For Youssef

Perhaps also to Youssef.

There is a video of my late friend Youssef somewhere on the internet in which, in response to being asked about his life goal, he says that he wants to leave a lasting effect on the lives he touches. This blog post is tangible proof of his success.

The way in which Youssef, in only a few months, infiltrated our lives with love that lives on, within and around us, to this day is near magical. It is the type of love you hear about and imagine but never actually experience. I am endlessly lucky to have experienced it, as robbed as I feel of not having experienced it longer.

We lost Youssef suddenly. He was not sick, none of us knew it was coming. The grief of him is, as a result, enormous and complex, and so I have no choice but to write it out. It started as Instagram posts in which I forced the people keeping up with my little corner of the internet to experience my pain in caption form, but, for the sake of organisation and perhaps a little less social inhibition, my recounts of Youssef will live here in this blog post.

Note: the writing in these entries is either embarrassingly mediocre or painstakingly put-together to the point that it almost sounds stupid. It’s either I write perfectly because it’s For Youssef or I cannot see words beyond the grief. This is not an apology; it enriches the prose I think.

Image taken by our good friend Mahmoud Bassem (@bazzemq on Instagram).

Entry 1

19th of August, 2023. 8 days after.

سأستمر في الكتابة لأساهم في مقاومة النسيان." -عبدالفتاح كيليطو”

for the longest time I only considered Kilito's words in a political context, promising to remember martyr names in the hope of immortalising their legacy. the other night, I looked across the street into a very sad flower display and was overwhelmed by the grieving of you. this is in no way new; the memory of you makes itself apparent at every turn, but it was then that I realised I had to keep the memory of you alive the only way I know how: by writing.

today, I'm filled with the memory of the sound of your laughter echoing in an alley in Zamalek that smelled faintly of flowers (pink) and cat food. a celebratory laugh after we (@rihameissa_, @a.myreid, myself and you) finally decided on a t-shirt you could wear to your party.

the pain of looking back at these memories is, albeit present, incomparable to the overwhelming warmth that accompanies. your soul is one that will always carry love within.

Entry 2

18th of November, 2023. 3 months and 7 days after.

Every time I step into El-Sadat metro station I tear up.

The first time it happened, it caught me off-guard. Of course I hadn't forgotten the memories we shared when we would commute together after work or the advice you gave me - "Keep your feet apart and stand to the side and you won't fall" - despite my insistence that I didn't need you to teach me how to take the effing metro, but I just hadn't expected it to mean that much.

As grief goes, however, I don't get to dictate what it means and when it can make itself apparent, which means that El-Sadat metro station has become that much more of an emotional experience for me. Which I don't seem to mind.

I take the cramped escalator and I can almost see you there standing behind me with that stern big brother look on your face. I run down the stairs (in evasion of the aforementioned cramped escalator) and I can almost see you racing me to the ground. I hear the screeching of the train against its tracks and can almost hear you saying "Gahza?" as you pull me by the sleeve so I don't get lost or trampled.

Three months later, I feel like the crying is stupid. Of course I miss you but is there no better place for emotionality than El-Sadat metro station? It's been three months. But then I'm sitting down at the station wondering why no one's showing me every picture they took in Beirut. The eminent screech makes itself apparent and I wonder why I'm not being pulled by my sleeve into the metro car. I almost stumble and realise (having not stood with my feet apart and to the side) that maybe I do need you to teach me how to take the metro.

It's been three months but I will keep writing because there's nothing else I can do. And maybe because it feels like I'm talking to you. I hope you know that I will continue to carry you in my heart, on the metro & everywhere else.

Entry 3

2nd of December, 2023. 3 months and 21 days after.

I dreamt of him last night.

I’m not the type of person to get dreams like that. When I lost my grandfather five years ago, I would listen to my mum recount how he would show up in her dreams to me, envious of the passing interactions she would get with him and wondering why it couldn’t be me. The notion that maybe dreams from the afterlife came to certain people only was a softer embrace than one where I believed he was refusing to visit me, so, when Youssef passed, I did not expect any visits.

But he came. I think?

The evidence is limited and entirely subjective. The most logical, and sadly most likely, explanation is that, since I’m still riddled with grief and in the eyes of some pathologising specialists PTSD, the image of Youssef in my dreams is merely the work of my subconscious reacting to my emotions. But I’m a little more pious than that. Someone called Rick Vandermeer, a self-proclaimed “evidential medium” on the internet said that dream visits from the dead are possible and I’m choosing to be the laughingstock of the century and believe him.

The dream was strange, too. Unfamiliar. Almost lucid, almost intentional but not quite. My friend (we’ll call her F) and I were in some unrecognised bathroom when he walked in. He almost left, I remember, like he was reluctant to enter, but we beckoned him in. He stood between us, arms extended, and asked us how we are. It was all very Youssef, even the phrasing - “3amla eh ya Loulouuuu?” I could hear his voice. I could see him move in a way unique to him, a way I haven’t seen in so long. No number of videos could replicate that.

