An exceptional man has left us, after prolonged suffering. He left us at a moment when Aleppo was witnessing the most vicious human disaster, while the “civilised” modern world silently gazed on, obsessed only with erecting walls and consolidating borders. He left us in the midst of a decomposing, disoriented and absurd Arab world, the conditions of which he had been prophesying for decades. A myriad of his predictions, or possibly his nightmares, which he prophesied with a startling clarity, have turned into bleak daily realities. Sadiq Jalal Al-Azm left us without realising his dream of a more humane and dignified life for our part of the world. Perhaps he could not no longer take it: the inferno of this impossible war in his home country, Syria. But perhaps his last station as an intellectual in exile, Berlin, was a blessing in disguise. Sadiq Jalal Al-Azm was a visionary whose legacy will rightly be remembered and valued: his unique way of writing, his courageous political and progressive stands, the cause célèbre he became after the publication of his famed book Critique of Religious Thought, in which he criticised the instrumentalisation of religion to political and material ends; and his acknowledgement, first and foremost, of the Arabs' internal defeat, a defeat of the mindset more significant than any military defeat could be. Sadiq was among the first intellectuals to point out that as Arabs we are suffering from two dopplegängers of the same phenomenon: religious terrorism-fundamentalism, on the one hand; and the ideology of a “war on terror”, on the other. The two opposite poles function as mirror images that feed on each other. His thoughtful observations on Islamic fundamentalism culminated in three thick volumes recently published as Secularism, Fundamentalism and Struggle for the Meaning of Islam. Like his unique courage in defending Salman Rushdie when no one dared to do so in our part of the world, Sadiq's stand on the issue of terrorism will never be forgotten or forgiven by his enemies. His disagreement with Edward Said after the thesis of Orientalism had earned Said worldwide sympathy and fame is a case in point: Sadiq did not hesitate to become the devil's advocate vis-à-vis his friend. Sadiq once told me that, in his critique of Said's Orientalism, which first appeared in the academic journal of Khamsin, he was seeking genuine dialogue. Above all he was eager to foster self-critique in the face of the Arab world's internal contradictions. He was concerned with the question of essentialising the West and how such a posture, when adopted by Muslims themselves, resulted in an even tighter entrapment in a colonial discourse. He definitely had a point regarding the long-term effect of “reverse Orientalism”. I am certain that these and other topics will be discussed in countless obituaries, praising Sadiq's humanist worldview, which touched not only the Arab world but the larger cosmopolitan milieux in which he moved with elegance. But I don't want to write about Sadiq's intellectual influence, which is so obvious and which earned him plenty of honours and awards. I want to write about the friend I have lost. I cannot recall exactly when I met Sadiq for the first time, but it must have been in the mid-1990s at a conference in Berlin. I will never forget the first time I saw him after he gave a public lecture to a large audience. He was a magnet whose large entourage of admirers, present in the audience, all fell under his spell. How could they have resisted his charisma? This general appeal did not prevent him from giving equal attention to each interlocutor who approached him, by carefully listening and engaging with them. I met Sadiq again during the year I spent at the Wissenschaftkolleg in Berlin in 1996-97, as he often visited the city to give talks. I also met him in Beirut when he still had a flat there, not far from the AUB. Engaging with Sadiq never ceased to be a delight. He was a charmer who caught you with his sharp wit. He truly convinced the jam-packed audiences of his point of view by explaining highly complex philosophical concepts in a clear way. He respected his public. He was a brilliant and dialectical orator; you would not have wanted him as an enemy. I was most fortunate to be invited to the Netherlands Institute for Advanced Study in the Humanities and Social Sciences (NIAS) in Wassenaar, Holland as scholar in residence in 2006–2007, the same year that Sadiq and Iman, his wife were invited there. Sadiq was invited as a distinguished emeritus professor, a guest of the rector's who very quickly became the epicentre for the group of scholars in residence. Iman and Sadiq resided in the special small villa of the headquarters of the NIAS Centre in Wassenaar. Iman's exquisite cuisine and generosity took the form of countless banquets and dinners for a circle of friends that widened by the day. There was something magical about the space of the Institute in Wassenaar: located four or five kilometres from the seaside, with woods surrounded by sand near the sea; spectacular landscapes with changing colours all year round. The magnificent park of the NIAS, the large number of free bikes, and the frequent strolls to the sea were all inspiring. But most of all, the then rector