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Othman Al Omeir was awarded the Legacy of Change Medal by the Parliamentary Society for Arts
Celebrated journalist and editor Othman Al Omeir was awarded the Legacy of Change Medal by the Parliamentary Society for Arts last week.
The ceremony, held in Committee Room 14, an esteemed space within the House of Parliament usually reserved for significant political announcements, acknowledged Al Omeir’s contributions to media and advocacy.
The assembly was organized by Rebeca Riofrio, chairwoman of the Parliamentary Society for Arts, and brought together leaders from the creative industries.
Among the distinguished guests was Minister for Victims and Violence Against Women and Girls Alex Davies-Jones, who delivered an impassioned speech underscoring the UK government’s commitment to addressing the issue of violence in the arts. Her speech highlighted the importance of advocacy for all artists, echoing the assembly’s overarching theme of resilience and protection within the creative sectors.
Other notable figures such as Joshua Kane and Marine Tanguy were also honored for their impactful contributions to arts and culture.
Born in Saudi Arabia and a British citizen for the past 40 years, Al Omeir has spent decades shaping the Arab world’s media.
He has been closely connected with the Parliamentary Society for the past five years and has long championed initiatives to protect creatives and uphold the integrity of journalism. His presence, alongside influential figures such as Minister Davies-Jones, Princess Katarina of Yugoslavia, Dame Tessy Antony de Nassau, and Lady Paris Smith, underscored his dedication to advancing a free and supportive media landscape.
As the founder of Elaph, the first independent Arabic e-newspaper, Al Omeir sought to break free from censorship and provide a space for liberal perspectives, promoting open dialogue on issues affecting the Arab region and beyond.
Nowadays, he serves as one of the advisers for the Parliament News Magazine, a publication that has gained recognition for addressing critical social issues since 2019.
In his ongoing work, Al Omeir uses his platforms to encourage the industry to work collectively to safeguard its talent, highlighting the pervasive challenges that creatives can face, such as violence and substance abuse.
Reflecting on the award, Al Omeir stated: “To receive this recognition in such a revered space as Committee Room 14 is deeply meaningful. Media is not just about information; it’s a powerful force for justice and societal progress. We must use this influence to protect those who bring creativity and truth into our world, ensuring they can express themselves without fear.”
source/content: arabnews.com (headline edited)
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Born in Saudi Arabia and a British citizen for the past 40 years, Al Omeir has spent decades shaping the Arab world’s media. (Supplied)
The award-winning international correspondent talks frontline reporting, wearing the hijab on television, and how her personal connection to the Middle East makes her a better storyteller
In Autumn 2019, when Turkey launched its incursion into northern Syria, 23-year-old Nada Bashir packed her camera and flew to northern Iraq to cover the story. At the time she was a freelance producer for CNN in London “pretty fed up of constantly being on the Downing Street shift and covering Brexit. I knew I wanted to be in the Middle East but wasn’t perhaps experienced enough,” she says. “So I decided to just go by myself… I felt very passionate about what was happening and I knew I wanted to be a part of it.”
It was a bold decision – both her first solo story and first solo trip to a hostile environment – but the risk paid off. Just five years later, she is an award-winning international correspondent who has reported from the frontlines of the conflict in Yemen and the devastating 2023 earthquake in Turkey.
Now 28, Nada is speaking from her home in West London. She flew in yesterday from Cyprus where she was covering aid ships heading to Gaza, and she will likely be dispatched again imminently although she doesn’t know when or where. She’ll pack a book and headphones but otherwise, “it’s all tech gear, medical kit and body armour”.
Unpredictable as this career may be, it is one that she has dreamt of since she was a teenager, watching the Arab Spring unfold: “We were all glued to the TV, seeing what was happening across the Middle East and back home. That was the moment for me when I was like, ‘actually this is what I want to do’.”
Back home is Libya from where Nada’s family originate, although her parents – her father was an aircraft engineer and her mother is a nursery teacher – left before she was born. “My dad was a pro-democracy activist,” she says. “He spent more than 30 years essentially in exile…It was something that we were all aware of, something that we talked about a lot.” It meant that growing up in Brighton, on England’s south coast, “the news was constantly on” but Nada never considered that she might one day be on screen herself. The middle of five siblings, she was “very shy” at school: “I vividly remember being forced to do a presentation, feeling like I was about to faint and going red in the face. I never ever would have pictured myself doing this.”
But after becoming involved in student TV while studying Politics and East European Studies at University College London, securing the internship at CNN and impressing her editors with her story from northern Iraq, an on camera career beckoned. “I spent so much of my childhood consuming news about what was happening at home and a lot of it coming from Western networks. There were a lot of things where you watched it and felt like the story of your people, your region, wasn’t being told fairly, properly or accurately,” she says. “Still there are times when I watch coverage and it’s frustrating because there’s a real lack of understanding around some of the cultural dynamics.
Being Arab isn’t essential to reporting on the Middle East, she says, but it does break down barriers: “Just being able to speak to people in their language, understanding their culture… Having that connection has made me a better storyteller.” The stories she tells are often difficult ones and they stay with her – the elderly Syrian refugee who lost his family in the Turkish earthquake, the 11-year-old Moroccan girl who guided her around a makeshift burial ground after the earthquake there last September, the Palestinian teenager detained without charge in the West Bank. Reporting on the war in Gaza has been particularly poignant: “Talking about the Palestinian cause is something that no Arab person hasn’t done. That is part of our cultural identity in a sense. That history is interlinked with all of the Middle East.”
Within the first week of war breaking out, Nada was in Jordan and Oman covering anti-war protests. Since then she has reported from Lebanon and Egypt but it is her time in the occupied West Bank – her first visit there – that has been most affecting. “That was a part of the story that we felt was being completely overlooked,” she says. “It’s not a new story. Palestinians in the West Bank have been marginalised, treated as second class citizens for decades”. She describes this reporting as “the most challenging” of her career to date, finding her objectivity over such a “polarising” story called into question. “There are so many assumptions about where your personal views might lie because of your cultural or religious background,” she says. “I am a visibly Muslim woman. My name is Arab. It’s very clear where I’m from…But with a story like this, it’s very difficult not to feel like your journalism is being undermined by assumptions of where you might stand.”
Many of those assumptions come from the fact that Nada wears the hijab. When she first started at CNN, she was “apprehensive at first – working for an American network and what that might mean in terms of how I fitted into that. Thankfully it’s never been an issue.” Being on air though, “has been slightly different”. Most difficult was reporting from London on the anti-regime protests in Iran. “For me, it’s a personal choice. You should have the freedom to choose whether you wear it…Covering the story was very important to me but I had a lot of backlash because a lot of people couldn’t understand how I could cover that, as somebody who chooses to wear the hijab, given that many women there were risking their lives and being persecuted for choosing not to.” On the flip side, she has also received “so many” messages from young hijab-wearing women who also aspire to be journalists: “I know that feeling because I felt like whenever I saw somebody wearing a hijab on TV.”
