The Arab and Middle Eastern Journalists Association showcased a video tribute to the late Anthony Shadid at the Network of Arab-American Professionals of New York banquet on February 25, 2012.

Produced and edited by our board member Rima Abdelkader. Video contributions from Ashraf Khalil, Ahmed Shihab-Eldin, Nada Tawfik and Joseph Naggiar.

CAIRO: The byline was there in black and white, on front-page stories and in Pulitzer Prize citations: Anthony Shadid.

It was important for us to see it. That name was a source of immeasurable pride for an entire generation of Arab-American journalists who found in Anthony a mentor, inspiration and friend.

With his rich prose and focus on the Middle East’s most vulnerable, he showed us how our language skills and intimate familiarity of the region could lend nuance or surprise to stories that for decades had followed a single, stale narrative.

He died of an apparent asthma attack Thursday in the no-man’s land of northern Syria, where he was reporting on the human toll of the uprising against President Bashar Assad. Even in the midst of a raging conflict, he made time to counsel an Iraqi-Canadian reporter on a job move – she didn’t know until his death was announced that he’d been responding to her from Syria.

As Anthony ascended to the most hallowed journalistic platforms – first the Associated Press, then The Boston Globe, The Washington Post and, finally, The New York Times – he created opportunities for fellow reporters of Middle Eastern descent.

We joked that he was “the patron saint of Arab-American journalism” for his eagerness to make phone calls to top editors, write recommendations and tip us off to job vacancies. We benefited from his elegant stories, acclaimed books and two Pulitzers (we’d expected the first; the second was practically an Arab-American national holiday).

In the early 2000s, recruiters started plucking talented Arab-American journalists from metro beats in New Jersey, Texas or Minnesota and dispatching them to the Middle East in hopes of cultivating “the next Anthony Shadid.”

We were grateful for the opportunities, but the premise was wrong from the start – there was nobody, Arab-American or otherwise, who could capture the humanity of the Arab world like he could.

There’s a media pioneer for every marginalized group in America, and he was ours. He shattered the stereotypical images of Arabs, who are often portrayed in their narrow Central Casting roles of terrorist, cleric, belly dancer, oppressed woman or oil baron. He told his stories through Arab voices, not just urbane diplomats and politicians, but ordinary families from Baghdad to Benghazi.

For the first time, through Anthony’s reporting, we saw Arabs like our own parents, neighbors and friends reflected authentically on the front pages of American newspapers. His subjects were multidimensional, with all the flaws and hopes as anyone in the world.

Arab-American journalists are going to have to work a lot harder now that we won’t be able to look for inspiration in Anthony’s standard-setting stories and encouraging personal advice. It’s hard to fathom that he won’t be writing the seminal book on the Arab Spring rebellions.

As the Arab and Middle Eastern Journalist Association said in a statement today: “It is not hyperbole to say he was perhaps the greatest Arab-American of our generation, and what an honor it is that he was a journalist.”

Below, Arab-American and Middle Eastern journalists share what Anthony meant to them, and what his legacy is for reporting in the region:

Rhonda Roumani, Syrian-American journalist
I was working as a journalist in Syria when I first met Anthony. A top Syrian official had just been “suicided,” as Syrians liked to joke, and Western journalists were making their way into the country. Many brought with them fixers, photographers, translators, drivers – or had hired them in country. The foreign correspondents often seemed to arrive in cavalries.

But, sometime during their visit, they often had the same question.
Where’s Shadid?

Anthony did what few other journalists—Arab or non-Arab — would dare to do. I saw him the day after this top official was “suicided.” He had hired a taxi off the street and had taken a day trip to the official’s village of Bhamra, in the mountainous area overlooking the port of Latakia, solo—to talk to people there about his death. Pretty gutsy thing to do in Syria. And he had found that people were, surprisingly, eager to talk.

Often because of the difficulty of reporting in such repressive environments, because of the language barrier, or because of the restrictions of “parachuting” in and out of countries to report, journalists often came to Syria and spoke to many of the same talking heads, pundits—hovering around the same story lines. Time often didn’t allow them often to do much more. The story Anthony wrote that day told so much about a part of the country few people were able to reach—the countryside—it just touched the surface about the state of the Alawite community in Syria, about the anger mounting at the regime outside the capital cities. In just a few hours, he had hit all the red-line topics. He had done exactly what the best journalists do in countries like Syria.