of the NIAS, the medievalist Wim Blockmans, turned our residence into a paradise. The NIAS was an idyllic combination of pleasurable work and intense exchanges of dreams, imaginaries, and ideas. Any book that one wanted could be obtained. We exchanged readings, music, gifts and the pleasant socialising of communal cooking, eating, and partying. Iman and Sadiq in particular transformed the lives of many residents through their generosity and their hospitality. Sadiq's modesty was striking. The Al-Azms maintained an open house in their little maisonette. What made the institute so special was that each resident could opt for either privacy and retreat, or for socialising within this tiny and, in a way, artificially created intellectual community. It was hard not to visit Iman and Sadiq on a daily basis, for their warmth was what kept many of us going to their house during the long, dark, rainy days. And Sadiq was always there for discussion, always ready to engage, with simple words to explain complex realities. He mesmerised us all with his erudite philosophical training and the ease with which he could transmit ideas. Sadiq was an avid reader. He had an amazing curiosity and openness to the world, which kept him physically and mentally young. Sadiq in Wassenaar will remain in my memory as a good-looking, youthful gentlIman, even though he was already in his early seventies, quite content with his life despite being in exile, forbidden to return to Syria. Sadiq read every paper, article and book that I gave him or that we spoke about in conversations. He engaged with the works of numerous colleagues. He had a remarkable talent for listening carefully to everyone. Wim Blockmans and his late wife, Anne, somehow adopted me and the Al-Azms. They volunteered to take us to the most romantic and wonderful places of the region. How often Anne and Wim invited us to the best restaurants and the wonderful beaches of Holland! I recall the five of us attending numerous public events and lectures. These were merry and joyful moments, with bursts of laughter and great humour. There was a lightness of being; we all knew that it was an ephemeral situation, yet we became friends for life, and the intellectual encounters with the other fellows made the experience incredibly rich. Nasr Hamid Abu Zaid, another noble and generous scholar who had been my intellectual mentor during my time in Leiden (2001-2002) often came to visit Iman and Sadiq in Wassenaar. Nasr was another intellectual magnet whose office in Leiden was constantly crowded with his murids, his beloved friends, not to mention the endless passing journalists and countless visitors. His humour and allure were unbeatable. This sometimes complicated our lives, as we were glued to his office, hardly wanting to depart or leave him in peace. Once you experienced a gathering in Nasr's office, you quickly became an addict. We loved spending time in his office. We simply adored him. We loved the laughing, the gossip and confessions and discussing serious matters equally. But don't think we did not work, because we did. Nasr was generous with his time and knowledge. All of which made it a treasured moment for me when Nasr and Sadiq met in Wassenaar. How often have I wished to freeze that year I spent in Holland. When these two good friends got together, there was a magic spark in the air. I clearly recall the warmth and joy that emerged from the avalanches of jokes, the brilliant analyses of the political situation, the deep thoughts and impressions exchanged about manuscripts and recent books worth reading. All this was accompanied by the succulent cuisine of Iman and the great company of the guests. What moved me most at the time was the warmth and affection you could feel between the two men. It was a kind of elective affinity between two fine and sensitive free spirits. Both men were obsessed with ideas and ideals. They shared a common fate. They were eternal wanderers in permanent exile. When Iman and Sadiq moved to Amsterdam that year, they invited me to stay overnight at their tiny flat. I then realised how rigorous Sadiq was with his time. He was a night owl who loved late-night conversations, and an avid reader of newspapers. He followed political events more closely than anyone else I know. I was fortunate to stay with Iman and Sadiq as they taught me to find the balance in the intricate combination of conviviality, love of life and intellectual rigour. Above all, they cared about genuine friendship. When they moved to Berlin, the Al-Azms maintained a lively intellectual salon. Their small flat near the Stuttgarter Platz was always open for their large circle of friends. Nasr departed earlier, leaving behind an Egypt voided of intellect and politics. I have not come to terms yet with Nasr's death. I feel that if I were to return to Leiden without visiting his office, I would be plunged into a terrible sense of loss. I miss Nasr's warmth and generosity. And now Sadiq is no longer here, either – another “grand seigneur” whose courage and clairvoyance marked me for life, as they did the generation that experienced the depression of the 1967 defeat. Sadiq was one of the last fearless fighters for truth and justice. I already miss him dreadfully. May he rest in peace.
