Mahmoud el-Sadani, who died yesterday at the age of 83, was by no means an ordinary writer. He represented a blend of dreams, ambitions and determination, all wrapped up in a witty Egyptian sense of humor. El-Sadani believed in his cause, cherished his Arab identity, and never spared any effort to defend the truth, using a pen as sharp as a sword to expose oppressors and corruptors.
After meeting el-Sadani I became carefree, stirring up fights with people in more senior positions, knowing that he would stand up for me. But when his disease left him incapacitated, I felt like an orphan in a heartless city. When my future hung in the balance, I looked around and didn’t find him next to me, because he was receving treatment in London. His daughter, who passed away 15 days ago of cancer, was also in London with him.
Often, you don’t appreciate the presence of people around you until they’re gone, leaving you experiencing loneliness in an endless vacuum. I still recall how el-Sadani’s loving son Akram would try to alleviate his father’s pain, to make him laugh–but el-Sadani could only give a faint whimper while struggling to endure the stabs of pain. Akram would stay next to his father until the break of day, because el-Sadani, “the naughty little boy,” was scared that death might come at any moment to take him away, just as it did fellow writer Kamel el-Shennawi.
El-Sadani is a rare breed of writer who had strong beliefs and whose attention could not be distracted from from writing about day-to-day problems. I followed writings while I was living Upper Egypt, then one day I decided to meet him at the Journalists Club in Giza. I don’t know exactly when this was, but the image of el-Sadani is indelibly seared into my memory. When my eyes first fell on him he was sitting up straight in his chair, like a blade of grass that refuses to bend to the wind, a glowing piece of coal that one cannot hold in one’s hands, or a hammer ready to hit any corrupt official.
El-Sadani wished to die at the age of 90. I remember that he once said, “So far, I’ve written dozens of books, three plays, hundreds of scripts for radio programs, and articles that kiosks can use as cones to sell nuts for centuries to come. But my ultimate wish is to find a piece of land in our village in the countryside; one feddan on which I can build a house and breed lots of geese, pigeons and different species of rabbits. I will grow mulukhiyya around this house, and store ten pots of cheese and pickles on its roof. I will wear a white jilbab, a hat, and walk barefoot. I will take a dip in the canal whenever I feel like it. I will have 20 children, half of them boys and the other half girls. I will build a grave for myself, for I fear sleeping in far-off graves. I’m scared that after I die, a hungry wolf or a stray hyena will tear my flesh apart. I fear life among the dead, I want to die next to the living. That way I will remain with them and be able to see the new happy generation that will fill life with art, flowers, dance and music. I wish not to die before the age of 90, in order to live the longest possible time, see the maximum number of countries possible, get to know the maximum number of people, read the maximum number of books, so that when I die I will have nothing else to covet.”
El-Sadani has 21 published books; the most famous of which is his tetralogy el-Walad el-Shaqi (The Naughty Little Boy), Musafer ala el-Raseef (A Traveler on the Sidewalk), Himar men al-Sharq (A Donkey From the East), and el-Gazaer Ard el-Lahab wal Damm wal Samaa el-Sawdaa (Algeria: The Land of Blaze, Blood, and the Black Sky).
God bless Mahmoud el-Sadani who died, but left a legacy of unforgettable works.
Sami Kamal el-Din is a writer, journalist and friend of the late satirist.