Anthony told a story that nobody else told that week. He would not be allowed back in Syria for a few years because of that story. But it was an example of how his work often just stood out from the rest.

Anthony was even so much more to me as an Arab-American journalist. He was kind, thoughtful. When I was working on a book proposal, he met with me in cafes in Beirut and in Boston to talk about the process. He gave me advice. When we pitched the book and editors seemed to waver on it, he forwarded my proposal to his own editor so we could discuss it further. He went out of his way to make sure that not only ordinary Arab voices were coming through in stories, but that Arab-American journalists had the opportunity to help tell those stories. He was an inspiration, a mentor, and a good, good man who risked everything to tell stories that would otherwise have been left untold. We will miss him dearly. I will miss him dearly.

Maria Abi-Habib, The Wall Street Journal
Anthony Shadid’s heartfelt work made me realize that Arabs could do journalism for Western audiences, away from the smear campaigns and demonization that comes with the stigma of being Arab.

His thoughtful vignettes from across the Middle East moved readers to feel the same compassion for the subjects he cared so much about and saw through the same prism, regardless of age, sex and most of all race. He brought the plights of the hundreds he wrote about into the homes of millions more across the world, allowing readers to see a region plagued with so much sadness and division not as a political story, but a human one.

Whether writing about the maddening and devastating quest of an Iraqi family looking for the grave of a son lost during the U.S. war there or violence between Israelis and Palestinians, his stories brought a human side to conflicts so often covered through politicians’ speeches, orchestrated press conferences and uniformed men sitting behind large wooden desks, pointing at maps.

I knew I wanted to be a journalist at about 12 years old. But there were few Arabs writing for Western audiences to serve as role models, in a profession where one camp or another will always call foul about so hot and divided a region as the Middle East. I worried about my last name and opportunists looking to vilify me.

But Shadid changed that profoundly and became something for us young Arab-American journalists to aspire to. He called the story straight but had a profound knowledge of the region few journalists writing in English – many who parachute in and out – could provide. We felt American and Lebanese or American and Iraqi or Palestinian and empathized and understood all sides, although our two halves were in conflict.

Shadid allowed us young Arab journalists the courage to pursue the daunting task of writing objectively the first draft of history. But for the first time, it was being written by the people with a stake in the Middle East, using the intimate knowledge that comes from growing up around so much war. Or living in Washington, D.C. and hearing our parents call our ancestral villages to frantically inquire about family members after a bombardment or attending one of many funerals from an explosion or a heart attack and an ambulance that never arrived as militias fought in the streets. A bizarre upbringing for most, but a reality for many of us.

In a region so drastically shaped by foreign powers, Shadid allowed the very people whose fate is at stake most into the homes of so many in the West for the first time. And most importantly, in a fair and balanced way – a true journalist.

I thank Shadid for finally bringing that crucial side of the story – so absent before – to millions around the globe.

Michael Georgy, Reuters
I first met Anthony in Cairo when he was writing for the Associated
Press and had the pleasure of seeing him over the years, most recently in Iraq. He was a wonderful person, overflowing with passion and the ultimate perfectionist. Whenever I needed inspiration to write a lead,
I would just find one of his great stories. Every Arab American should be proud of Anthony.

Ashraf Khalil, Egyptian-American journalist and author
I first met Anthony in Cairo in the late 1990s when I moved there to pursue my career. He was at the local AP bureau and on his way back to the US take a domestic position in the organization. Even in those early days, the presence of another Arab-American guy in journalism was an amazing and inspirational thing to me.

Years later, as I read more and more of his writings in the Boston Globe, I began to appreciate just how good he was as a writer. I vividly recall a post 9-11 reporting trip he made through the region for the Globe, where every article was just a mini work of art.

From there it was only a matter of time before the wider world noticed his talents and on the eve of the invasion of Iraq, he was snapped up by the Washington Post. I felt like one of those guys whose favorite underground band has suddenly scored a mainstream hit. But you could never be resentful or jealous of Anthony’s successes, because he was such a consistently genuine man and so clearly deserved every accolade.

