Gilbert Sedbon
Old photos
Sunday 11 March 2012
If memory serves me right, the photo was taken near Paris nearly 20 years ago at a retirement party for Daniel Fogel who began his Reuters career as a teenage trainee accountant and ended it decades later as Manager France.
Louis died prematurely of cancer not long after this photo was taken and Gil, who had worked for Reuters for 47 years (a possible company record?), died last June aged 94.
My fond memories of both of these dear friends are tinged with some sadness, however.
Three months after Gil’s death, it emerged that his widow had not heard anything from Reuters about receiving a pension. When she approached the relevant services at TR to have this wrong redressed, she was told that she had to prove that her husband had worked for Reuters!
How? For example by providing a copy of his letter of engagement by Reuters in Cairo in 1935!
Aghhhhhh!
Bernard Edinger
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Gilbert Sedbon
Sunday 10 July 2011
Gilbert, pronounced with the French soft G and silent T, showed me the greatest consideration when I met him some time after I landed, clueless in the Paris buro in 1993.
Gilbert had retired from Reuters in 1982 and was a full time freelance in his 70s. He was stringing for an Australian aerospace title, and would sit in the front row of the Dassault press conferences; and just to keep his hand in, he would throw questions to the chief executive, who answered him with a respect signally lacking in his answers to younger reporters.
Gilbert acted as my proposer to the press club, Association des Journalistes Professsionels de l’Aéronautique et l’Espace (AJPAE), helping to ease me into that high profile beat in which he had broken so many news stories.
We would run into each other at press conferences, and he always had a kindly greeting, often tagged with a personal anecdote of his old reporting days when Airbus was still a European start up rather than the present day monster maker of airliners.
Gilbert, always immaculately turned out in suit and tie, sometimes talked about the craft of journalism.
One such observation went something like: just report what you see and hear when you are in the field. It was as simple as that, but it rang of truth and I use that guidance whenever I can.
Gilbert was buried at a moving Jewish ceremony at the vast and peaceful cimitière parisien at Pantin on a bright sunny day, June 30. Former colleagues, press officers from the AJPAE, his widow Yolande, his sons Eric and Thierry, his grandchildren and other family and friends turned out to say a last farewell to this courtly, kindly and highly professional reporter who stood for the best of the Reuters tradition in journalism.
Gilbert was like the proverbial stick of Brighton rock, break off a piece and you’d see Reuters right through to the core.
Pierre Tran
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Gilbert had retired from Reuters in 1982 and was a full time freelance in his 70s. He was stringing for an Australian aerospace title, and would sit in the front row of the Dassault press conferences; and just to keep his hand in, he would throw questions to the chief executive, who answered him with a respect signally lacking in his answers to younger reporters.
Gilbert acted as my proposer to the press club, Association des Journalistes Professsionels de l’Aéronautique et l’Espace (AJPAE), helping to ease me into that high profile beat in which he had broken so many news stories.
We would run into each other at press conferences, and he always had a kindly greeting, often tagged with a personal anecdote of his old reporting days when Airbus was still a European start up rather than the present day monster maker of airliners.
Gilbert, always immaculately turned out in suit and tie, sometimes talked about the craft of journalism.
One such observation went something like: just report what you see and hear when you are in the field. It was as simple as that, but it rang of truth and I use that guidance whenever I can.
Gilbert was buried at a moving Jewish ceremony at the vast and peaceful cimitière parisien at Pantin on a bright sunny day, June 30. Former colleagues, press officers from the AJPAE, his widow Yolande, his sons Eric and Thierry, his grandchildren and other family and friends turned out to say a last farewell to this courtly, kindly and highly professional reporter who stood for the best of the Reuters tradition in journalism.
Gilbert was like the proverbial stick of Brighton rock, break off a piece and you’d see Reuters right through to the core.