Today she feels like that when she sees the wider Arab diaspora experience represented, like in American comedy-drama, Ramy: “You feel the connection to it… It’s a blend of cultures and that is something that we identify with.” And when so much of her own work focuses on amplifying the voices of those suffering great hardship, she is grateful that there is increasingly space to celebrate the Arab world. “It’s sad because I think growing up, the only thing you’d really hear about the Middle East was war or conflict or political issues,” she says. “And there’s so much more to the region. There’s so much history, so much culture, so many people doing incredible things in different industries. It’s nice to see those aspects being showcased now, in magazines, in TV, in film, in music. To see that actually there’s a different side to the region, which has always been there. It just hasn’t really been given the platform.”
What Nada truly hopes is that when things improve in the Middle East, she will be there to report on it: “I can only hope that at some point there will be a positive change and I will get to cover that as well.” For now though, she has her bags packed, ready to head wherever the story takes her next: “It’s extraordinary; it’s a privilege and I wouldn’t change it for the world”.
Images Supplied / From Harper’s Bazaar Arabia’s May 2024 Issue
Microsoft has hired British-Syrian Mustafa Suleyman to head its AI business, cementing his role in the industry.
Mustafa Suleyman , a highly respected British-Syrian AI expert, has been named as Microsoft’s artificial intelligence business head, as the company cements its position in this booming field.
Suleyman co-founded DeepMind , which Google purchased in 2014, before starting up Inflection.ai in 2022 with LinkedIn co-founder Reid Hoffman, to guide AI away from racist, sexist or violent behaviour. It has also been named a rival to Microsoft in the field of AI.
He also co-wrote ‘The Coming Wave’, a highly influential book in the tech industry that examines the potential and pitfalls of AI.
Microsoft said in a post on LinkedIn on Monday named Sulyaman as CEO of Microsoft AI, leading all of its consumer products and research, including its generative AI service Copilot as well as its Bing search engine and Edge browser.
He will report directly to Microsoft CEO Satya Nadella , who welcomed his appointment in a blog post.
“This infusion of new talent will enable us to accelerate our pace yet again,” Nadella wrote.
The hiring is likely to bolster Microsoft’s lead position in the booming AI industry, as big tech companies battle for positions to capitalise on the demand for AI services.
Microsoft has teamed up with ChatGPT maker OpenAI, investing billions of dollars into the San Francisco company, and recently partnered with France’s Mistral , a hot AI startup.
Suleyman is the son of a Syrian taxi driver and English nurse and grew up in North London. He dropped out of Oxford University aged 19, before founding the Muslim Youth Hotline, which became one of the biggest counseling services for Muslims in the UK.
His appointment to the top Microsoft position has been welcomed by British Arabs and Syrians worldwide, who have commended him for his journey from relatively humble beginnings to one of the leading positions in the IT industry.
He was named in The New Arab‘s ‘The notable British Arabs making a difference’ list in 2021 .
source/content: newarab.com (headline edited)
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Sulayman is one of the most influential people in the field of AI [Getty]
The ‘Limbo’ star will be acting alongside Pierce Brosnan as they follow the story of famed boxer Prince Naseem.
Egyptian actor Amir El Masry is set to star in a biopic of legendary British Yemeni boxer Naseem Hamed, titled ‘Giant’. The movie will tell the story of Hamed’s humble beginnings in the English city of Sheffield, and his meteoric rise to becoming a world champion. Throughout his career, he is coached by former steel worker Brendan Ingle, who is played by Irish actor and ‘James Bond’ star Pierce Brosnan.
Also known as Prince Naseem or ‘Naz’, Hamed also became an icon of showmanship, with his inimitable southpaw boxing style and quick feet, his high rate of knock-out victories, and his elaborate ring entries, arriving on a ‘flying carpet’ suspended from the ceiling and often somersaulting over the ropes.
The casting of El Masry to play Hamed marks his first starring role in a major film production, though he has already landed several major parts in acclaimed series such as ‘The Night Manager’, BAFTA-nominated ‘The State’, and the fifth season of ‘The Crown’, in which he played a young Mohamed Al Fayed. He is also known for his award-winning role in ‘Limbo’, as well as his appearances in ‘Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker’ and Egyptian series ‘El-Brinseesa Beesa’.
Rahman was one of the first women to be paid to play football in Europe – and set a host of records!
Deena Rahman owns five Guinness World Records
She was one of the players who got contracts when Fulham became professional in 2000
Rahman represented Bahrain in 40 matches, and scored 23 goals
In 2000, almost a decade before the English Football Association awarded the first central contracts to women, Fulham Ladies, at the insistence of club chairman Mohamed Al-Fayed, turned fully professional. It was a watershed moment in the history of women’s football. One of the 16 players paid to play professional football, a first in Europe, was Deena Rahman.
Deena Rahman’s career has since become one of football’s enduring legacies. She has played for the England women’s age group teams, then Bahrain national team. A midfielder during her playing days, the 39-year-old now works to promote gender equality in football while also creating a host of world records. The former Fulham midfielder currently holds five Guinness World Records!
Born to an Egyptian father, Deena Rahman rose through Fulham’s youth ranks, then joined the Arsenal Academy. But she returned to Fulham, and became a member of the team which completed a treble of Premier League National Division, FA Cup and League Cup in 2003. The club became semi-professional soon enough, after three years.
At 15, Rahman made her England U-18 debut. She also represented the country of her birth in two UEFA Women’s Under-19 Championships. However, she retired as a Bahraini player, having scored 23 goals in 40 matches after making her debut in 2011. She is regarded as one of the greatest to have played for the Reds, the nickname for the team from the small Western Asian kingdom.
In her journey – from Fulham to Manama with a brief stoppage in Cairo – Deena Rahman has witnessed a whole gamut of human experience. As a prodigious talent in England, she was a regular at the all-conquering Fulham. But injury and the disbandment of the Cottagers in 2006 forced her to move to Egypt, where she played for Wadi Degla for a brief spell. Another injury sidelined her, and she was back in England.
Then Bahrain came calling, thanks to her association with Arsenal. In 2010, Rahman arrived in the Gulf to work as a coach at Arsenal Soccer School at Soccer City in Janabiya. After five years there, she and her husband Paul Shipwright established their own academy, Tekkers Academy.
Meanwhile, Rahman was also busy creating her own legacy. In 2017, she, along with 32 women from 20 countries, set the Guinness World Record for the highest game of football ever played. And the setting was 18,760 feet above sea level, atop Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania – the highest mountain in Africa.
The following year, Deena Rahman played her part in setting another Guinness World Record, this time for a game of football at the lowest point in the world, the Dead Sea in the Jordan Rift Valley, at 1,412 ft below sea level.