Anthony’s rising tide lifted the ships for a generation of Arab American journalists. A whole crop of us were hired by mainstream news organizations to cover the Middle East during that period, and many of us used to openly joke (again without a hint of resentment) that the only reason we had our jobs was because Anthony wasn’t available.

On a personal level, Anthony accepted this role as Godfather to the Arab-American journalism tribe with patience, generosity and good humor. I considered him my mentor even though he’s only a few years older than me. I consulted him before just about every large professional move I made and I personally know half a dozen other people who did the same. We admired and emulated him. Many of us are guilty of trying to mimic his writing style, usually with comically bad results.

I’ll always remember him as the guy emptying my pockets at the poker table in Baghdad or Cairo. I remember Anthony the friend. But those who never met him should feel just as keen a loss. His death is a tragedy for modern journalism.

Ayman Mohyeldin, NBC News
CAIRO – To many, Anthony Shadid was a notable byline, a name that you knew would capture a story like no one else. His accolades and body of work speak volumes about his skills as a journalist.

But for me, it was as much about Anthony the person, who inspired by his example and came with a professional and personal kindness possessed by no one else.

Over the past decade of wars, sieges and revolutions in the Middle East, our paths crossed numerous times. It started in the spring of 2003 when I arrived in Baghdad as a journalist with very little international experience, let alone time in a war zone. I knew very few journalists there, but there was one I was determined to meet: Anthony Shadid.
 
The first time I spotted him, I quickly walked over to introduce myself. “Mr. Shadid, my name is Ayman.…” “Call me Anthony,” he said, smiling. It was a simple exchange but very telling of the type of person Anthony was.

In 2005, a few years after Baghdad, I was covering my first tumultuous Cairo protest when I bumped into Anthony again. It was my first time among thousands of Egyptian demonstrators and I was flat-out nervous.

Anthony sensed it, called out my name and told me to stay close. He graciously and protectively let me shadow him as he navigated his way between protesters, police and thugs, never losing focus on his reporting task.

In doing so, he took the time and care to show me that even in the most acute moments of tensions and work, there is always time for humanity. It was a profound moment of selfless collegiality in an industry often characterized by hyper-competiveness.

Over the years, as Anthony’s successes grew and his work received more and more of the accolades it deserved, he never became inaccessible to those he mentored along the way, always offering us advice and wisdom. He raised the bar for journalists the world over, and particularly for Arab-American journalists.

We looked up to Anthony as the highest example of what hard work and humility achieve. He became an inspiration and role model for cadres of aspiring Arab-American journalists wanting to make a difference in their country and communities. He made it possible for us to tell our parents that we, too, wanted to be journalists, just like Anthony. And he made it possible for us to believe that one day we, too, could work for the New York Times, the Washington Post and other major American media outlets.

A few days before his death, Anthony was featured in an article about Arab-American journalists. That evening, after reading the article, my dad called me in Egypt to talk about it. “I hope one day to see you like Anthony,” he said at the end of the conversation.

On his last trip to Egypt, just a few weeks ago, I missed the chance to see Anthony one last time. It is something I will always regret.

That’s what he meant to so many of us.

Aya Batrawy, Associated Press
I first met Anthony Shadid in Washington, DC at a 2004 convention for the American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee, which has a journalism internship named after him. He was humble and eloquent, a broad smile always piercing through his goatee. His bullet wound to the shoulder after being shot by Israeli soldiers while reporting in Ramallah served as a reminder to us younger Arab-American journalists that covering our ancestral region for our American hometowns would not be easy.

When I taught journalism at the American University in Cairo, I would often share Shadid’s pieces from Iraq with my students as an example of how to tell our story, the story of Arabs in a complex region, with dignity. His writing gave victims of failed policies their voice, their name, their humanity.

His ability to stay head and shoulders above the politics of reporting the Middle East and focus on how the politics affects the people inspired all journalists. His work proved to editors and readers in the United States that Arab-Americans too could report the story not just without bias, but perhaps even better because and not in spite of our heritage. As a reporter with the Associated Press in Cairo, where he once worked, I walk through the door he has opened.

Hannah Allam, McClatchy Newspapers

For Arab-American journalists, it was easy to adore Anthony Shadid from afar, to read his lyrical dispatches from the Middle East with a silent “thank you” for groundbreaking coverage that would shape how all of us approached our assignments.

