a place like Al- Ahram Weekly, it actually made things worse. For three months after joining the Weekly I felt so unwelcome that I finally went to see Ustaz Hosny, to tell him how frustrating it was that none of the editors seemed willing to give me a chance.
He told me that the essence of journalism was being patient. "It took me four years to get my by-line in the paper," he said, reassuring me that because I had talent and ambition, my time would come.
A few months later I got my first opportunity, and since then, I've been writing extensively. At times I felt my main motivation was to prove to Ustaz Hosny that he was right. Even though he was bed-ridden at home, I hoped he would notice my by-line. When he gave me a raise I knew he had.
Reem Nafie
I am speechless at losing an older brother like Ustaz Hosni. He was the symbol of true love and modesty, who did so much good in life that I am certain his reward will be the open doors of heaven.
Samir Naom
When Al-Ahram decided to embark on what we call "The Weekly Experiment", an "exceptional" man was needed for the task, and Hosny Guindy was the "exceptional" man appointed by Ibrahim Nafie to found Al-Ahram Weekly.
In the months that preceded the Weekly's launch on 28 February 1990, Guindy worked day and night, giving attention to each and every tiny detail, in an attempt to produce a perfect publication presenting the Arab point of view to an English-speaking audience. The timing was critical -- Iraq had invaded Kuwait and all eyes were on the Arab world. From the moment the first issue hit the newsstands, the Weekly established itself as a unique spirit in the Arab media spectrum.
Guindy literally made us the persons we are today. We are all students of Ustaz Hosny's school of thought.
All of us, his students, must now unite in order to drive the Weekly into the future bearing his banner: "success is teamwork."
Galal Nassar
Ustaz Hosny was of the old school. He felt happiest with all of us around him. It was that intensity of contact with the staff that he considered the backbone of the paper's success.
I, on the other hand, would happily work from home if I could. Fellow journalists get on my nerves: I work best on weekends when nobody is around. Ten years ago, I asked Ustaz Hosny if I could come into the office on weekends. I explained why. It was against the rules, but he listened attentively. He was not entirely convinced, but he readily agreed. He took care of the special security arrangements that had to be made and the bureaucratic procedures were taken. It was another example of how accommodating he was. It was a token of his love, and he loved much.
The point is that he always made allowances. He knew all too well that running a paper like Al-Ahram Weekly entails a certain degree of flexibility. He overlooked my persistent lateness for meetings. I was always bemused by the look of utter horror and alarm whenever he walked into my office and glanced at my cluttered desk. He seldom reproached, but when he did it was in the most penitent fashion, almost as if he was the guilty party. He sometimes, with extreme reluctance, threatened, but he rarely took punitive measures in the end.
He was never particularly impressed with prolific writers, but turned a blind eye to my by-line appearing on four of five pages in the same issue. He appreciated what he believed was my intricate knowledge of African affairs, and encouraged me to carve a niche as the paper's Africa man. For that I suppose he was ready to pardon my many other eccentricities and shortcomings.
Gamal Nkrumah
Only someone who has worked and lived with Hosny Guindy can understand why it is impossible to speak of him in the past tense. This soft-spoken man who hated the limelight and worshipped his work is very simply a being much larger than his thin quiet self.
He has permeated our souls, and fused with our thoughts, making it difficult to determine where he ends and we start. He remains right here with us at the Weekly, his presence felt by every single one of us. He is in the corridors, zooming by, wearing his characteristic well-worn jeans and comfortable shoes. He is running to make a correction, accommodate a change, negotiate over a late deadline. He is at the layout desk, poring over the pages, checking, advising and listening. He is in his office with a long queue of us waiting to talk to him with ideas, petitions and (often petty) arguments and complaints.
This is where Hosny Guindy will remain: inside the soul of Al-Ahram Weekly, which he built with hard work and much sacrifice. With us he will stay, his image in our hearts, his words in our ears, his spirit in our work.
