We were married for 63 years. Add to this our four years of study at university and the three years we worked together after graduation and my wife Enayat Hussein Talaat and I were together for a total of 70 years.

We enrolled in the English Section of the Faculty of Arts in 1938. University life during those years was something to look forward to. Apart from our British professors — among them poets such as Terrence Tiller and Bernard Spencer as well as novelists like P.H. Newbye — there was a wonderful atmosphere of freedom and learning. There was, moreover, camaraderie between young men and women —a mutual respect, if you will —that carried us through mixed-doubles tennis and on co-ed excursions and trips. The hijab was unknown at the time and I could not conceive of people more erudite, elegant or beautiful than the female students with whom we studied.

My wife and I were members of a small group of students with many things in common. There was Aly El-Rai, who became one of Egypt’s leading critics; Tomader Tewfic, the first woman to head the Egyptian Radio and Television Union; and Kamal Shaker, who went on to become a leading expert on the petroleum sector.

In our final year of study, we were all made members of the Club of English Section Graduates and it was there that our social relations were cemented. We attended numerous cultural events organized by our predecessors, who included such illustrious figures as Amina El-Said, the first female president of the venerable publishing house Dar El-Hilal.

On graduation, I went to work for an English institution and convinced Enayat Hussein Talaat to join me. We — naturally — saw each other every day. I — naturally —became more and more taken by her intellect, her warmth and her charm. Soon, in 1945, I was appointed secretary of the Egyptian Institute in London, England, the brainchild of Dr. Taha Hussein, who was at the time advisor to the Minister of Education.

It was then that I decided I should marry and asked Enayat if she would agree to be my wife. She did, and within a matter of weeks we were on a troop ship heading for England.

Dr. Mursi and Mme Enayat at the wedding of their granddaughter Menna, a Cairo PR executive, to Mohammed Sabry, a leading advertising exec.

We made our first home together in London, the birthplace of Hamdi, our first and only child. Life in post-war London was tough; the ration card still ruled supreme, a necessity for everything from food to clothing and furniture. Enayat and I couldn’t have enjoyed those years more, going to the theater and frequenting musical events including the Promenade Concerts. Indeed, our 12 years in England were about nothing so much as they were about imbibing culture.

On my wife fell the task of running our home and as if that were not enough, a former professor of ours —one Mr. Paxton, to be precise —recruited Enayat to work at the BBC’s Arabic Service on his return to the United Kingdom. She delighted in giving talks on The Woman’s Hour and acting in radio plays.

There is one event I shall always remember. In December 1945, a weary post-war world elected to hold the first International Students’ Congress in Prague, Czechoslovakia. The Egyptian Ministry of Education asked my wife and I to represent the nation at the congress, noting that we qualified as students since we were both pursuing post-graduate studies in London. We made the trip quite literally sitting on boxes in the belly of a B-24 Liberator Bomber.

Indeed, we were among the first after the war to make the direct flight from London to the Czech capital.

But that was only the beginning: As it turned out, we were the first group of foreigners to visit Prague since the war had ended —and we were welcomed like heroes. The congress was organized by the Allied forces and we enjoyed every one of the facilities and perquisites offered, including champagne and full-course meals, many of which were held at Prague Castle, the president’s residence.

The Saad el-Dins with Publisher Ann Marie Harrison at Egypt Today’s 25th Anniversary Celebration.

At a musical soirée, Enayat was even called upon to dance with Czech President Edvard Bene and Foreign Minister Jan Garrigue Masaryk, while I, according to European etiquette, danced with their wives in turn. It was in the mountains of Czechoslovakia that we had our first experience of skiing and tobogganing.

In 1956, after 12 years in London, Enayat, Hamdi and I returned to Egypt. We took a Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation luxury ship and landed in Port Said just a few days after Gamal Abdel Nasser — for whom I would later serve as military censor — nationalized the Suez Canal Company. I shall always remember with gratitude the response of the liner’s captain: Upon learning the news, he invited us to share his table for our meals and treated us with the utmost kindness and respect.

Then came the 1957 Suez Crisis, or the Tripartite Aggression, as well call it. French and English schools were put under sequestration and Enayat was appointed to teach at the former English School.

Rummaging through Enayat’s papers after her passing away last month, I found her contract with the Sequestration Authorities. It was for me a remarkable year, but little did Enayat know that she had started a career that would see her serve with the school for more than 30 years, moving up from teacher to headmistress. Ultimately, she ended her career with the institution — today known as El-Nasr School — as its first female principal.

Enayat was known as Anona to us, Mrs. Saad el-Din to her students and staff, and a friend to a great many. I found among her papers what could be an archive of her life — and, in many respects, of Egyptian and Anglo-Egyptian history. Every scrap of paper in her files carries a story. There was a personal letter from former British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, for at one time we lived in South Woodford, Essex, Mr. Churchill’s constituency. It was natural that most of the inhabitants voted Conservative. We had many friends among them and when election time arrived, my wife found herself canvassing for Churchill; hence, his letter of thanks.

The Saad el-Dins with the Egyptian Political Delegation to Czechoslovakia, 1945.

Another letter was from American President Ronald Reagan, who wrote to Enayat to thank her for her work promoting educational exchanges between American and Egyptian schools, hers in particular. Quotes from a letter addressed to President Hosny Mubarak by a member of the Illinois Board of Education can better explain the program: “On October 2, 1982, my wife and I attended the farewell dinner for Mrs. Saad el-Din,” wrote James J. Snow. “It was an emotional evening for all participants, particularly your students and our parents. An obvious love has grown between them You should know that all of the Egyptian participants in the exchange represented your country admirably. Mrs. Saad el-Din is an extremely articular and capable person as well as being very warm and full of heart.”

I was particularly surprised to find among her papers two bunches of clippings from Egyptian newspapers about two presidents I had the honor of serving. Clad in black, the clippings detailed the death of President Gamal Abdel Nasser and the elevation of Anwar Sadat, whom I would serve as director of the State Information Service.

But the most precious memento I found was what we, in our day, called an Autograph. It is not the signature of a famous person, but a book of bound paper, often with sheets of different colours. It was the habit of young women to acquire such an Autograph and to ask their teachers, professors and friends to write in them.

The Autograph I discovered was from our university years, several years before our marriage. Together with words of love from friends, advice from teachers and inspirational snippets from lectures, I found in its pages my contribution to Enayat’s Autograph. It was a piece by my favourite poet, William Butler Yeats:

When you are old and gray and full of sleep

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.

How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true;But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

Mme Enayat with Menna, her beloved granddaughter.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overhead,And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Little did I know, when I wrote that poem in her Autograph, that I would be that man.

A former director of the State Information Service and spokesman for President Anwar Sadat, Dr. Mursi Saad el-Din, CBE, is a noted literary figure, children’s book author, columnist and Editor-in-Chief of Egypt Today and Business Today Egypt magazines.

First Draft by Managing Editor Patrick FitzPatrick will return next month. Please direct any comments or questions about this month’s issue to FitzPatrick at: editor@egypttoday.com et

Dr. Mursi Saad el-Din and Mme Enayat with Soviet Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin in Cairo.