Randa Shaath remembers Hani Shukrallah: Palestine was always in his heart

Randa Shaath remembers Hani Shukrallah: the friend who knew her heart, encouraged her writing, and always kept Palestine close to his.

By Randa Shaath

In 1982, war was raging in Lebanon. The Israelis had occupied the south and were laying siege to Beirut, its people and its fighters. The office of Dar Al-Fata Al-Arabi in Cairo was packed with people who loved Palestine and Lebanon and were trying to help however they could. I volunteered. My job was simple: I’d follow the news on the telex machine, cut out each item, and hand it over to the more experienced people, who would edit, file, analyse, and send everything out to the newspapers. During breaks, I’d sing Sheikh Imam’s songs for the other volunteers. I was just a teenage girl with braids back then. One day, one of the senior staff, someone who did far more important work than cutting up paper, walked in while I was singing and asked, “Who’s that girl singing?” That was the first time I ever saw Hani.

I grew up, got my degree, and started working as a photographer at Al-Ahram Weekly. Hani was the managing editor. In 1994, I went from Cairo to Gaza for the first time. He lived every moment of it with me over the phone. He couldn’t wait for me to come back with the photos and the stories. He wanted me to describe every step of the journey. His dream was to visit Palestine. We made a plan to have a fish dinner together there.

About twenty years after the Israeli occupation, the resistance won and South Lebanon was liberated. Hani suggested that Al-Ahram Weekly cover the story. I was supposed to go with a sharp editor who had a full plan and interviews lined up with important people. But on the day of travel, she fell suddenly ill and couldn’t make it. Hani insisted that I go to Lebanon alone. He also insisted that I do both the photography and the writing. And I ended up producing a photo essay.

After that trip, I started keeping a diary as a kind of therapy. Every time I finished a paragraph, I’d show it to him. He always said, “You write beautifully.” Hani was the first person ever to encourage me to write.

Months later, the Al-Aqsa Intifada broke out. We went out together with the popular committees and aid convoys. That old hope of sharing a fish meal was revived. We made it to Arish, so close to Palestine. But that’s where the convoy was stopped.

I left Al-Ahram Weekly, and in 2008 we started working together again at Al-Shorouk newspaper—twice: once during its launch, and again when they decided to put out a weekly magazine that never actually saw the light of day.

Before that and after that, we were friends. Ever since I was a braided girl singing songs. Indeed, we didn’t see each other often, but we always kept up with each other’s news. Years later, the diary Hani had encouraged me to keep became a published book. He never got to read it.

A lot of people were confused about whether I was Egyptian, Palestinian, or Lebanese. Hani got it. I never once felt the need to explain myself to him. Four years ago today, I said my final goodbye.

We’re all going to die. But there are people in this world who really know you, who love you for who you are, and who give you an identity. And that identity matters more than every passport on earth and every official document. Hani was one of those people for me.

So many people have written and will keep writing about how important he was to the struggle and to journalism. But I just miss the friend who assured me about who I am

I miss you, Hani. Be at peace until we meet again.