Pierre Tran
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Gilbert Sedbon
Wednesday 29 June 2011
I knew Gilbert from back in 1956 when he left Cairo and was taken on in the Reuters Paris office. A really splendid chap. On a visit to Paris in the 1960s Anwar Sadat recognised Gilbert among the press mob at the Elysée. “My good friend Gilbert!” he exclaimed. “When are you going to come back to Cairo?”
Jack Gee
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Jack Gee
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Gilbert Sedbon
Monday 27 June 2011
I have been at something of a loss to add to the tributes about Gilbert. Others on this site have well described his kindness, his constant good humour and his devotion to work and to Reuters.
What I can contribute is one of his reporter’s stories.
As a young journalist in Cairo during World War II, Gilbert, for reasons unknown, interviewed the then Aga Khan in his suite in the Shepheard’s Hotel.
As the interview progressed, the Aga Khan asked Gilbert, “Would you like a whisky?” Gilbert, somewhat surprised, said he would and the Aga Khan, head of the Ismaili Shiya Muslim sect, rang a bell.
A few minutes later, a butler appeared with a silver tray and poured two glasses of whisky – one for Gilbert and one for the Aga Khan.
Gilbert, forgetting that the Ismailis allow alcohol, watched open-mouthed as the Aga Khan lifted his glass to his lips.
The Aga Khan paused to reassure Gilbert: “Don't worry. The faithful believe that in my mouth it turns to water.”
Julian Nundy
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What I can contribute is one of his reporter’s stories.
As a young journalist in Cairo during World War II, Gilbert, for reasons unknown, interviewed the then Aga Khan in his suite in the Shepheard’s Hotel.
As the interview progressed, the Aga Khan asked Gilbert, “Would you like a whisky?” Gilbert, somewhat surprised, said he would and the Aga Khan, head of the Ismaili Shiya Muslim sect, rang a bell.
A few minutes later, a butler appeared with a silver tray and poured two glasses of whisky – one for Gilbert and one for the Aga Khan.
Gilbert, forgetting that the Ismailis allow alcohol, watched open-mouthed as the Aga Khan lifted his glass to his lips.
The Aga Khan paused to reassure Gilbert: “Don't worry. The faithful believe that in my mouth it turns to water.”
Julian Nundy
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Gilbert Sedbon
Monday 27 June 2011
I was alone in the office in the Rue Reaumur one Saturday afternoon in early 1975. This was normally a very dull shift, but Aristotle Onassis was in the American Hospital in Neuilly. Dying, as it happened, from complications of myasthenia gravis. A doctor friend of mine had assured me this was incurable, but the subs in London had cut the “incurable” from my copy, presumably on the basis that the Onassis millions might pull him through.
His presence was a damned nuisance, because the hospital were saying very little and the world’s press were saying whatever they liked. Jackie O smuggled in to the bedside, new wills, old loves, you name it.
To cap it all there was a stream of service messages from London demanding matchers for whatever fiction was emerging from the early editions of the London Sundays.
I was stuck.
Then in walked Gilbert, probably to pick up an office copy of the FT, for which he had an unaccountable and enduring passion.
I was in awe of Gilbert, having taken copy from him in English and in French, while remaining unconvinced that either was his native language.
I explained my predicament – no relevant contacts or leads, world’s press unconstrained by verifiable sourcing, huge story, ML career up creek.
Gilbert said he’d make a few calls, and stabbed out a number. There followed a torrent of extremely fluent and presumably persuasive Greek. He scribbled notes, made another call, more Greek, more notes.
My admiration reached new heights – I’d worked with Gilbert for more than a year and now he turned out to be completely fluent in a language I didn’t know he spoke, just when the occasion demanded.
The Nightlead-Onassis was cobbled together with credible sources, all thanks to Gilbert, none to me.
I remain grateful to him for that, and dozens of other acts of spontaneous kindness.
But I never asked him what was his strongest language – perhaps Arabic or the Italian I never heard him speak?
He was a wonderful man and a better journalist than I could have dreamed of becoming.
Martin Leeburn
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His presence was a damned nuisance, because the hospital were saying very little and the world’s press were saying whatever they liked. Jackie O smuggled in to the bedside, new wills, old loves, you name it.