In 2019, Rahman clocked two more Guinness World Records by taking part in a match featuring 822 players during the biggest five-a-side game at Olympic Lyonnaise Training Academy in Meyzieu, Lyon. Then in an exhibition match on the sidelines of the 2019 FIFA Women’s World Cup in France, she got her fourth Guinness World Record as a part of the match with the most nationalities – 114 participants, representing 53 nationalities. In 2020, Rahman secured her fifth record by hammering 7,876 penalties in 24 hours at the Kick Off Academy in Saar.
After years lost in an educational wilderness, the Egyptian-British designer found his niche as a world authority on Islamic art and architecture with noble patrons such as King Charles III.
The Chelsea Flower Show was just some annual event that happened in London as far as Khaled Azzam was concerned, until the day he answered a call from the heir to the throne.
Prince Charles , inspired by two antique Turkish rugs at his residence in Gloucestershire, was on the phone with an unusual brief: “I want you to work with me to design a garden.”
“I thought it was fabulous,” Azzam tells The National. “I’d never designed a garden before in my life so I went to see him at Highgrove House. He’s long been fascinated with Islamic art and architecture, and, because that’s what I practise, we always spoke about such things.
“He said, ‘All these carpets that I live with and love are interpretations of gardens, but I would like to design and build a garden that is an interpretation of carpets. I want to flip it around’.”
So it was that in 2001, among the usual avant-garde displays and emerging trends at the horticultural showcase, the first entry ever submitted by a member of the British royal family instead dug deep into the past.
The classic Islamic charbagh representing the four gardens of Paradise in the Quran was a crowd-drawing triumph yet, when it won a coveted silver-gilt medal, Azzam remembers thinking: “Whoa, that’s crazy.”
In situ ever since at the Highgrove estate, The Carpet Garden is the living incarnation of the two men’s long combined efforts to bring forth new shoots from ancient artistic roots.
Now, more than 20 years on, Azzam presides as director of the Prince’s School of Traditional Arts that is regarded as a centre for excellence in teaching the geometries held to be the common thread between age-old skills all but abandoned in much of the modern world.
The aim is to nurture patterning techniques such as the kind of inlaid stone workmanship used to create the Cosmati Pavement, the 13th-century mosaic floor on which, fittingly, the throne will be placed during the coronation ceremony for King Charles III inside Westminster Abbey on Saturday.
An extensive network of PSTA outreach programmes has spread across the globe from the core educational base in London to regenerate the cultural heritage of different regions and communities, from Jamaica to the UAE to China.
But, from the outset, the school’s ethos often evoked incomprehension, ridicule and, at times, undisguised animosity from some within the art establishment.
“There were moments that I was very, very worried, saying, ‘if this dies, it dies with us’,” Azzam recalls. “What His Majesty was saying that architecture, cities and education should be about, and how we should deal with the environment, was not commonplace. All those things were seen to be interesting and quaint. We never saw ourselves as being alternative. We were part of what we used to call ‘essential thinking’.
“Very early on, we had this strong bond; we understood exactly what we had to do. Then, I had to understand something. He was a prince, now he’s a king. We’ve had visionaries, we’ve had patrons all throughout history, that is the role of a prince. But my role is to make it happen.”
If the mission was to accumulate centuries of precious creative knowledge for alumni to reinvigorate and, in turn, hand to the next generation then there was one significant impediment.
“There weren’t any masters to teach us,” Azzam says.
The disconcerting discovery came when he went to set up a regional centre in his birthplace in 2005 with the Egyptian Ministry of Culture, Art Jameel and local artisans from whom he had hoped to gain a deeper understanding of tradition.
Instead, Azzam had a moment of transformational thinking that “not everything old is beautiful” — the craftsmen and women, in spite of their evident skills, had for generations been learning by rote.
“I really respect them and their role in the community but some of it was quite shoddy workmanship. They would start telling me, ‘Ah, but you don’t know, I am an eighth-generation carpenter and I learnt this from my grandfather’.
“But, because we came from an academic background and could analyse this stuff, I said, ‘your grandfather made a mistake three generations ago and you’re just repeating that mistake’.”
Most saddening for Azzam, however, was that the artists were stuck perpetually reproducing the same designs over and over again. Without much grasp of the underlying mathematical principles, they were incapable of extending the lineage of their traditional arts and crafts by creating anything new.
“It opened my eyes to the limitations of simply teaching young people through copying the forms of the past. We had to go back to the origin, to deconstruct buildings and understand how they were built. We had to look at certain principles to see what they were about. In a way, it was a voyage backwards.
“Then there was a moment where we started turning around, and now we feel that there is enough of a contemporary heritage to call it a living tradition and move into the future.
“If we’ve been successful in one thing, it’s in really delivering the philosophy into practice. It’s not just talk, it’s about making things, creating this process from the origin to the manifestation.”
That their son would end up running any school, let alone a prestigious art institution for the Prince’s Foundation, would once have been inconceivable for Azzam’s parents, Laila and Omar, who long kept quiet their fears over his prospects.
Young Khaled, despite being widely read and full of curiosity about what was happening in the world, was nonetheless lost within the four walls of a classroom.
“I was always last in the class because I just didn’t understand what was going on at all.
“Although my parents never let on, they admitted it much later, saying, ‘You know, we didn’t think you’d even make it into university’.
“And the fact that I not just got into university but then got a PhD and became involved in education … my brother says it’s a sign of the end of the world,” he says, smiling affectionately at the long-running joke.
It pops up again when we’re discussing Azzam’s receipt of the Lieutenant of the Royal Victorian Order, a knighthood granted by Queen Elizabeth II in 2009, and his speech before Pope Benedict XVI as representative of Muslims at an interfaith forum the following year.
“I don’t know why until this day that I was chosen,” he says. “It’s another sign of the end of the world, according to my brother.”
Azzam puts being such “a terrible student” down to a childhood disrupted by frequent geographical moves but doesn’t rule out an undiagnosed learning difficulty. “In our day, you were just stupid if you didn’t get it,” he says.
Education eventually took its place as the most important part of his working life once he began to understand that the Latin root, educere, means “to draw out of” not “to put into”.
As a consequence of his own difficulties, he feels an enormous responsibility towards those unable to cope with school systems intent on treating students like empty vessels that need filling with facts and figures.
“I became very, very interested in the journey you take a student through to bring what’s in them out to the surface,” he says.
Though born in Egypt, where his mother “always returned to have her babies”, the family lived abroad because of his father’s job as a senior urban planner for the UN.
After a stint in Saudi Arabia, there was a relatively settled period of 10 years in Lebanon until civil war broke out. They struggled on for almost a year until Omar, working in Paris at the time, suggested that the rest of the family join him temporarily: “Just come over for Christmas,” was the gist, “things will die down.”
“We managed to get on a flight one day very, very quickly — just packed a hand bag each and ran off to the airport. We left everything behind, all our books, our toys, our belongings, our clothes and just never went back because the war never ended. We had to rebuild our life. Then England became my home and I’m very grateful.”
This is not quite how his younger self felt when first pitching up late one Autumn afternoon in what was then the “very, very small town” of Cambridge.