It ended soon after that. I don’t remember what happened next, but I remember waking up with a sense of quiet contentment I hadn’t felt in weeks. Today, the weather is the warmest - but not hot - that it has been in weeks. The sun shone through my curtains with an added softness this morning. The Shorouk desert wind is more of a gentle breeze. There is an easiness in my movement.

Since we lost him, we’ve all had this vague feeling that he was present with us. Today, I can almost touch it. His love surrounds me.

I don’t know who to thank for that. I hope he knows how much I love him.

Entry 4

30th of March, 2024. 7 months and 19 days after.

We got together for iftar at Zaid’s on Thursday. When he invited us (if you’re reading, thank you again Zaido :,)), the memory of us there nudged me in the side and I pushed it aside because I thought Zaid moved.

He didn’t.

The day we first visited Zaid is one I remember very clearly because it’s the day I realised we were actually real friends. More than friends. It was the day I realised I could really trust you like a brother, and the day I felt like you really saw me. You didn’t need me to tell you I was scared, you didn’t need me to ask for help. You just took care of me. From that day on, you became in many ways my safety. I don’t think many people see me like that. I hope you still can.

On the way to Zaid’s, you wouldn’t let anyone get an Uber and instead insisted that we would all fit in your car. Amy and I sat shotgun and took selfies that we refused to let you join in on. I wouldn’t say I regret our badgering in general but I do regret that. You didn’t hold a grudge, though, did you? Even when I made fun of your driving the whole way.

The notion that I might have upset you during the (short) course of our friendship terrifies me at times. So much so that at your burial, the phrase “I’m sorry” was pounding in my head so hard I felt like I needed to say it out loud. We stayed long enough for the cemetery to clear up and I did. I am sorry, Youssef.

I’m sorry we lost you. I’m sorry if for a moment you didn’t feel loved at our table. I’m sorry if I ever forgot to thank you for ordering breakfast or grabbing an orange Sun Top for me from downstairs. I’m sorry I didn’t get to be your friend long enough.

I’m sorry you couldn’t be there on Thursday. Farah and I were talking about how it would’ve been so much more fun with you around. Although I must say even though you weren’t with us, I think you were around. I laughed a little louder hoping the memory of you lingered somewhere on Zaid’s leopard print couch and could hear me. I still think your love surrounds us. I just wish there were more of you, too.

I sat on the leopard print couch in the spot you were sitting in, next to me. This time surrounded by Salma, Ziyad, Farah, Zaid and Hesham, knowing we all knew you and loved you and that you loved us. It’s not as good as having you there but it’s the next best thing.

I also met Fofo! When you were there, I remember being super jealous of you because she instantly hopped in your lap and let you pet her. Do you remember? This time, she fell asleep in my lap. I showed her a picture of you and asked her if she remembered you and she meowed. I’m not crazy; BetterVet.com says cats remember people. Maybe she liked me because she knew I was (am?) your friend. I let her sleep in my lap until I couldn’t feel my left leg and then I carried her and limped to the couch.

This entry is long and doesn’t make much sense. I just miss you Jiko. Not in the romanticised grief way these entries kind of sound like - in a real way that hurts and makes me want to scream at the world for taking you away so soon. I still don’t understand it. I wish you were here to meet the people I want you to meet. I wish you were here so I could see you. I just wish you were here. I miss you. I miss you!!!

Entry 5

21st of May, 2024. 9 months and 10 days after.

Somewhere in the transition from full-time to working remotely, I became more okay with being in an office that doesn’t contain you. It still stings when I see someone sitting where you used to. There are days when I nearly cry.

They made us switch tables so that we now sit closer to El Fasla, which I guess makes more sense logistically. It’s been weird not having to sit across from where you used to sit. It was unbearable at first - I could only work from the bar for a while (although honestly I couldn’t really work properly anywhere at all). Eventually, though, sitting across from your (empty - we couldn’t possibly fill it) chair became more bearable. What I couldn’t do was brave the couch.

Most of our work days that summer would go like this: we’d get to the office at 9:30ish, pitch, take a look at our sheets, and begin the yapping (or the kiki-ing, you called it. WBK forever). Never knowing when to stop, I’d kiki and kiki till I started to annoy you (I’m sorry but also not. Imagine if we had put work before our conversations -I’d have so much less of you), at which point we’d both be faced with the enormity of our tasks of the day with only a few hours left. So we’d move to the couch.

I can’t say that couch was our sacred space because that couch means something to all of us. But most of the time, it would be us there, sometimes joined by Ziyad, sometimes by Amy, sometimes by the whole gang. You cross-legged, moving your head to whatever music you were listening to, and me typing away. We shared Sun Top and water and cigarettes. It helped to just be in your presence.