To cap it all there was a stream of service messages from London demanding matchers for whatever fiction was emerging from the early editions of the London Sundays.
I was stuck.
Then in walked Gilbert, probably to pick up an office copy of the FT, for which he had an unaccountable and enduring passion.
I was in awe of Gilbert, having taken copy from him in English and in French, while remaining unconvinced that either was his native language.
I explained my predicament – no relevant contacts or leads, world’s press unconstrained by verifiable sourcing, huge story, ML career up creek.
Gilbert said he’d make a few calls, and stabbed out a number. There followed a torrent of extremely fluent and presumably persuasive Greek. He scribbled notes, made another call, more Greek, more notes.
My admiration reached new heights – I’d worked with Gilbert for more than a year and now he turned out to be completely fluent in a language I didn’t know he spoke, just when the occasion demanded.
The Nightlead-Onassis was cobbled together with credible sources, all thanks to Gilbert, none to me.
I remain grateful to him for that, and dozens of other acts of spontaneous kindness.
But I never asked him what was his strongest language – perhaps Arabic or the Italian I never heard him speak?
He was a wonderful man and a better journalist than I could have dreamed of becoming.
Martin Leeburn
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Gilbert Sedbon
Monday 27 June 2011
As a Chief Correspondent in Paris during the 1970s I had the pleasure of working closely with Gilbert and – if I may add my tribute – I do believe he was the best reporter of his generation, certainly among foreign correspondents in France. He was uniquely persistent in lifting the lid, whether on political deals, arms deals, Vietnam peace deals or conflicts that followed. He achieved this, I believe, by personal charm and by staying doggedly close to innumerable contacts on all sides, never forgetting them merely because they might for the moment have fallen from power. They could always come back.
There was no French or Middle Eastern figure of note who did not know Gilbert as the face of Reuters in Paris, especially after Harold King died. When Gilbert was on to something big, he would call the office and say with urgency he would be back “in a jiffy” (one of his many endearing qualities was his use of outdated English slang, such as “Give me a tinkle,” the outcome of his upbringing in colonial Egypt). Back in the office I would wait expectantly and was seldom disappointed, though he himself might be so on edge as to require company in writing his story. All his passion for news agency journalism was in that excitement and engaging humility he carried with him to the end. They really don’t make them like that any more.
David Lawday
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There was no French or Middle Eastern figure of note who did not know Gilbert as the face of Reuters in Paris, especially after Harold King died. When Gilbert was on to something big, he would call the office and say with urgency he would be back “in a jiffy” (one of his many endearing qualities was his use of outdated English slang, such as “Give me a tinkle,” the outcome of his upbringing in colonial Egypt). Back in the office I would wait expectantly and was seldom disappointed, though he himself might be so on edge as to require company in writing his story. All his passion for news agency journalism was in that excitement and engaging humility he carried with him to the end. They really don’t make them like that any more.
David Lawday
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Gilbert Sedbon
Monday 27 June 2011
“What a reporter. What a man. So glad I knew him.”
I echo Tony Winning's appraisal of the great Gilbert Sedbon. I first met him as he was about to pass 60, but you’d never have known his age from the energy and the enthusiasm he showed every day in the bureau. His kindness and encouragement for callow junior reporters was also legendary. I quickly learned how to avoid the volcanic eruptions to which Gilbert occasionally succumbed when some smartarse was subbing his copy. It was simple – no matter how much you changed the copy, you effaced yourself and signed off every story REUTER SED.
Roger Crabb
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I echo Tony Winning's appraisal of the great Gilbert Sedbon. I first met him as he was about to pass 60, but you’d never have known his age from the energy and the enthusiasm he showed every day in the bureau. His kindness and encouragement for callow junior reporters was also legendary. I quickly learned how to avoid the volcanic eruptions to which Gilbert occasionally succumbed when some smartarse was subbing his copy. It was simple – no matter how much you changed the copy, you effaced yourself and signed off every story REUTER SED.