“There was nothing to do. In those days, everything shut at five o’clock. It was foggy, cold and damp, and I’d just spent two years in the South of France. I was trying to figure out what I had done wrong.”
The posse of four siblings received a hospitable welcome from the locals and quickly grew to love their adopted home and the architecture lining the cobbled streets.
There was a particularly memorable encounter, surrounded by fluted limestone columns, medieval stained-glass windows and Tudor symbols in King’s College Chapel that would later inform much of Azzam’s work.
Beneath the celebrated fan-vaulted ceiling of the 500-year-old Gothic landmark built by a succession of English monarchs, the teenager made an unexpected discovery: he found himself.
“Physically, I had nothing to do with that place. Culturally, I was an Egyptian who came to England. I wasn’t even an architect yet. I was doing my O-Levels and A-Levels.
“But there was something in me that completely understood that building; the message, the beauty of it.
“I felt I belonged there, that it was part of me. It was a very profound experience that changed my life somehow.”
Arriving at what he says all the great civilisations of the world had known, however, came only with time and experience.
It has been a constant journey of learning with two particular guiding lights along the way. The first was Abdel Wahed El Wakil, the foremost authority in Islamic architecture with whom Azzam subjected himself completely for eight intense years at a “hothouse” of an office in London.
“We had a difficult relationship because he was very demanding but he was my master who taught me everything I know about architecture,” he says. “I just totally understood that this idea of apprenticeship is to give yourself to somebody, and if you find that person, you’re very, very lucky.”
Through El Wakil, he met Keith Critchlow, the renowned geometer and founder of the Visual and Traditional Arts Department at the Prince’s Institute of Architecture, and developed a deep fascination with the properties underpinning the order of nature.
He talks of the intricate chambers of the nautilus shell and the honeycomb built in hives by bees or the movement of planets over time across the night sky, but perhaps his favourite example is the delicate, six-fold symmetry of a single ice crystal.
“All snowflakes are hexagonal because the molecular structure of water is hexagonal yet — and this blows my mind every time I say it — no two snowflakes that fall on the ground are the same.
“There is a principle of unity manifesting variety. All snowflakes start from the same origin but their final form is the record of their journey down to Earth. In a way, that’s us as human beings as well.
“If you look at a DNA structure, the very basic thing that binds us all together, it’s a beautiful spiral that has a certain proportional system and yet we’re all different.”
The firm belief that we all have the same origin is fundamental not only to his work at the school but also as principal of Khaled Azzam Associates, the “little practice” he started in 1991.
It is hard, he agrees, not to lose count of the many architectural projects he has been involved in over the years: mosques like that commissioned by King Abdallah II to commemorate his father, the late King Hussein, in Amman; royal residences, commercial buildings, offices and schools across the Middle East; and, most recently, the master plan launched by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman to sustainably develop the historic Al Ula site in Saudi Arabia where he is headed a few days after our interview.
“I’ve been running two careers, that’s why the number of projects looks bigger than it is,” Azzam, now 62, says modestly.
When it’s pointed out that there doesn’t seem to be much spare time weighing on his hands, Azzam concedes that he wouldn’t know what to do with it if he had any. He works all day, never tiring because, well, he doesn’t see it as work.
“I am blessed in my life because I do things I love. I think very, very early on in my career, I just said: I want work to be part of my identity, part of my character — it all has to be one.
“The school has always been somewhere that I found a great sense of nourishment and fulfilment. And it’s very much part of my life. My wife, Mona, complains that they’re my family more than my family at home.”
Home proper is Clapham in south London, where Mona has laid the unshakeable foundation that has made “all this possible”, Azzam acknowledges. Everything is taken care of so that he never has to worry: the house, the well-being of their children, Issam, 24, and Nadia, 19, and the bills “that she knows I won’t pay”.
A few hours before the rest of the family wakes each day, he is already at his desk with a cup of coffee, drawing while looking out across one of London’s largest parks.
“It’s very quiet,” he says. “There’s nobody there, and then you see one person, then two people, and then you see life coming through, and you start having a funny relationship with it. It’s beautiful.”
From his perch, Azzam envies the super fit elderly man who runs around Clapham Common each day, and often wonders with a glint of amusement what the dogs make of their owners diligently picking up after them.
He watches the latest exercise trends come and go with the seasons — the boxing or tai chi or, as with a few years back, “everybody standing on their heads”.
No surprises, though, that after a lifetime eschewing fleeting fashions, he isn’t inclined to join them.
Khaled Azzam concedes that he wouldn’t know what to do with spare time if he had any away from work. ‘I am blessed in my life because I do things I love,’ he says. Photo: Mark Chilvers
Egyptian businessman said Rishi Sunak had shown himself to be ‘very capable’.
The Conservative party has received its largest donation in more than two decades from an Egyptian-born, British-based billionaire.
Mohamed Mansour has given the party £5 million ($6.2 million) and thrown his backing behind Prime Minister Rishi Sunak, saying he understands “how growth is generated in the modern economy”.
Writing in The Telegraph on Monday, Mr Mansour, who previously spoke to The National for an Arab Showcase feature, said Mr Sunak had shown himself “to be very capable”.
He wrote: “He gets the importance of technology and innovation. He can make the modern economy work for all UK citizens.”
The £5 million donation is the second largest individual gift on record to a political party, after Lord Sainsbury of Turville gave £8 million to the Liberal Democrats in 2019.
And it matches the £5 million donation to the Conservative Party by Sir Paul Getty in 2001. Mr Mansour’s gift has contributed to one of the party’s most successful first quarters of donations in recent years.
“I believe that this country has a very capable Prime Minister,” he wrote.
“My confidence in the Prime Minister is why I was proud to become a senior treasurer of the Conservative Party last December. I want to give him the best chance of having a full five-year term and so have donated £5 million to the party’s election fighting fund. I look at what he has achieved in his first months in office and think what he could do in five years.”
‘I had to do something in my life’
Mr Mansour has overseen the expansion of his family’s company, which has grown from its early beginnings as a cotton exporter to the global conglomerate it is today, with revenue of more than $7.5 billion.
He told The National in 2021 about how a period of convalescence aged 10 gave him the impetus he needed to go on to succeed in life.
Week after week he lay in plaster recuperating from horrific injuries after a car hit him as he was crossing the street.
The doctors had wanted to amputate his leg, but the headstrong boy refused, vowing to stick it out as long as necessary. It took three years.
Mr Mansour looks back on the episode as a part of his life when his father taught him how to be a good entrepreneur and an honourable man.
“That’s when I developed in me that I had to do something in my life,” he told The National.
The billionaire learnt as a boy the importance of a strong work focus, determination, vision and priorities, but also trust, understanding, empathy and loyalty that goes both ways.
“People who love and respect you will do anything for you, I find, and vice versa,” Mr Mansour said.
They are the qualities he credits for his successful leadership at the helm of the Mansour Group, which has a presence in 100 countries and 60,000 employees.
The Egyptian cotton trading company was founded in 1952 and run by his father, Loutfy Mansour.