Ghada Ragab
What to make of the death of Hosny Guindy? All the grief in the world is one thing, but the sense of losing direction, losing one's way, is quite another. When I first arrived at the Weekly it was by way of trying out one more, possibly part-time job. The introduction provided by Dr Mursi Saad El-Din elicited mixed reactions from the culture staff. For two weeks I kept coming in and sitting around. Eventually I wrote a book review, then a short piece about the moulid of El-Sayeda Zainab, a meditative essay that drew the connection between the festival's many working- class manifestations and the influence it had on Tawfik El-Hakim.
I had not been invited to meet the editor-in-chief. I thought I knew enough about Al-Ahram to realise that, for someone as young and insufficiently obsequious as I was, there was little chance of a rewarding career path. No sooner had he read the article, however, than Ustaz Hosny asked to talk to me. Again, it was hard to imagine how such an unassuming, apparently conventional man could go against the grain to accommodate the vanity of the up and coming, how someone so deeply ingrained in the establishment could care about the future. I remember him explaining precisely what he liked about the article, that it offered an unequivocally homegrown perspective in adequate English, and I remember feeling it was almost miraculous to have found such a boss -- with just as much understanding, sympathy and integrity as people reported of, say, Ahmed Bahaaeddin -- in a present-day mainstream institution.
These impressions remained with me as I gradually embarked on my improbable career as a member of the Journalists' Syndicate, regularly consulting with Ustaz Hosny as I went along. We grew closer, I think, and it was never unpleasant. His professional virtues aside, Ustaz Hosny had a peculiar charm. Without so much as a hint of melodrama, he drew you into his serene, thoroughly decent folds. He liked to discuss work on a one-to-one basis; and the security of knowing one was answerable directly to him was an incomparable comfort. He would often speak of the traditions of respectable journalism -- "In Al- Ahram I was brought up to..." -- but he was unfailingly aware of the social and economic conditions of present-day Cairo.
It would be impossible to enumerate the occasions on which I felt grateful or indebted. My father died during the weekend, so, apart from a tiny obituary note on the pages of Al-Ahram, the news was not announced until Saturday. No one from the Weekly found out, and I was expecting no one to show up at the condolences ceremony on Friday night. And no one did -- except for Ustaz Hosny. The grave expression on his face as he shook my hand, his admirable modesty, came back to me when I heard the news. Sadly, the day of Ustaz Hosny's funeral, Salah Salem Road turned out to be far busier than expected and when I finally arrived at the church they were carrying out the coffin.
And grief notwithstanding, the feeling was one of imminent collapse -- that the last five years of my life, my journalistic self awareness and sense of belonging to Al-Ahram Weekly, may have been no more than a pleasant dream.
Youssef Rakha
I came to the Weekly as a fresh graduate with high hopes. It was already a 10-year-old institution and I was worried it would take a long time to fit into the system.
Before I even had a by-line, Ustaz Hosny described me as one of his colleagues. He always had time for junior reporters, offering them his thoughts, and finding ways to fit them into the system. He was always interested in listening to the small details of my fieldwork, no matter how silly they were. He would listen and give feedback for as long as it took. He made sure every new comer had a place in the newspaper no matter how inexperienced and young.
In just a few months I considered myself a member of the team.
Dena Rashed
When I was ill two years ago Ustaz Hosny was so concerned that not only did he suggest the names of doctors, he even made appointments.
When I met him on my first day of work, 13 years ago, I told him I had never studied journalism. He smiled and said, "don't worry, we are going to teach you everything."
Rehab Saad
Ustaz Hosny was the kind of role model our generation desperately needs. We did not fear him, though we were afraid of disappointing him.
When I worked in his office for a couple of months I would stand up whenever he entered. "Hanan," he said once, "don't stand up again when I come in. Please sit down."
Hanan Sabra
The entire team got on the bus to visit the newly established Al-Ahram print house in 6 October City. Among them was a man in blue jeans and a plain white shirt, a serene and affable smile. There was no way to distinguish between him and the others. No one could tell that this was the "chief". He was one of them. And that was exactly how we felt about Ustaz Hosny, who never made a point of asserting his position, and did his utmost to avoid the limelight.
He approached Al-Ahram Weekly with a missionary spirit. I'll never forget his description of the frantic last day before each week's publication -- the "Wednesday miracle" he called it.
