Tarek Habib:
From Jackie Onassis on the Nile to Maradona in Naples
Time's winged chariot
Profile by
Yasmine El-Rashidi
|
photo: Sherif Sonbol
|
Tarek Habib can come across as abrupt. Cold even. Our initial phone conversation is tense, the rescheduling of an appointment resulting in initial friction.
"I know my weaknesses," he says several days later when our schedules finally coordinate and we meet. "I have a certain nervousness about me and it can come across the wrong way," he states matter-of-factly. "I cannot deny that."
First impressions, however, can be deceptive.
Sitting in the living room of his Zamalek apartment, Habib -- a well known interviewer -- talks frankly about his work, his life, and the person he is.
"Perhaps I should start from the beginning," he says, offering no time for response.
"I was in a French school, and loved writing in the school magazine," he begins. "My colleagues at the time included the children of big figures, such as Ihsan Abdel-Quddous and Ali Amin, so I used them as wastas [connections] to get me interviews."
And that is how it all began.
"Makes sense, yes?" he nods.
Habib pauses, contemplates, and then laughs out loud.
"I was extremely naughty when I was at school," he says with a smile. "And I was constantly expelled. The only reason they brought me back was because of my writing, and the fact that I was a potential candidate for the top ten students nationally in the thanawiya 'amma . I was truly naughty," he smiles, "I didn't leave a single thing without trying it out. But," he adds, eyebrows rising and head tilting, "my cleverness excused my naughtiness."
The road to fame was long and somewhat twisted -- a passion for interviewing being channelled first into a degree in law, a 14-year post of general manager with American Express, and later a job with Olympic Airways.
"I suppose Olympic Airways is how it began. It so happened that Onassis owned Olympic Airways, and he was at the time marrying Jacqueline, and I was chosen as their escort. I lived with them for two weeks in Egypt, on a Nile cruise. They had with them John John Kennedy, may he rest in peace, and Christina, and Kennedy's daughter. That was a trigger if you like. It made me think, well, I've met these figures, and I've seen the human side of them, why not meet other people around the world and do the same. I knew that it was what I enjoyed most, and I knew I would find myself doing it."
Habib has since interviewed more than 250 public figures.
"Everyone from Maradona to Princess Diana; all the big football stars like Pelé and Platini; all the big singers, such as Dalida, Julio Igleisas, Abdel-Halim Hafez; Hollywood stars such as Jack Nicholson, Kirk Douglas; and then political figures. They became part of a progamme called Past, Present and Future -- a look at their past, where they are now, and what they are thinking in terms of the future. I have interviewed figures like Queen Nariman of Egypt, former first lady Jihan El-Sadat, Nelson Mandela."
The list continues.
"It is difficult, on many levels," he says of the process. "You are forced to put up a face -- a professional façade. No matter what is happening in your personal life, your feelings, you have to be neutral, put your feelings aside, put your own life aside, and focus one hundred per cent on the person in front of you. You may be upset, angry, depressed, overwhelmed by a million things. But you cannot be distracted. You must always wear a smile."
For the personality that comprises Habib, that tact -- although mastered -- is hard.
"Of course at times I want to shake the person in front of me and tell them 'speak'," he says. "I want to tell the person to concentrate and focus, but I can't. I have to be patient, listen, stay silent. I have to give the person the space they need," he explains.
And that comes at a price.
"Like I said, by nature I'm nervous. You can't imagine how I am at work. I'm a perfectionist by nature, I refuse mediocrity in anything, and so I like to do everything myself. The stress becomes incredibly intense, and this pressure makes me extremely nervous, irritable."
Habib pauses, shakes his head, and looks at me with seeming vulnerability.
"I admit," he repeats of his nervousness. "Absolutely," he smiles.
"We all have faults," he says, "and while we must work on them directly, we must also try to work on the positive elements of our personality and professional personas and enhance those. Like commitment, punctuality, respect of the person and their time. Time is invaluable and it is critical to recognise and honour that."
Habib is certainly qualified to understand the value of time.
"I've had a string of health complications," he says upon prodding. "Three open heart surgeries, a kidney transplant, and I've had 60 centimetres removed from my colon. That teaches you. It teaches you a lot about life, and it teaches you a lot about yourself."
In Habib's case the brushes with ill-health appear to have confirmed what he already knew.
"I am a fighter. Professionally I am a fighter, and in life I am a fighter. Let me give you an example," he says, readjusting himself on the sofa and taking a few moments to gather his thoughts.
"Interviewing Maradona took perseverance. Generally the man takes a lot of money for interviews," he explains. "I never pay to interview anyone, on principle and for financial reasons. So we flew to Naples, knowing in principle the interview was already rejected, found Maradona's house, rang the bell, were told 'no', but decided to wait outside."
"We waited for hours, until a sports car drove up to the big gates. It was his fiancée," he recalls. "I approached her, explained to her the situation, gave her a piece of papyrus with Maradona's name, told her we had flown all the way from Egypt to meet him, and..." He offers his own sound effects to imply "etc".
"She told us to wait for a while, went inside, and not much later the gates were opened and we were let in. Many others would not have flown to Naples in the first place."
Perseverance and commitment, then, appear to be at the core of Habib's vision of himself, of the man behind the media image.
"Many of my interviews have taken that kind of perseverance," he says of the Maradona experience. "Even more so," he sighs. "And in life too. Defeat is not something I accept."
Nor is it something he believes others need accept so easily.
"The human tendency is to dwell on things," he says. "To wallow in the hardships of life and the fact that one has been dealt an 'unfair' hand. But there is no such thing as unfair, because ultimately it's a matter of perspective and how one chooses to view the peaks and valleys of life. Maybe my illnesses are God's way of making me pay for mistakes I've made in my life. Direct, immediate payment," he offers.