“My father always told me: ‘Mohamed, you’re a very special young man because of the strength you showed when everybody was saying that we have to amputate the leg. You’re telling the doctors, ‘No.’
“I said, ‘No’,” Mr Mansour recalls, with an edge to his voice, “and I meant it.”
Family’s home seized
The fortune that his father amassed as a textiles trader was lost in 1963 when the business was nationalised by the Egyptian government.
Mr Mansour’s childhood home, with its 40 rooms and 30 staff was confiscated, and his father went from feted capitalist to persona non grata on a state income of $75 a month.
He explains how his life changed overnight, with his family unable to support him while at university in the US, forcing him to trade in his car and work as a waiter.
Back in Egypt, his father was left trying to support the family on a meagre salary, which left Mr Mansour with a lifelong belief in the importance of political stability, property rights and the rule of law.
Mr Mansour joined the company in 1973 and took it in a new direction, forming a strategic partnership first with the automotive multinational General Motors and then with the construction equipment manufacturer Caterpillar. Other leading brands, such as Philip Morris, Peugeot, MG and McDonald’s would follow.
Mr Mansour and his two brothers continued to steer the company to success after their father’s death in 1976.
In 2005 Mr Mansour stepped back from his business to serve in the Egyptian government, spending almost four years trying to modernise the country’s transport infrastructure.
In the article on Monday he says: “But when I had finished that period of service, I knew there was one country where I wanted to base my business. A place where the rule of law is paramount, property rights are respected and with an enviable record of political stability. This country: the United Kingdom.”
He says he loves and respects the country, which has welcomed himself and his family so warmly.
“It has a proud history and noble traditions. I believe that it has great days ahead of it. I want to do what I can to help this country – the place where I am watching my grandchildren grow up – achieve its great potential,” he adds.
Trailblazing Jordanian-British research fellow reveals that her prescription for success requires dispensing – but only with tradition.
Most Damascene moments are dramatic by definition but few occur, as Atheer Awad’s did, on an actual road that leads to the Syrian capital.
Her own turning point came when the vehicle she was travelling in with her family to register for university in Amman blew a tyre, hit an electricity pole and flipped several times.
The accident meant that Awad ended up in hospital and missed the window to sign up to study medicine. By the time she was discharged, the only degree option still open to her was pharmacy.
Though bitterly disappointed at the time, she has come to believe that there were greater forces at work on the day of the crash on Jordan Street.
“Let’s just say we put our car to the test,” Awad tells The National. “It was a complete wreck. We are lucky to be alive.
“But it wasn’t meant to be that I should study medicine. I took the car accident as a sign that the future held better things for me.”
As a result, she was steered into an unexpected career in which the eventualresearch fellow at University College London would amass numerous accolades: the Journal of Clinical Medicine‘s 2021 PhD Thesis award; an appearance on the Forbes 30 Under 30 list for Europe; reaching the finals in the Women of the Future awards 2022 in the science category; named as an International Pharmaceutical Federation FIPWise Rising Star for 2022 as well as one of the top 15 outstanding innovators under the age of 35 by the MIT Technology Review.
Her groundbreaking research is paving the way towards the creation of personalised medication that can be 3D-printed in patients’ homes via smartphone — a potentially transformative innovation for those who find it hard to gain access to health care or don’t suit a one-size-fits-all service.
Born in Abu Dhabi and raised in Dubai by Jordanian parents, her hand was always first in the air in class when volunteers were sought to dissect animals at Al Mawakeb School in Garhoud.
It was an early display of Awad’s enthusiasm for the sciences, particularly biology, and a prelude to her ambition of becoming a heart surgeon.
“I was so determined to make a difference and medicine is one of those industries that has a greater impact when it comes to changing people’s lives,” she says.
“There is never a boring day with science because every day is a new learning experience.
“You come across things that you haven’t discovered before or create new stuff by just playing around with things in the lab and mixing them together. It’s that sort of curiosity that motivates me.”
Back then, holidays were regularly spent visiting Jordan — trips that Awad still makes annually to catch up with extended family, go to weddings and indulge a soft spot for the local food.
“I love those traditional connections,” she says, “and still follow as many of these practices as I can, wherever I am.
“My faith helps a lot. But it isn’t easy trying to keep a balance between sticking to faith and being able to live in a foreign country.”
Moving to England wasn’t as daunting as it might have been without the unwavering support of her parents and four older siblings — a pharmacist, a consultant with whom she lived until recently, an IT specialist and a doctor.
“It is rare for all of us to be in the same country at the same time,” she says, laughing. “We travel between the three countries and there is always at least one of us living in each of the three. That makes it interesting for my parents, who get to travel everywhere.”
Awad herself, now 29, is a keen traveller and has put on her bucket list the wish to visit every country in Europe before turning her sights to other continents.
She fell in love with Turkey after a trip to Cappadocia, the semi-arid central region known for its “fairy chimney” rock formations, and particularly enjoys explorations on foot.
London, however, holds a special place in her heart, where there is, she points out, a big Jordanian community.
“I have a lot of friends I consider my second family. They’re a mixture of scientists, people outside work, and others with Jordanian or Arab heritage. That keeps me connected to my roots and it is one of the beauties of London — it’s international.”
But she calls Dubai home and makes many happy returns to Living Legends, a newly developed 14 million-square-foot community on the outskirts of the city where her parents still live.
Part of the appeal of the emirate, it should be said, is the chance to hit the luxury shops. Dior and Prada are favourites — her handbag collection alone extends to “about 40 or 50 … I’ve lost count” — and the Swarovski-encrusted mobile phone she takes everywhere is a particularly prized purchase.
Invariably, though, one of the first stops is to fill up on luqaimat, known as awama in the Levant. She has sampled the sugary doughnuts wherever she finds them but maintains that the ones whipped up for as long as Awad can remember by her mum, Hanan Swais, “are the best”.
They were an abiding taste of a childhood in which the extroverted Awad, left to explore her own interests by her father, Jamal, an electronics retailer, and Hanan, a homemaker, played the piano exuberantly if not with any notable proficiency and went on Scouting expeditions.
There was never an expectation that she would follow in the footsteps of any of her siblings but the desire to pursue medicine was strong nonetheless.
“It wasn’t until we were discharged from hospital [after the car accident] that I realised I had missed the deadline,” she says. “There was no going back in time. I just thought: ‘What’s the next best option?’
“That’s why I always say I did not choose pharmacy — it chose me.”
Despite a reluctant start, Awad’s enthusiasm grew throughout a five-year degree at the private Applied Science University in Amman as she gained insight into the extent of what pharmacists could actually do.
“I started looking at pharmacy as having a bigger impact than I had previously thought,” she says.
“People sometimes look at pharmacists as if they are beneath or less important than doctors when, in fact, they do most of the work behind the scenes.”
Little by little, with the consolidation of hours of satisfying sessions spent researching in laboratories or learning about the differences in the properties of various drugs, it dawned on Awad that she had stumbled across her calling.