Roger Crabb
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Gilbert Sedbon
Monday 27 June 2011
Gilbert was a lovely man, always passionate about getting the story and a consummate reporter. Many indelible memories of working with him in my two stints in Paris bureau (1969-72 and again 1975-78). A couple come to mind: we covered General de Gaulle’s funeral together at Colombey-les-Deux-Eglises in November 1970. The village was heaving with thousands of people milling about, including a contingent of presidents from former French African colonies. There was an atmosphere of mild hysteria in the air, heightened by the histrionic behaviour of President (later Emperor) Bokassa of the Central African Republic, who threw himself wailing onto the general’s grave. It was virtually impossible to get about, due to the huge, emotional crowd.
But Gilbert managed it, no problem. I was stationed in the corner of the French PTT press caravan, guarding the open phone line to Paris – crucial in the days before iPhones and WiFi. Gilbert kept re-appearing from the melee to feed me nuggets of information he had somehow gleaned from the heaving mass of humanity. As we stitched the story together and phoned it through to Paris bureau, we became conscious of a presence behind us. We turned to find four of Fleet Street’s finest, notebooks deployed, writing down everything we were dictating to Paris. When we remonstrated, the reply came: “Well, we own Reuters, don’t we!” They did buy us a few beers when it was all over.
Another time, in the old rue du Sentier office which we shared with several other news organisations, Gilbert had filed one of his numerous scoops about Mirage fighter jet sales to some country or other. The extremely pompous correspondent of a well known London paper, irritated after receiving a call back, came in to read Gil’s story and remarked in a loud, sneering tone: “Oh, I’ll have to knock this one down...” But Gilbert got the last laugh. His scoop was officially confirmed a few days later.
What a reporter. What a man. So glad I knew him.
Tony Winning
Photo: In December 2007, Gilbert Sedbon’s sons Eric and Thierry threw a surprise party to celebrate his 90th birthday. Several colleagues who had served many years with him were invited, from left to right David Lawday, Julian Nundy, Jonathan Fenby, Gilbert Sedbon, Tony Winning and Bernard Edinger.
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Gilbert Sedbon
Monday 27 June 2011
I got to know Gilbert when as Diplomatic Correspondent I would be sent, usually assisted by Mohsin [Ali], to cover international meetings in Paris. He would be one of our reporting team: so full of energy, enthusiasm and charm, he contributed more than his share to the success of our coverage. Then, when the day's (and night's) work was done, we would all relax in a restaurant and joke about what had been going on. Gilbert was one of the old school, in the best sense of the phrase. You would never think that he and Yolande had suffered the shock of being expelled like other foreigners at short notice from their home in Egypt. It's my regret that we never met again in recent years.
John Earle
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John Earle
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Gilbert Sedbon
Monday 27 June 2011
Gilbert Sedbon and I met in 1967 in Berne where he had been sent from Paris to find Stalin's daughter Svetlana after her defection from the Soviet Union. She had gone into hiding somewhere in central Switzerland and the Swiss authorities had declared a news blackout – an irresistible challenge to Gilbert. Relying on his proverbial resourcefulness and enviable ability to make useful contacts, Gilbert hired a taxi to drive him around the Berne region and within a few days he had discovered Svetlana's whereabouts – in a convent at Beatenberg overlooking Lake Thun. Yet even enterprising Gilbert failed to get access – Svetlana had been granted a three-month Swiss visa on condition that she would abstain from all political activity, such as meeting the press, that followed shortly afterwards on her arrival in New York.
On our occasional subsequent meetings Gilbert always treated me with his customary courtesy and friendly cheerfulness, usually sharing a Calvados to which he had introduced me at the local "zinc" next to the old Paris office in rue du Sentier. Our last Calvados together was downed exactly a year ago, appropriately at a meeting of the Paris Dinosaurs on a river cruise boat moored below the Tour Eiffel.