But it sure could be daunting to work alongside him in the field. For we knew that we’d all go cover the same events in the same godforsaken place, and that none of us would capture the detail and poignancy of a scene like Anthony.

“Open The New York Times site and see what Anthony’s written. I can’t look,” my best friend, Leila Fadel, a Washington Post reporter, would order.

“I can’t, either! I don’t want to see how good it is!” I’d answer.

Of course, we’d grudgingly read it, delight in every paragraph and then send him an affectionate note telling him to go back to Beirut immediately because he was making the Cairo press corps look bad.

There was no professional jealousy when it came to Anthony, only great pride. Here was a masterful Lebanese-American journalist at the vanguard of a major transformation in how the Middle East is covered by American news organizations. And at every step, he reached back and tugged us all along with him.

In no small part because of Anthony’s success and visibility, foreign postings opened to many other Arab Americans after editors finally recognized the value in our language skills and familiarity with region’s cultures and religions.

Through emails and phone calls – not to mention the example of his work – he helped us find solutions to problems that had frustrated Arab-American journalists for years.

We wanted truthful, balanced coverage of the Palestinians. We wanted accurate transliterations of Arabic names. We wanted to see Arabs photographed without guns for once. We wanted stories about strong Muslim women reformers. We wanted advice for dealing with racist colleagues.

Anthony was a sounding board to many Arab-American journalists struggling with those and other issues; he’d dealt with it all and had prevailed. And you’d see in his eyes that he wanted you to succeed, too.
As so many others have noted in eloquent tributes, Anthony was one of the most engaging and humble people you could ever hope to meet.
Our friendship was centered on our strikingly similar trajectories – both of us were born in Oklahoma to Arab-American families, gravitated toward journalism and eventually settled in the very lands our relatives had fled to escape persecution or to advance their studies.

When I met CNN’s Mohamed Jamjoom – an Oklahoman with Saudi roots – at an embassy function in Baghdad, I couldn’t wait to fire off an email to Anthony: “I met ANOTHER Okie-Arab!!!” We made plans to recruit him into what he and Ellen Knickmeyer – also an Oklahoma-born correspondent – had dubbed our “secret cell.”

Our most recent conversations, however, had a new focus. We had young sons born just a few months apart. We’d cross paths in Baghdad or Cairo, promising to arrange play dates for our boys, “when things settle down.”
From the looks of the Arab transitions, it doesn’t look like the Middle East is going settle down anytime soon. And I’m not sure how we’ll make sense of all the turmoil without our pioneer, our mentor, our poet laureate.

Mariam Fam, Bloomberg
I saw, smelled and fell in love with Iraq before I’ve ever set foot in the country, thanks to Anthony. I got a peek into what it’s like to be an ordinary person in extraordinary times, to long for normalcy and to ache with nostalgia for a prosperous past through his words and the voices he amplified.

That was in 2000. I was a fresh graduate and reporter at the Associated Press where Anthony once worked when I first stumbled upon one of his stories. I was instantly hooked. I scoured the system for more. The datelines changed: Cairo, Khartoum, Baghdad. The passion, curiosity, integrity, fantastic eye for detail and poetic prose didn’t.

Not long afterward, I met Anthony when he came to visit the AP office while on assignment in Egypt. “That must be what normal people–non-journalism geeks that is– feel like when they run into their favorite pop star,” I remember thinking to myself.

When I was contemplating a job offer nearly six years later, I e-mailed Anthony for advice. He quickly wrote back with a number to call even though he was in Riyadh at the time. He was so generous with his support, encouragement and thoughts. After I hung up with him, I felt comfortable enough to take the job. He rooted for me.

“I’m really excited about what’s ahead for you,” he wrote me in an e-mail. In another, he kindly offered to help me navigate the newspaper scene to which I was moving. “I’m serious about the offer to talk story ideas,” he wrote and then added: “I promise i won’t steal them.” I laughed.

As people reacted to the devastating news that Anthony has passed away, I felt as if every journalist who knew him had similar stories to share about Anthony’s generous, kind and unassuming spirit.