Which is not to say that she appreciated being treated as little more than a saleswoman while doing work experience in a community pharmacy during the degree course.
“People assume that the pharmacist just takes the prescription and gets the medication without doing anything else,” she says. “There is a misconception.”
The experience hardened Awad’s resolve to focus on research rather than the direct, community-facing side of the profession.
After graduation in 2015, she embarked on a master’s in pharmaceutics and drug design at UCL, where she learnt about 3D printing during an end-of-year project with her professor, Abdul Basit.
She was inspired to keep working with the Basit Research Group within the School of Pharmacy to undertake a doctorate specialising in using the drug-delivery technology in the manufacture of medicines.
“I’ve always been interested in technology so it grabbed my interest immediately,” says Awad, who is still a research fellow with the group.
Weekends when she is not working are spent dining with friends, indulging her obsession for Harry Potter — “I’ve watched all the films multiple times” — and baking. Coffee cake is her speciality and made a well-received appearance at her professor’s 50th birthday.
“I do like experimenting with baking and cooking. I think there are similarities between baking and science.”
She doesn’t rule out applying to appear on The Great British Bake Off television show but, for now, Awad’s ambitions are confined to the lab.
“I want to make a change,” she says. “I don’t want 3D printing to stay a theory. I want to see it being implemented and taken up by healthcare agencies.”
Most recently, Awad has been printing tablets with Braille and moon patterns on their surfaces for visually impaired patients, or changing their shape, size and colour so that children or those with limited capacity find them easier to take. She has also been researching how to combine several medications into a single pill.
One of her team’s successes has been in creating tablets that can be swallowed without water. Manufactured in partnership with pharmaceutical 3D-printing specialist FabRx by melting powder particles with a laser beam and using heat, the porous product dissolves on the tongue.
She talks about how 3D printing allows alterations of a fraction of a milligram, making medication much more tailored and precise than the standard variety available off the shelf.
“Every person is different and our bodies do not react the same,” Awad says. “The requirements when it comes to medication differ, and sometimes they differ within the same person, depending on the disease progression.
“We can also take patients’ preferences into consideration. That’s important when it comes to children or elderly patients. Often children refuse to take medicine because they don’t like the taste, the shape isn’t appealing or the pill might be too big.”
While 3D printing for customised pharmaceuticals has yet to be introduced commercially in the UK, Awad’s UCL team has managed to convert a smartphone into an on-demand 3D drug printer with an app that could be used in remote GP surgeries and even at home.
“We’re not far from the industry adopting 3D printing, probably in the next two to five years,” she says. “Approval will have to be on a medication-by-medication basis because each medicine could behave differently to the same technology, depending on its properties, and the 3D-printing technologies themselves differ.”
Awad’s passion for her work is tangible. The British-American analytics company Clarivate clearly thought so when last month listing her on its influential Highly Cited 2022. It was a remarkable achievement for such a young scientist to appear among fewer than 0.1 per cent of the world’s researchers across 21 fields.
Such recognition is welcome but, she says, the many “titles are more of an assurance that I am on the right track and that my work is important”.
“That’s the driving force to keep me moving forward and become even more ambitious to try new things,” she says.
One of her guiding principles is that researchers should be brave and adopt different approaches because even the most “ridiculous” ideas can be turned into brilliant inventions or innovations.
As she has been known to opine, not all scientific breakthroughs happen through planned research: “Sometimes, you come across things by accident.”
Given the route into her career in pharmaceuticals, it could be said that Awad started very much as she meant to continue.
With a Lebanese name and a Cairo birthplace in the background, Gabriel Makhlouf is steering Ireland’s financial recovery.
As governor of the Central Bank of Ireland, Gabriel Makhlouf is much preoccupied by the issue of resilience in a small, open economy challenged by a year of pandemic.
Mr Makhlouf’s own peripatetic life has shown him how precious an asset the quality of adaptability is at a time of change, be it in a person or for a national economic system.
Upheaval and the Makhloufs on the move could be a theme stretching back to when his father’s side of the family travelled across the Mediterranean from their Lebanese homeland to Cyprus.
When the island was part of the Empire, the family became British subjects and Makhlouf Snr ended up working at the embassy in Cairo after the Second World War.
It was in that palatial building near the Nile that he fell for a Greek-Armenian woman whose forebears had fled the historical turmoil of Izmir in 1922. Her family moved to Athens where she has come full circle to live today.
Mr Makhlouf was talking to The National at a time when Ireland’s strict national Level 5 lockdown is both defining his job and providing a perspective on the decades of movement and upheaval that have brought him to where he is now.
At a conference last week, the governor spoke of how the outlook had deteriorated in 2021 with the renewed lockdown. The short-term need to bolster the economy coincided with structural changes from technological innovation and climate policies. Ireland suffered a 7.1 per cent slump in domestic demand last year but is expected to see a 2.9 per cent increase in 2021.
Unemployment is predicted to reach 9.3 per cent this year and for an economy with a high level of property-focused debt, ensuring that households are supported is a priority. Mr Makhlouf points out that growth is not the same as having the capacity to recover quickly.
“We cannot anticipate every type of shock but we can build resilience,” he said in his keynote address. “Resilience is what has prevented the financial system repeating its previous failure. Resilience is what has protected households, businesses and communities against the worst of the damage from the shock of the pandemic.
“Economic resilience is what helps communities to manage the disruption caused by change and to manage the economic transitions we are living in right now.”
In providing leadership during financial strife, it is perhaps a boon to have some sense of dislocation. He describes his mother’s family as refugees. His parents met in a milieu that was the product of worlds with roots as far back as the Phoenicians, ancient Greeks, Romans and Egyptians. And yet the people of Mr Makhlouf’s parents’ generation made their choices and moved to build new lives.
“My mother, who was born in Athens, had spent most of her life outside of Greece, but when my dad retired she came back,” he recalls. “My dad moved on and lived all over the world and settled in Greece at the end, before he passed away.”
Mr Makhlouf was born in Egypt but left at the age of three when his father joined the United Nations and moved to the Congo. Makhlouf pere’s time as an international diplomat exposed the young Gabriel to many cultures.
“My first language was French, because my parents’ mutual tongue was French,” he says. “So I learned English when I was about seven when we went to Bangladesh, and when we got to the Pacific we lived in Samoa.
“I went to school in Samoa. My parents then decided they ought to send me to boarding school if I was going to get a proper education and not one that changed every few years.”
Travelling during the school holidays from the school in England was a regular odyssey in itself. “The trip to get to Samoa and back to England involved stopping in Los Angeles, Honolulu and Pago Pago, an American territory pronounced ‘Pango Pango’,” he recalls.
“But then they moved to the Philippines, they moved to Fiji, they were in Ethiopia and they were in Thailand. So, you know, my brother and I got used to this life.”
It is a puzzle, then, to establish the appeal to the young Mr Makhlouf of embarking on a career as a Whitehall civil servant. He explains it as following his father’s footsteps in to the bureaucracy. Certainly, the career path was more about determination and making opportunities than wanderlust.
