There are moments in life when words suddenly seem inadequate. This is one of them.
This is the first issue we publish without Mr. Antoine Sayegh, without his voice, his advice, his questions, his laughter and his presence. For decades, his name was part of the story of the agrifood industry in the Middle East and North Africa. For many of us, however, he was much more than a professional figure. He was a mentor, a friend, a guide and, to many who had the privilege of knowing him, simply “Our Father.”

His passing has left a silence that is difficult to describe. It is the kind of silence that makes you realize how much space a person can occupy in the lives of others, often without ever knowing it. Antoine was present in conversations, in meetings, in ideas exchanged across borders, in friendships that lasted for decades and in the journeys of countless professionals whom he encouraged and supported along the way.
I have always thought that happiness is difficult to recognize. Sadness is easier to see. We know when something is wrong, and we instinctively try to fix it, protect ourselves or move away from what causes us pain. Happiness is different. It often arrives quietly, without announcing itself, and sometimes we only understand that we were happy after the moment has passed.
In many ways, it reminds me of our farms. It is easier to identify a sick bird than a healthy one. We have countless tools to measure disease, production, biosecurity, feed conversion and mortality, but what instrument can measure health itself? And what instrument can measure happiness?
Perhaps happiness is not something we measure. Perhaps it is something we recognize afterwards.
My father, Antoine Sayegh, taught me this. He once told me, “You will know that you were happy by what comes after.” When I asked him what he meant, he explained that there comes a moment when you close your eyes and, deep inside your heart, in that quiet valley of the soul where some feelings have no name, you simply say: Thank you.
Today, I understand what he meant.
After losing my father, I have begun to see how much happiness he had quietly planted around him. He planted knowledge in our industry, friendship among colleagues, confidence in young professionals, trust among people and dreams in those who needed someone to believe in them. He gave generously of what he knew and never seemed to measure his success by what he had accumulated, but rather by what he could give to others.
Perhaps that is why so many people remember him not only as a respected professional, but as someone who made them feel seen and valued. His greatest legacy cannot be measured by titles, achievements or years of service. It can be found in the people whose lives became richer because he was part of them, in the careers he helped shape, the friendships he created and the generations of professionals who continue to carry something of his wisdom with them.
This is why his absence is so deeply felt. We are not only missing a man who contributed so much to our industry. We are missing a voice we turned to, a presence we relied on and a person who had a remarkable ability to bring people together. Yet everything he gave continues to live through us, in our work, our memories, our friendships and the lessons he left behind.
Perhaps this is how happiness is measured after all. Not by how long a moment lasts, but by what remains when it is gone.
And when I look back at my father's life, I realize that so much remains.
His work remains. His teachings remain. His friendships remain. His influence remains. The people he guided remain. The stories people tell about him remain. And most importantly, the love he gave remains in the hearts of those who were fortunate enough to know him.
As we begin this new chapter without him, I find comfort in knowing that the work of a man like Antoine does not end with his passing. It continues in every person he helped, every lesson he shared, every friendship he nurtured and every life he touched. In that sense, he is still with us, not in the way we wish he could be, but in all that he left behind.
So, in this first issue without him, I do not want to say goodbye. I want to say what he taught me to say when I finally understood how fortunate I had been to share this life with him.
I close my eyes, look back at the years we had, and from that quiet valley of the soul, I simply say:
Thank you, Father.
Thank you, Antoine Sayegh.
Thank you, Baba.