Elias Khoury left us on the morning of September 15th. He had been in great pain since July 2023, when he suffered from ischemia. Miraculously, he survived with the superhuman support of his family and the incredible, unwavering strength of his own will.
“Unwavering” is perhaps the word that best characterizes Elias. He was unwavering in his commitment to social justice, in his criticism of the corrupt Lebanese state and Arab dictatorships, in his championing of the Palestinian cause, and in his love for life despite all the horrors he bore witness to in his writing. He also offered unwavering support to his loved ones.
I had the pleasure of being Elias’s agent for the past five years, but I have known him all my life.
As a child during family gatherings, Elias—my aunt’s husband—exuded such a presence that I felt terribly intimidated. With his thick eyebrows and equally thick glasses, he would stare at me and ask, “Why don’t you choose to speak Arabic?”
The little French-speaking girl that I was could only be taken aback by this repeated question. It took me over a decade to understand that he was also empowering me, suggesting that I could choose to break away from the norms of the social environment I was born into. He was telling me I could be part of a much larger world, including the Arabic-speaking community.
In the winter of 2001-2002, I was interning in publishing in New York while Elias served as an author-in-residence at NYU. I had read “Gate of the Sun” in Arabic in 1999, and this novel changed my life. I loved it almost passionately and, most importantly, I realized that its language was mine, and I felt the need to reclaim it. I reached out to him and suggested we have a drink at Veloce wine bar, not far from both our places. That evening, I told him how dreadfully intimidating I had found him as a child, but also how I finally understood his intentions. I shared how I had started reading his book to prove to him—and perhaps to myself—that I could do it, and how it became so much more than that.
From that evening on, we became close friends. As our friendship deepened, I discovered his exceptional warmth and generosity. While in New York, we met every other day to discuss a book he had given me to read. It felt like an intensive private course in modern Arabic literature. I read and read, and we talked tirelessly for the years that followed.
In October 2004, almost exactly 20 years ago, Elias Khoury was among the authors invited to the Frankfurt Book Fair, where Arab countries were the guests of honor. I had just decided to become an agent for Arabic literature, and I was there too. That week was surreal; almost every notable figure in the Arabic literary scene was in Frankfurt, all staying at the same hotel. The lobby buzzed with greetings and animated discussions. Elias introduced me to more people than I can remember.
Mahmoud Darwish was also there, of course. I would sit with the two old friends at the hotel bar, listening to them reminisce, discuss prose versus poetry, tease each other, and share jokes. I can only imagine Elias now, in the company of Mahmoud Darwish, Edward Said, Samir Kassir, and many other dear friends whom he loved deeply and missed profoundly—being serious yet never taking himself too seriously, laughing at the irony of life, and crying at its cruelty.
Being Elias’s friend has been an immense privilege. I am forever grateful.
Photograph credit goes to The Paris Review.