“I don’t think I joined the civil service for stability, to be honest, but maybe somewhere deep inside me there might have been that,” he says. “I joined the civil service really for interest. I joined as a tax inspector at the beginning. And it was an interesting career option – it involved law, it involved accountancy and it gave early opportunity to manage.”
Fate intervened to resume the family’s roving tradition when Mr Makhlouf was headhunted in 2010 to run New Zealand’s finance ministry, the Treasury. There, he was responsible for developing a measure of well-being as a replacement for the traditional gross domestic product yardstick.
In one memorable allusion in a speech he compared the role of an economist to that of an artisan, challenged with weaving together different strands of evidence into a structured framework.
Before upping sticks to the southern hemisphere, Mr Makhlouf at one point worked directly with then-UK chancellor Gordon Brown, who became prime minister at the time of the global financial crisis in 2008.
Asked about his former boss and a recent warning that the world now faces another lost decade or perhaps even worse than after that crash, Mr Makhlouf acknowledges how bad it was last time around but disagreed on the dangers now.
“I think that there is one massive difference between the crisis in 2008 and today’s crisis,” he says. “Which is that the crisis in 2008 was a crisis of the financial system, the financial system basically collapsed.
“Today, the financial system is still standing, and it’s the financial system that’s playing a very important role in supporting businesses and households through the pandemic and hopefully into a recovery and out the other end.”
World leaders are proving to be different kinds of players, having recognised that this is an economic crisis caused by a health crisis. “Governments throughout the world have chosen to close down economies for the sake of people’s health. In some respects that is been planned. In comparison to what happened in 2008 where actually events completely overwhelmed us.”
So Mr Brown’s fears are too pessimistic? “A lot of the changes and challenges that are ahead of us, I think if we manage them, then I think they can be managed well,” he says.
Mr Makhlouf takes heart from the rapid adjustment of businesses to home-working and new patterns of demand. “Economies across the world and certainly in the industrialised world have adapted to the restrictions,” he says. “More businesses are set up for that and more consumers were ready and knew how to proceed.”
The scale of “technological adaptation” since he accepted the Irish job in 2019 is something he could well have guessed was just around the corner.
The governor has not been immune to the extraordinary pressures imposed by lockdowns. Even at the outset of the pandemic, the family’s far-flung ways isolated him in Athens just as the 2,000-strong staff of the central bank in Dublin were forced to work from home.
With his mother ill in hospital, Mr Makhlouf was on hand to help her recover. “Effectively, I carried on working like everyone else via laptops and iPads. It’s quite an extraordinary thing that we all seem to have got used to.”
History means that a British citizen running the Irish central bank will always be a talking point. The moment that the UK left the EU put Mr Makhlouf in an invidious spot.
First, there is migration of businesses and banking activity from the City of London to Dublin so that firms remain within the EU umbrella. Is this an opportunity?
“Overall, I think the impact of Brexit is negative. It’s negative for Ireland and for the UK and for the EU,” he says. “We’re most exposed as a country in the agricultural sector, in particular. The fact that there was, at the end of the day, a deal albeit a very slim deal was better than there being no deal.
“On financial services, we have seen post-referendum a move of business from London to Dublin,” he agrees. “I’m not sure I would necessarily call it an opportunity at all. I think from my perspective as a regulator this increases the need for us to manage and ensure the financial system works properly.”
With his son, brother and wife’s relatives living in London, the governor observes that the pandemic has played a greater role than Brexit in cutting off families and friends. But things are different.
“I feel sorry for someone like my son — his opportunities to work in 27 other countries have now been limited. So his generation has lost out,” he says. “Ireland and Irish people have got many connections in the UK, we recognise Brexit has happened but those connections haven’t disappeared, they haven’t been lost.”
As two movie-perfect countries on the periphery of continents with roughly similar populations, one wonders what the biggest change is for Mr Makhlouf in switching from New Zealand to Ireland.
There is the remoteness of the former compared with the latter’s position within the wealthy European market. But the answer, he feels, is the perspective on China. In New Zealand, much time was spent thinking about and visiting that part of east Asia. He himself went at least nine times.
“The role that Asia has been playing and will play in the 21st century usually dominated a lot of thinking. And what’s interesting coming back to Europe, and perhaps now it’s not surprising at one level, but it was noticeable how little of our time was spent thinking about Asia.”
For the well-travelled, there is the unchanging truth that proximity is often the most powerful force in geography.
The lockdown both defines Gabriel Makhlouf’s job as Governor of the Irish central bank and provides a perspective on the decades of movement and upheaval that have brought him where he is today. Courtesy Central Bank of Ireland
When the young George Kanaan wasn’t helping out in the family businesses, he was often to be found in a village classroom analysing the Shakespearean concepts of destiny and fate. His own was to take the helm of the Arab Bankers’ Association.
From the age of 8, the bell at the end of each school day sent George Kanaan wending purposefully through his ancient village in Mount Lebanon to pitch in at the family grocery store and builder’s merchants.
His father, Elias, spent the mornings running a wholesale business from the port before heading 20 kilometres south-east of Beirut to Souk El Gharb, where the young George would help to buy tobacco supplies or oversee the loading of bags filled with cement.
“To think I was a grocer’s son,” Mr Kanaan, now 76 and the chief executive of the Arab Bankers’ Association in London, tells The National.
It was an idyllic childhood that has left him full of memories of playing safely with his brothers, Pierre and Adel, on quiet streets in the shadows cast by the pine trees of the Aley district.
The cooler climes of the prosperous resort were popular with wealthy outsiders seeking respite from the humid countries of the Arabian Gulf – the kind of high society that Mr Kanaan would subsequently spend decades working for and with.
These days, accompanied by his second wife, Soulaf, he spends 60 per cent of the year at ABA’s head office in Mayfair, rubbing shoulders with the banking elite, and the rest reconnecting with his roots at the office in Beirut.
But ask him if he considers himself Lebanese or British, and he retorts: “I’m more English and Lebanese. I don’t like to say which one as I am equally part of both cultures and I like both completely.”
The dual curriculums at his secondary school, set up by western missionaries, focused heavily on discipline and English literature, which is how he came to study Macbethat the age of 15.
“There is no better way of identifying with a culture than identifying with one of its greatest literary figures,” Mr Kanaan says.
“To some extent, we lived with Shakespeare. We had to concentrate on one play, remember it by heart and be able to write analyses of concepts like destiny and fate. By the time we left school, we were seriously educated.”
He credits the influences of both parents for standing him in good stead in life. His mother, Rose, a French school teacher until she married, ensured that her three sons worked hard academically while his father encouraged their entrepreneurial skills.
So much so that when a professor at Harvard Business School asked his MBA students how to prepare a business bid, Mr Kanaan drew upon Elias’s success at winning an annual contract to supply the French army with food.
