Research took me to the headquarters of Al-Ahram (‘The Pyramids’), an Arabic daily founded in 1875. When I reached the ninth floor, it was deserted; everyone was in a hallway praying. Not so Faris, the editor I’d come to see, a rotund elder who sat nibbling a bean sandwich in a corner cubicle. ‘Welcome to mon petit coin (my little corner)’, he said.
The place was indeed tiny, strewn with yellowed clippings and cheaply bound books. On the wall were photocopied pictures of Gamal Abdel Nasser with his arms upraised, and diva Um Kalthoum singing in her sunglasses. I wedged myself into the assigned chair, careful not to overturn the precariously piled files, or the jars of jam, salt and other sundries loading the makeshift shelves behind me.