Hala Sakr
I remember the way Ustaz Hosny stood by my side when he heard about my father's sudden severe illness. And when my father died a few months ago he was quick to console me. Even though he was debilitated by his own illness he wept out of the kindness of his heart.
The last time we spoke on the phone he said, in a frail voice, "I'm worn out," which took me by surprise since he was always quick to reassure us he was getting better. When I visited him in the hospital I felt the same fear and panic that I felt during the last meeting with my father.
Nothing we write about him will do him justice. I refuse to say good-bye since he will always be with us. Every subsequent issue of Al-Ahram Weekly, which he created, will be a message of love we send him every Thursday.
Heba Samir
How can I write about the person who encouraged me to write in the first place? I was a fresh graduate when I came to the Weekly and wanted to be a translator. It was Ustaz Hosny who insisted that I try my hand at reporting. Perhaps it was because the newspaper was short of staff at the time, but I presume Ustaz Hosny could see the journalist I couldn't see in myself.
He was a constant source of encouragement, his comments about my articles always inspiring me to work harder.
Gihan Shahine
It was just another day at the Weekly without Ustaz Hosny. It had been more than a month since I last saw him. I tried to think of ways to express my feelings without disturbing him while he was sick. Flowers and chocolates would not do. Calling his house and telling his family to send him my love, on the other hand, would please him the most.
I did not, and it hurts me deeply. Whenever I was in need he was there, whether I had asked for his help or not. Whenever I -- or any member of my family -- fell ill he was the first to contact me and offer names and phone numbers of doctors.
"I am an expert on doctors," he would say, referring to his own illness.
"This place needs a psychiatrist," he would say, referring to all the personal and professional problems with which he had to deal. "But the problem is that after a short while the psychiatrist will need another," he would chuckle.
I am not sure he realised that it was he who acted as the psychiatrist.
Shaden Shehab
Although I have worked at countless places and for many years before coming to the Weekly I have never had a boss like Ustaz Hosny. He was the boss I liked the most, and feared and respected the most as well.
Sherif Sonbol
I can no longer remember the exact circumstances that found me being shown, sometime in the summer of 1990, into Mr Guindy's office in the Al- Ahram building in Cairo. Somebody had mentioned, I think Louis Greiss, at that time in charge of public relations at the American University of Cairo, that Al-Ahram intended to set up an English-language newspaper and was looking for contributors. Whatever the truth of that may be, it was in response to a call of this sort that I made an appointment to see Hosny at Al-Ahram, in order to express my interest in the new project.
Hosny's office at that time was on a corner of the newsroom on the fourth floor of the old Al-Ahram building, the one that expresses the confidence of the 1960s. Almost opposite was the office of Hassan Fouad, the paper's first managing editor, and upstairs, half way along a corridor otherwise occupied by Al-Ahram Al-Riyadi, was the Weekly's first office. This was occupied in the mornings by a newly recruited editorial team that included Bahgat Badie, Wadie Kirolos, Mursi Saad El-Din, and, for a time, Mourad Wahba, advising on economics. In the afternoons, those who had been recruited to work on the language and style of the new paper used the office, under the direction of Mamdouh El-Dakhakni, at that time on loan from the British Embassy.
That office was the birthplace of the Weekly, and Hosny's office downstairs, lined with dark cupboards and with no windows, was where the new paper was planned. Staff came and went, but gradually a core group formed to produce the newspaper's first edition, which appeared in 1991 as Coalition troops moved to drive Iraqi forces out of Kuwait. Hosny, invariably with his pipe, would make a point of asking what one would have to drink before starting any discussion, and, as he was also editor of the foreign news pages of Al-Ahram at that time, would always have that day's British and US papers on his desk for perusal. By that time in the evening, Nagwa El-Ashri, who wrote on art in Al- Ahram and with whom he shared his office, would be on the point of departing, but Hosny would stay on, quite prepared to invest long hours in a project that presented the unusual challenge of producing a weekly newspaper in a foreign language for an as yet untested audience.