“When the professor called on me to open up the discussion, I told him how to do it. He looked at me completely stunned, then said: ‘First, what should we do with the rest of the 80 minutes, and second who told you this kind of stuff?”
Mr Kanaan read civil engineering at the American University of Beirut for four years, with his studies including summer internships in the mountains learning surveying work, and driving tractors and bulldozers.
He was awarded a fellowship to take a master’s in civil and environment engineering at Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, a city that shattered the idolised perceptions of the US built up by the Hollywood movies he watched as a child.
“If you turned on the taps in Pittsburgh, the water was yellow,” he recalls. “If you opened the window of the dormitory, you died of the smoke from the steelworks, and if you swam in the rivers you spent two weeks in hospital because the water was so polluted.”
Despite the disappointment, the course led to a job working at the think tank The Eno Centre for Transportation, which later netted him an invitation to Harvard Business School in 1973.
But his time at the prestigious institution coincided with a deterioration in his father’s health. When Mr Kanaan confided in his professor a desire to return to Beirut, the academic secured him a job at Citibank.
By then he was married to Catherine Sloane, an American he met during a French speaking class in 1970, and the mother of his now three grown-up children, Zizi, Elia and Danny.
With the move to Beirut imminent, Catherine went ahead to make preparations, arriving on the fateful day of April 13, 1975, when two sectarian incidents outside the Church of Notre Dame de la Delivrance – a drive-by shooting and a retaliatory bus attack – became the sparks that set off the civil war.
As the crisis deepened, the family instead relocated to Athens, where Citibank moved its regional base. But it meant that Mr Kanaan never had a chance to say goodbye to the father he had so admired.
“I discovered weeks later that he died. My family kept it from me because things were uncomfortable in the country and they did not want me to rush back.”
It has been difficult watching Lebanon and its many struggles since. The country is barely recognisable as the one of his youth when he used to read the parliamentary debates – published verbatim in the newspapers – to his father, whose eyesight was failing.
“He took great pleasure listening to me. I remember how intently and carefully he followed the minutes,” he says. “Lebanon at the time was a very thriving democracy.”
There is a deep belief within him that the country can be brought back from the brink but that would require, he says, a political coalescence before the economy can begin to be rescued.
He wishes he could be complimentary about Lebanon’s banking system. But what was once a jewel in the economic crown has been paralysed since a collapse in 2019, when strict withdrawal limits were imposed and transfers abroad banned after decades of unsustainable state spending and corruption.
“I always thought the Lebanese were really fine bankers,” he laments, “but fine bankers don’t end up in the mess Lebanon has.
“When I ran a bank, I thought I would rather die than see any of my depositors lose a penny and to think of the calamity that has befallen people who deposited money in Lebanese banks. The financial system is a catastrophe.”
His career took him to Riyadh, where he worked in the bank’s contracting division before the financial institution became Saudi American Bank, commonly known as Samba, by royal decree in 1980.
With Arab bankers increasingly in demand, he landed a job at the London arm of First Chicago, the US commercial bank, in 1984 as executive director in charge of the Middle East and North Africa region.
“We had a ball, coming to London,” he says. “It was a senior job that paid well so they put me and the family up in a Savoy suite for six weeks. That was a nice entry into the UK.”
The family moved into a three-storey, 7,000 sq ft upper maisonette off Sloane Square, a temporary solution while a search was under way for a permanent home.
“It had a grand staircase and a living room that could accommodate 100,” says Mr Kanaan.
“We were supposed to be there for about a year but we left 14 years later. We had a fantastic time living in one of the best addresses in London, with the children studying at American School of London.”
As ever, Mr Kanaan’s career was focused on the Arab world, and within three years he was back working for Citibank to build Samba’s presence in the UK capital.
By the time he left, five years later, he had established Samba Capital Management International, a portfolio management business “with $3.5bn of funds”.
Next came a stint with Saudi Arabia’s Prince Khalid bin Sultan bin Abdulaziz Al Saud, co-commander with General Norman Schwarzkopf of the allied forces during the first Gulf War.
As the chief executive of Makshaff, Mr Kanaan divided his time between Riyadh, Geneva and London, responsible for the prince’s personal affairs, staff, luxury homes around the world, private yacht and jet.
“Working in a job like that, I’m not exaggerating when I say I had breakfast on one flight, lunch on another and dinner on the third flight,” he says. “It was non-stop.”
The long hours took their toll on his first marriage, and thoughts turned to retirement at the age of 50 but it’s hard to conceive that giving up work altogether was ever a serious option.
There were dabblings in “failed” entrepreneurial ventures, such as a restaurant chain and a financial business in Cyprus, as well as a more successful mortgage brokerage company.
He spent much time indulging his passion for amassing a personal library of books connected to the Levant, Egypt and Iraq, with a preference for writings about the region by Europeans.
“I have a phenomenal collection – 1,000 books from the 1500s onwards – and some are so rare,” Mr Kanaan says.
Perhaps unsurprisingly for a former banker, another enthusiasm is for old paper money, the acquisition of which he equates to philately except that notes are larger than postage stamps and carry more historical information.
“I started in 1985, collecting anything Arabic, but it became too unwieldy. So I sold everything not from Lebanon, Syria and North Africa at an auction about 10 years ago. I made so much money, it’s a joke.”
Mr Kanaan’s return to the banking sector came in 2009, when asked to head the ABA as the world was dusting itself down from the global financial crisis.
The association was set up in 1975 when bankers running regional offices in Beirut flocked to London to escape the civil war. These Palestinians, Egyptians, Syrians and Iraqis brought with them regional expertise as well as contact books filled with the names of central bank governors, and oil and finance ministers.
“With that knowledge, they became the most sought-after people in the world because they had access to key people in the Arab region – which was not as accessible as it is now.
“Lunches at the association became really quite important, the place to meet if you wanted to do anything with the Arab world. There was a lot of business to be done because the price of oil had gone through the roof and the money was flowing like you would not believe.”
But things had begun to change by the time that Mr Kanaan was sitting on the board during his years at Samba. The term “Arab bankers” itself had become a thing of the past. The bankers were now British, American, Indian, Pakistani, whose careers concentrated on the Arab world.
When Mr Kanaan took the helm, the evolution went further as the ABA became a professional body connecting anyone with an interest in the Arab banking sector, not only Arab bankers themselves.
Now, the Arab Banker magazine has been revived, the website revamped, and membership expanded beyond Arab banks to include global institutions such as HSBC, BNY Mellon along with service providers like law firms, auditors and consultants.
The events calendar is still full but has pivoted to professional content about property, financial crime or trade finance with speakers from the Financial Conduct Authority or the Central Bank invited, while the social side burgeons with iftars, Christmas parties and gala dinners.
For the grocer’s son whose work ethic was first instilled as an 8-year-old, there seems little sign yet of Mr Kanaan putting his feet up.
“It’s a full-time job but this kind of work is fun,” he says. “The members are my friends, and I’ve been in this industry for more than 40 years, so why retire?”