As I was reflecting on how his boundless talent was only matched by his kindness, it hit me. It couldn’t have been any other way. The countless people who’ve opened up to Anthony, invited him into their lives and shared with him the stories that he so honestly and movingly told us, couldn’t have done so only because he’s a good journalist (and, mind you, he was the very best). They must have seen it in his eyes that he risked his life because he genuinely wanted to understand, because he cared and because he wanted to give the ordinary Joe/Jane thousands of miles away a reason to care as much too.

My fear is that a world without Anthony Shadid will not only be one that understands less, but also cares less. May your spirit, passion and dedication live on, Anthony, and may God grant the people who love you solace.

Leila Fadel, The Washington Post
In 2001, I was a news assistant at The Boston Globe, answering phones on the foreign desk, wishing I could be a part of covering the Middle East.

Most correspondents who called in had no time to speak to a college student who aspired to be a journalist. Most didn’t even have time to be polite. Anthony Shadid was the exception. He told stories with extraordinary humanity about a region that he and I were inextricably linked to because of our backgrounds. Like him, I am an American of Lebanese descent. Despite his towering status in the industry, he took the time to offer advice about what it would take to get my foot in the door of a competitive business.

One year, when I had been rejected from every newspaper internship I had applied for, I called him, dejected. He told me several intern programs had turned him down. He saved every rejection letter and looked back at them with satisfaction. They had been wrong about him.

That was Anthony, he always had time to offer advice, put in a good word for you, give you a pep talk between writing books, magazine pieces, daily articles and taking risks to see and tell the story. He was a terrific advocate for young journalists who looked up to him and sought to emulate his work, but never could.

He was a brilliant writer and reporter who shattered the stereotypes of the Middle East. He proved that there was a different way to tell stories from the Arab World, stories that unfolded outside the stale offices of politicians and diplomats. He risked his life to give the most vulnerable a voice. There was nothing in his work that painted a picture of otherness in a foreign land. He showed humanity, the tough decisions in the midst of war of mothers, fathers and families. He told the truth in the most beautiful way, with history, humanity and unrivaled intellectual heft.

He was our pioneer. A role model so many Arab-American journalists were inspired to follow, a role model so many had never had. He taught us that we could use our background and unique understanding of the Arab world to humanize the story, to give it weight and details that others missed.

He taught us that every story could be told through the eyes of regular people struggling in a tumultuous region. He taught us that great reporting would show the truth and break any stereotype. He taught us passion and compassion for the people we wrote about. And he taught us that caring deeply brought out the best in our work. He spent so much of his time guiding others, bettering our work by doing his so well and sharing all that he had that I always wondered how he had time to do what he did so perfectly.

His stories were an inspiration but his kindness was even more impressive than his talent. I was one of many journalists who turned to him for advice. Those phone calls led to an 11-year friendship that I cherish.

As I write this, I can’t believe that we will never get to read another Anthony Shadid piece, that I will never get to pick up the phone and have a discussion with Anthony about what it all means as the Arab World goes through this painful and bloody transition or about the perfect phrase to explain a tricky and controversial topic. I can’t believe that he will no longer be here to unpack the day’s events, to help us all understand what it all means and to be our guide on how to use our dual identities to tell the most whole story possible.

He set a standard of great journalism and unlike so many in this business of big egos, he had so much compassion that shined through in his stories and his relationships with relatives and friends. He was eager to show pictures of Malik and Laila, his kids, and speaking of his love and gratitude toward his wife, Nada. Laila had decided she wanted to be a writer like her dad and was learning Arabic.

In Baghdad, I complimented him on a beautiful piece he told of the loss of life in Iraq. He followed a mother and her family on the search for her missing son. The story took us from that first glimpse when she recognized her son among the pictures of unidentified corpses flashing on a screen at the Baghdad morgue to the burial in Najaf in southern Iraq.

He wrote back “that piece really took it out of me. I broke down at the cemetery. I felt like I knew him in the end, and I just sat staring, wondering why so many people had to die, and for what.”

That was Anthony. Thank you for all that you were and all that you inspired us to be.