The atmosphere in the room is light -- the initial impression has long since dispersed.
"If you focus on the negative you will fall," he says. "Instead, you can approach things differently. I chose to focus on my work and all the things I wanted to do once I was out of hospital," he explains. "And that gave me the force and drive to recover, get up, move forward."
Through this, however, time -- at times- takes the better of him.
"I suppose part of this nervousness people talk about stems from my illnesses," he says. "You never fully appreciate the value of life until you are close to losing it. It's part of the make up of human nature. So I'm in a hurry to do as much as I can and implement all my ideas."
Tilting his head slightly to the side Habib laughs. The spontaneity is affecting.
"I suppose I'm in a big rush in life."
That rush has propelled him to a number of firsts in the Middle East -- his interviews with stars, with political figures and, perhaps most famously, with cardiologist Magdi Yaqoub following the televising of Habib's first by-pass operation.
"People who work with me closely and deal with me closely are subjected to this nervousness of mine," he says frankly. "Those who deal with me on a purely professional, 'interviewer' level, I like to think of as seeing only the professional, objective façade, which is why I have managed to interview all the people I have. But overall, who Tarek Habib is as a person," he says, slowly, quietly, "is something no-one has ventured to explore."
He smiles again, turns to me, and smiles some more.
"This is a first," he says, shaking his head in sudden amusement. "I've been interviewed a lot, and written about a lot, but in terms of what makes me who I am..."
Shaking his head, he drifts off on a silent tangent of his own.
"But the fact that people don't know who I really am is a good thing," he reflects. "Too often today you feel the interviewer's presence too much. They prod their guest, push them into corners, and even if not verbally, you feel their stance and perspective from the expression on their face or tone of their voice."
Which is one of the great mistakes of interviewing.
"Unfortunately, as well, too often we see apathy among interviewers. Unfortunately, in my case this patience and waiting comes at the expense of my personal life," he laughs. "I take it out on others. But back to topic," he adds, sporting a smile of amused puzzlement at himself and his ways. "There isn't a genuine interest in the guest, or the subject. And the element of respect for the person in front of them is disregarded."
"For much of my working life there were just a few of us. We were doing it because we really wanted to, because it was a passion. Today," he continues, "there are hundreds of people presenting programmes, interviewing. Is it the subject matter they are interested in, or is it merely a matter of being on television?"
For Habib it is the subject that is important.
"A subject must be informative, new, interesting. That's hard to find and takes much work, much reading, a lot of homework. It's the subject that presents the guest, not the guest that presents the subject. I've interviewed Nobel laureate Naguib Mahfouz six times. Each time he came across in a different light."
Habib's most recent project has been the culmination of 10 years of work.
"I decided I wanted to document the history of my country through the eyes of those who lived it," he says of Files of an Egyptian Revolution. "It took time and hard work, but it was worth every bit of energy. Many of those I interviewed -- 58 I think -- have since passed away, and I feel extremely lucky that I had the chance to meet them and document history as seen and experienced through their eyes."
Luck is something Habib believes has played a key role in his life.
"Yes I am persevering, and yes I am a fighter, but still I cannot give myself all the credit. One must recognise the fact that we are carried in life at times, as I have been. You cannot sit back in life and say that whatever will come is your fate. You work on life, and through that play a role which with luck and destiny molds your fate."
Maradona's girlfriend's appearance and her character and willingness to cooperate, Habib reflects, were part of the equation of luck.
He leans back into the sofa and smiles.
"I'm a Leo," he offers. "And I have a lot of Leo in me. I was born on the day of the revolution," he laughs. "But I will not tell you what year."
Years, through the eyes of this man best know for three trademark questions, are of little consequence if one does not embrace them for their time's worth.
"One must have goals and dreams, one must appreciate the little things in life, like a person who comes up to me on the street smiling and makes a comment about my programme the night before. Even if they have a critical observation to make, I appreciate that this person cares enough to approach me and share with me that thought. I also appreciate interviewing someone who shares with me openly and honestly -- like Jihan El-Sadat. And I appreciate," he says slowing down, "my critical illnesses, because they have made me who I am."
Who he is has long remained shielded from the public eye, the idiosyncrasy of the man hidden behind his professional persona.
"I know a lot of people were surprised that I took my camera crew with me during my first open-heart surgery," he offers haphazardly. "And maybe even some people responded negatively. But," he explains, "for those who know me, it made sense. Instead of worrying about my health I put my energy into the programme it would be edited into when I recovered. I focussed on the programme, forgot about the fear, and created a crazy new idea. In fact," he laughs, "it was not me that was worried, it was my director, Tarek Nour, who fainted at the sight of all the blood. They had to leave me, revive him, then come back to me."
Habib laughs, offers me a cookie, nods his head.
"I've been very lucky," he affirms.
Silence fills the room as Habib contemplates the silver linings that have come with the clouds.
"My three questions," he picks up humourously. "What did I expect to be asked about but haven't; what question am I pondering now in life yet cannot answer; and what would I refuse to answer if you asked me?"
"And I refuse to share with you any details of my personal life."
Habib stops to think. I take his advice on interviewing and remain silent.
"At the end of the day I am a human being," he says. "And I have no regrets because regrets lead you nowhere. The altered form of regret is the lesson learned. And one of the lessons I have learned in the course of my life is to take full responsibility for my actions and words, and to fully appreciate the value of time."
"We only live once and every moment is precious. That is why I am in a rush, want to do many things at once, wish there were 48 hours in a day and eight days in a week. Rather than make me fear life, ill-health has made me fear missing out on life and missing out on the value of every second of time."
