- 23
- July
- 2024
It was a Saturday in June 2021. Just like every Saturday, we would have a man'ouche in Paris’ 15th arrondissement. On this particular day, and for the first time, he brought up what would, five months later, become Ici Beyrouth – his project.
That day, his clear, expressive eyes revealed the passion that defined him. Whenever the topic of journalism came up, his gaze would shift, and we’d dive into every detail. This meticulousness stemmed from his extensive experience in the press. We had first met about thirty years ago in Iraq, and we often found ourselves coincidentally covering stories in the same country, albeit for different media outlets.
As a correspondent for RFI in Lebanon, he knew the country inside out and loved it with all his heart. Lebanon ran through his veins. Despite being of French origin, he had proudly obtained the Lebanese citizenship. He knew every corner of the country, its history, and its people. Fluent in Arabic, he would get frustrated when he couldn’t understand a word, often responding with a colorful insult that would make us all laugh. When he said “home,” he meant Beirut. That’s where he felt most at ease and happy. For many years, his production company, based in Beirut, had been providing correspondents throughout the Arab world. This larger-than-life man whose voice echoed through the hallways and seemed intimidating, was actually a kind-hearted man raised by Marie-Thérèse, a loving and courageous mother. He possessed a rare generosity, constant politeness, and a deeply rooted Christian faith. Whenever he arrived in Beirut, he would head straight to Mar Charbel before anything else, even before unpacking his bags. He had an impressive collection of rosaries, each holding a special significance for him. He helped countless people without ever boasting about it. Many will see themselves in these words. He wouldn’t have wanted us to discuss it. He was sensitive and private. Photos and receptions weren’t his style; glitter and glamour were reserved for others. His satisfaction came from a job well done – that was his reward.
He enjoyed a game of backgammon and a good dinner with his numerous friends. Above all, he cherished his only son, Valentin. Talking about him made his face light up with the pride of a father who had raised a well-rounded young man. He had married Cynthia, a young Lebanese journalist who passed away from the same illness at the age of 33. In recent years, his partner Sabrina had been his confidante through his struggles. He waited for his son and his mother to be with him in Corsica—a place that reminded him of Lebanon – before letting go. He will forever be remembered in Bikfaya alongside his wife. He was our friend, our brother, and the entire Ici Beyrouth and This is Beirut team is grieving. Each of us has a personal story about him. His close associates, Elie and Tylia – whom he believed in before anyone else did – are his professional children. He loved many – too many to be named here, unfortunately.
Although we are grieving his loss, he is probably smiling down on us from wherever he is, somewhere near Mar Charbel.
His name was Frédéric Domont. Farewell, Fredo.
That day, his clear, expressive eyes revealed the passion that defined him. Whenever the topic of journalism came up, his gaze would shift, and we’d dive into every detail. This meticulousness stemmed from his extensive experience in the press. We had first met about thirty years ago in Iraq, and we often found ourselves coincidentally covering stories in the same country, albeit for different media outlets.
As a correspondent for RFI in Lebanon, he knew the country inside out and loved it with all his heart. Lebanon ran through his veins. Despite being of French origin, he had proudly obtained the Lebanese citizenship. He knew every corner of the country, its history, and its people. Fluent in Arabic, he would get frustrated when he couldn’t understand a word, often responding with a colorful insult that would make us all laugh. When he said “home,” he meant Beirut. That’s where he felt most at ease and happy. For many years, his production company, based in Beirut, had been providing correspondents throughout the Arab world. This larger-than-life man whose voice echoed through the hallways and seemed intimidating, was actually a kind-hearted man raised by Marie-Thérèse, a loving and courageous mother. He possessed a rare generosity, constant politeness, and a deeply rooted Christian faith. Whenever he arrived in Beirut, he would head straight to Mar Charbel before anything else, even before unpacking his bags. He had an impressive collection of rosaries, each holding a special significance for him. He helped countless people without ever boasting about it. Many will see themselves in these words. He wouldn’t have wanted us to discuss it. He was sensitive and private. Photos and receptions weren’t his style; glitter and glamour were reserved for others. His satisfaction came from a job well done – that was his reward.
He enjoyed a game of backgammon and a good dinner with his numerous friends. Above all, he cherished his only son, Valentin. Talking about him made his face light up with the pride of a father who had raised a well-rounded young man. He had married Cynthia, a young Lebanese journalist who passed away from the same illness at the age of 33. In recent years, his partner Sabrina had been his confidante through his struggles. He waited for his son and his mother to be with him in Corsica—a place that reminded him of Lebanon – before letting go. He will forever be remembered in Bikfaya alongside his wife. He was our friend, our brother, and the entire Ici Beyrouth and This is Beirut team is grieving. Each of us has a personal story about him. His close associates, Elie and Tylia – whom he believed in before anyone else did – are his professional children. He loved many – too many to be named here, unfortunately.
Although we are grieving his loss, he is probably smiling down on us from wherever he is, somewhere near Mar Charbel.
His name was Frédéric Domont. Farewell, Fredo.
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