Tamer El-Ghobashy, The Wall Street Journal
I first met Anthony in the small southern Lebanese town of Tyre in 2006, where we were both covering the war. I was determined to meet him. Long before then, I had already decided he was my example and the person I aspired to emulate in journalism.
I was nervous, but I pushed myself to introduce myself and shake his hand. “El-Ghobashy?!” he exclaimed, almost as if he knew the name. “Are you related to Mona El-Ghobashy? I’m a big fan of her work.”
As it turns out, Mona is my sister and she’s indeed brilliant. But what could have been a deflating moment was in fact wonderful, only because Anthony didn’t dwell on her. From there, I spent some 30 days watching and working with Anthony under very hard conditions. He was patient and brave, energetic and reflective.
He made me feel important to the camaraderie of the press corps, even though it was my first time covering conflict. One smoldering day, the Israeli military dropped leaflets in Arabic onto Tyre warning that any vehicles on the roads would be subject to air strikes. Anthony consulted me while translating the leaflet into English – giving me the singular thrill of thinking: I just helped out Anthony Shadid.
(By the way, when most journalists chose to heed the warning and stayed in and away from our vehicles, Anthony ignored it and got into his rented Jeep and went out to report).
Years later, he remembered me and treated me like a friend when we met in New York City, Egypt and beyond. We’re a cocky bunch, us journalists, but Anthony was above the fray. He was a good man and a great professional who changed American journalism in the most positive way possible — with dignity and merit.
He shattered the cliché that warns us to never meet our heroes. I’m just sad I won’t get to know him better and continue to learn from his work.
He taught us that being an Arab working in American media wasn’t a matter of identity or access. It was simply intelligence, courage and integrity without a whiff of pander or bias. He covered the most divisive conflicts and issues of our time with an elegance and style that made his few detractors sound like extremists. The beauty of his journalism is that it seemed so simple and easy to emulate — until you actually tried to emulate it.

Nour Malas, The Wall Street Journal

Reading, and then knowing, Anthony Shadid taught me that empathy, kindness, and patience are not counterproductive to distance, balance, and deadlines in reporting.

It also taught me that Anthony’s skill –like magic for most of us struggling to string sentences together–is certainly rare, but it was something he worked at every day. He took time to listen and understand and glean perspective from every person he came across—on assignment, bringing stories to life that lay dormant on the streets, and off assignment, making a mentor and friend to so many.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I learned to report with Anthony. As a research assistant one year, he dispatched me to do interviews, in what later I found really was my first field assignment. Remember the detail, he’d say, sitting in on some of them. And I was always amazed at how much detail he could remember: an ankle crossed and uncrossed, a relative’s name once mentioned.

For Arab American journalists, Anthony’s brand of journalism helped bridge the divide between thinking, speaking, and reporting in the nuance afforded by two languages—but then writing in English for a U.S. audience. He didn’t compromise, pushed the word count, and wrote the stories that sometimes I felt even many natives of the region didn’t see unravelling around them.

“The journalism that we can be least proud of is the journalism that comes from claiming to know too much,” he said at a lecture once. I’ve always remembered it, because I thought it was pretty ironic—coming from one of the journalists many of us thought knew the most.

His reporting did so much justice to this tortured and textured part of the world. We have so much to learn from it. We’ll always be thankful.

Hadeel Al-Salchi, Reuters

His voice still rings in my ear after my last phone conversation with him. Last week I took a job with Reuters leaving AP after almost 4 years of service and it was a decision I agonized over.

But I knew that Anthony was the one person I could turn to for sound advice and mentoring. The last time we talked he returned a call while he was in middle of Antakya, before heading into Syria where he’d meet his fate. “Don’t worry at all, I’m in Turkey, but we can talk, what’s the latest,” he said to me, the line crackling.

This was the fifth time we had talked last month as he held my hand through the decision. He gave sound advice with sincere passion _ “You don’t owe anybody anything Hadeel, this is about YOUR career” _ infusing me with a confidence I didn’t realize I deserved as a Canadian-Iraqi journalist covering the region.

He made time for someone like me as if he owed it to me. It was like he felt all of us bicultural journalists working in the Western media were his young prodigies_ he was the Godfather who had penetrated this previously unattainable world and slayed the dragon for us all, and we used his advice to sharpen our own swords.

In an industry plagued by jealousy, competition, and ego, and where editors will beat you down to keep you loyal, Anthony taught us that we can be good journalists AND be good people. We can be talented and creative and professional, and still make time for each other, mentor each other, and that there is room for everyone’s voice.