Following the highs of the early editions, and as the business of producing the paper each week became routine, it was not unusual that Hosny would be among Weekly staff staying until late into the night on Tuesday and Wednesday as that week's paper was put together. At that time, the newspaper was composed on linotype machines housed in refrigerated quarters below the editorial floors of Al- Ahram, and copy, sent down in either handwritten or typewritten form, would reappear as columns, ready to be pasted into place as pages were made up by hand. The problem was that those typing the copy were used to producing copy in Arabic, and the keyboards were hardly user-friendly, all manner of function keys being required to produce iswid (bold), or ma'il (italics), or other fonts and combinations.
An early editorial decision had it that the paper should use British English and the Times typeface that Al-Ahram had on its machines and that it should have the kind of authoritative design fitting a paper put out by Al-Ahram. However, this did not mean that the content of the new paper had to be equally conservative, nor did it mean that the design had to conform to the verticals still favoured, for example, by the New York Times. In Britain a new broadsheet newspaper, The Independent, had started some years before, reinvigorating British newspaper design particularly in its use of horizontals and of striking photographs. Al-Ahram Weekly, too, was to use a horizontal design and feature photographs taken by Al- Ahram photographers, generously reproduced. It would not "run-on" stories from the front page to inside pages, and it would aim to be visually attractive, as well as immediately recognisable, within the limits of the broadsheet format.
Not all of that was always achievable, especially when a piece of copy, arriving back for the umpteenth time, still had the italics in the wrong place, or had mysteriously changed font, spelling a trip down to the typists, or a spell at one of the few keyboards in that refrigerated environment that handled Roman characters. All of this made for an unusually stressful, but almost always interesting and sociable, working environment, and Hosny, perhaps unusually for editor-in-chief, and particularly for one who also had further responsibilities within Al-Ahram, was invariably a part of it. As far as I can remember he was always among the very last to leave.
Looking back on all that early exertion as the paper fought to establish itself, I can see more readily the magnitude of the undertaking, and the stresses that it must have placed on Hosny, who, however, was always generosity itself. Not only was there the business of bringing out a high-quality publication, and of creating an identity and readership for that publication, there were also practical questions involved that raised the stakes that little bit further: not only were there journalists to be hired and trained, but these journalists should be bilingual and familiar with at least two cultures. The paper also needed skilled translators; it needed typists who could type in English and in Arabic; and it needed interpreters who would sit in the Al-Ahram's archives with writers whose first language was English, painstakingly explaining the contents of files called up for a story or feature.
I can't help feeling that a good part of Al-Ahram Weekly's success, making it a widely read, widely respected paper with a recognisable identity and style, came from the time and effort its editor-in-chief made in making it a success. A good part of that investment, however, came naturally to Hosny, since he was invariably kind and encouraging, even to those who had only just arrived in the office, or, the Weekly being nothing if not cosmopolitan, off the plane. Entirely characteristically, when the paper's rising fortunes and Al-Ahram's expansion dictated a move to a new building and Hosny's relocation to an editor-in-chief's office, he still found time to share a cup of tea, occupying the now much grander space much as he had the old.
Hearing the very sad news of his passing this week, I am moved to reflect that I have never met a kinder or more decent man, or one more appreciated by his subordinates and colleagues. Though Hosny, retiring and undemonstrative, probably would not have cared to know it, it seems important to try to express something of the affection and respect in which he was held.
David Tresilian
As a trainee at Al-Ahram's Strategic Centre I set my eyes on the brand new Al-Ahram Weekly as the paper I would like to work for. I was told that the editor-in- chief's desk was on the fourth floor of the Al-Ahram building. I knocked on the door and there he was, sitting behind his desk. I didn't have to go through an arsenal of secretaries, nor was I asked to make a prior appointment. I presented myself to him and he was very welcoming. He got up with me and showed me around himself.
That was Hosny Guindy when I first met him and so he continued. He was entirely without pretension.
Niveen Wahish
Although he had a clear vision of what makes a good photo, and provided ample space in the paper-- and especially its front page -- for photos, he himself was very self-conscious about being photographed. This shot was taken on a rare occasion where he let go, allowing himself the chance to enjoy being in front of the camera as he celebrated one of the Weekly's birthday parties with his second family -- us.
Randa Shaath