Manfred Pagel
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On our occasional subsequent meetings Gilbert always treated me with his customary courtesy and friendly cheerfulness, usually sharing a Calvados to which he had introduced me at the local "zinc" next to the old Paris office in rue du Sentier. Our last Calvados together was downed exactly a year ago, appropriately at a meeting of the Paris Dinosaurs on a river cruise boat moored below the Tour Eiffel.
Manfred Pagel
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Gilbert Sedbon
Sunday 26 June 2011
Gilbert Sedbon embodied the essential qualities of a great reporter: curiosity, energy and tenacity. He also had great charm, making friends and contacts easily at every level of society. Throughout his long career with Reuters, he was relentless in his pursuit of the latest news story. Born in Alexandria in 1917, he was a product of the eastern Mediterranean, cosmopolitan and multi-cultural. He was bilingual in French and English and spoke most of the languages of the region. He was unbeatable on his home ground in Egypt where he knew, and was known by, everyone who mattered. Based first in Alexandria and then in Cairo, he reported on the full spectrum of news – politics and economics, warfare and high society – from before and during the Second World War to the rise of Arab nationalism and the ousting of King Farouk.
In 1956, during the Suez crisis, Nasser’s government expelled him together with many other foreigners. He and his wife, Yolande, and one-year-old baby son, Eric, went into exile in France where they settled permanently and built a strong family life, with their two sons and later grandchildren. Still with Reuters, Gilbert rebuilt his career as a top correspondent in Europe.
I first met Gilbert in Paris in the 1960s. He was equally at home reporting the intricacies of the Vietnam peace talks and the violence of the May 1968 uprising on the streets of Paris. He was already well into his second career, with an enviable range of diplomatic and political contacts. He was an all rounder, a reporter who would tackle any assignment. Gradually he also carved out his own special field of expertise in the defence and aviation sectors. In his autobiography entitled ‘From the Nile to the Seine’ – written in his nineties and published only last year – Gilbert recalls the journalistic coups and scoops of a remarkable multifaceted career.
A popular figure in the Paris press corps and around the world, Gilbert will be sorely missed by his many friends and colleagues. He is survived by his wife, Yolande, their two sons, Eric and Thierry, and four grandchildren.
Steve Somerville
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In 1956, during the Suez crisis, Nasser’s government expelled him together with many other foreigners. He and his wife, Yolande, and one-year-old baby son, Eric, went into exile in France where they settled permanently and built a strong family life, with their two sons and later grandchildren. Still with Reuters, Gilbert rebuilt his career as a top correspondent in Europe.
I first met Gilbert in Paris in the 1960s. He was equally at home reporting the intricacies of the Vietnam peace talks and the violence of the May 1968 uprising on the streets of Paris. He was already well into his second career, with an enviable range of diplomatic and political contacts. He was an all rounder, a reporter who would tackle any assignment. Gradually he also carved out his own special field of expertise in the defence and aviation sectors. In his autobiography entitled ‘From the Nile to the Seine’ – written in his nineties and published only last year – Gilbert recalls the journalistic coups and scoops of a remarkable multifaceted career.
A popular figure in the Paris press corps and around the world, Gilbert will be sorely missed by his many friends and colleagues. He is survived by his wife, Yolande, their two sons, Eric and Thierry, and four grandchildren.
Steve Somerville
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Gilbert Sedbon
Sunday 26 June 2011
What a lovely, lovely man. Gilbert was a true gentleman in the very best sense of the word.
He made an ideal role model for me – a trainee in Paris – even if I never quite managed to maintain an obsession with Reuters like he did for almost half a century!
He really was one of a kind and had enough enthusiasm and energy to keep us all fired up.
So let us celebrate a life lived to the full – 94 years in which he never wasted a minute!
He will be sorely missed.
Paul Majendie
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He made an ideal role model for me – a trainee in Paris – even if I never quite managed to maintain an obsession with Reuters like he did for almost half a century!
He really was one of a kind and had enough enthusiasm and energy to keep us all fired up.
So let us celebrate a life lived to the full – 94 years in which he never wasted a minute!
He will be sorely missed.
Paul Majendie
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