I’m sitting in your spot on the couch as I write this. The few times that I had braved the couch before today (maybe once or twice), I couldn’t bear to do that. I sat in my spot and stared at the space you were supposed to be and couldn’t really write anything. Today I can write, but I had to write about you first.

I often think about how unbelievably lucky it is I took my camera to the office that one day only weeks before you left us. It’s even more lucky that my camera automatically records a video in between shots, videos that I once considered a nuisance and rushed to delete. Thank god I didn't delete the ones from that day. I grew to like that camera a lot more since; it’s the only reason I have a recording of the way you moved, the way you were alive and the way I - we - saw you.

Every time we see those videos we’re convinced you were an angel. I just wish you continued being an angel here, among us, a little longer.

Entry 6

6th of July, 2025. 1 year, 10 months and 25 days after.

Hi. It’s weird writing here after so long. I knew it had been a long time, but I didn’t recognise that it had been a year. I suppose people were right and the grief does die down over time.

Over the past year, I’ve thought a lot about that - the way my grief died down - and felt ashamed. I’m not visiting you as much as I used to and frankly as much as I should. Saying that out loud - writing it - makes me cry. Nearly two years have passed and none of our lives are the same but I want them to be.

I used to say that I write to remember, so does not writing for so long mean that I forgot? I don’t think it did, but it has been easier. It feels weird to use that word - ‘easy’ - because it makes me feel like I’m slacking off, like there’s pain I need to be feeling for your memory to live. There’s this Instagram poet I follow who wrote a one-liner about grief that I had previously known to be true, since the death of my grandfather and later, yours. I posted it everywhere because I believed it so wholeheartedly but I’m just now realising that maybe I don’t.

cgcpoems

A post shared by @cgcpoems

“Anger cannot raise the dead. But grief can. But love does.” - Caitlin Conlon

When I got the news of your passing, I was in the car with my mum and my then 5-year-old brother. I was in disbelief then horrified then so incredibly angry. I wailed and screamed like the grandmothers at cemeteries I never really understood, until then, of course. At the funeral I was angry and devastated. It’s hard for me to pinpoint what emotions I felt then because it was just a huge, pulsing red-hot ball of feelings I didn’t know what to do with so I just let it burn my throat. I felt like it was natural. I owed you this pain. You were (are) my friend and then you were tragically gone.

I know I felt angry at the beginning. And I think that anger did raise the dead, for a while, for a year, maybe. Afterwards, it had to die down, I suppose. I hate that it did but it did. But I know you didn’t disappear, either. I say this not to avoid my shame if you had disappeared; I feel ashamed enough as it is. You really are still here.

In the weeks following your passing, it felt like everyone in the office was actively learning from you. Just from how you were or how you spoke to people or how you were always helpful. In a lot of situations, I would catch myself wondering what you would do if you were me. I’d ask, “What’s the kind thing to do? What would Jiko do?”

After a while, I don’t know what happened. I think I became evil; I was definitely less kind, less thoughtful. Admittedly I didn’t think of you as much. Although I was painfully aware of it, and sometimes unconsciously used it to measure how horrible of a person I’d become. I wasn’t being as kind as I wanted to. I was too in my own world. I would sometimes leave our friends, the friends that had slept with me in the same bed when our worlds were broken apart by your loss, on delivered. Sometimes for months.

We were close when you were there. Your leaving brought us closer. And then, almost two years later, you’re still gone. I’m not sure we knew how to deal with that.

The reason I’m writing this now is because I couldn’t wait any longer. I couldn’t make any more excuses. I was sitting on my balcony (in Masr El Gedida - I often think about how we would’ve been neighbours) after a difficult work day when I realised that somewhere in those two years (almost), I had changed. I’ve become kinder. There are things I’ve learnt to do like you. It feels easier to breathe. Youssef I cannot emphasise how much you’ve changed my life.

I used to feel like I only really intensely missed you when I was sad, because when I’m sad I remember all the sad stuff that’s happened throughout my lifetime. But now I know for sure that that’s not true. I remember you when I’m happy, and when I’m proud of myself, and when I’m struggling to do something. I’m back to being full-time now, and I’m trying to work hard, which always reminds me of how you did your best to do that, too. We’ve moved to a new office and I still see you across the table from me occasionally. Sometimes, I’ll buy a pack of blue Merits just for you, even though they kind of hurt my throat now. I’m graduating soon and I wish you could’ve come.

I think that your love is insidious. It catches you off guard. It works in secret when you think it’s left you completely. It powers me to have more love for everything around me, including you. If there’s any truth in Conlon’s quote, I can rest satisfied knowing I’m raising the dead, but that love is not mine alone.