Nothing can ever make up for such a loss. No consolation can fill the chasm left behind by all that was lost: experiences not lived, accomplishments unrealized, books unread, joys unshared, evenings that never came to be — all that a writer, a professor, a political activist could have continued to give and receive over the span of twenty years, had fate not torn him away in an assassination at the age of forty-five. With him perished unfinished projects, boundless dreams, and an unquiet longing that had never settled for the present.
And nothing fills the absence — the absence of a voice, a smile, an idea sparked mid-conversation, a shared mischief, a flash of wit or piercing insight. Nothing replaces that touch of self-assured vanity that Samir carried — in meetings, in gatherings — which made neutrality toward him almost impossible.
To remember him, twenty years after the blast that shattered an Alfa Romeo on a street in Beirut, is also to summon the memory of a life interrupted — that of a comrade, a friend, a brother-in-struggle, who had committed himself to a political path that remained, like his own journey, unfinished. His death was, no doubt, one of the reasons for that incompletion.
