I wanted to be a foreign correspondent, a war reporter.1 I wanted it so bad that when I was 16 I broke up with my then-boyfriend because the relationship would have hindered my ambitions (lol). It was the promise of a life of adventures, of meeting people I would have otherwise never met, learning about literature and poetry and arts I wouldn’t have encountered, and analysing the whys and hows of conflicts, cultures and politics to unravel the complexity into something accessible. It was the promise of exploring a region so rich it is hard to reduce it into a unity, Middle East does not start to cover it.
I dreamt about traveling with the nomads in the Sahara, of experiencing Norooz in Kurdistan (not the fire jump though, that shit is scarry), to see and tell about an Iraq different to the one portrayed post 9/11. To report on the environmental issues faced in the most arrid places, how the fast degradation is transforming the cradle of humanity into its a grave (still haunted by this story in the Washington Post). I would have learned the rules of Taroof, the importance of poetry, and how to identify the different designs of Persian carpets and all the things I cannot mention without making a huge list of clichés.
It hit me over two years ago, in July 2021, while reading Our Women on the Ground, a collection of essays by Arab women reporting from the Arab world. The stories, the prose, the personalities: a perfect storm uncovering the reasons behind the discomfort I felt about my dream job.2 As much as I would love to write and report, about what they wrote and reported in those essays - and to a larger scale in their news stories- I would never feel legitimate.
When I write about the war, politics, or culture of a foreign place it lacks some nuances that I could never fully understand. It misses part of the bigger story, lost in translation. Like a thief, stealing someone else’s story, dismantling parts of a whole and only keeping the interesting bits. All to write a good story.
It wasn’t because of my knowledge, I accumulated facts and learned about everything there was to learn; from the Silk Road and its modern ramifications to Middle Eastern literature , the development of Islam across the ages and regions, and as much political history as I could absorb. I made maps, timelines, tables, pinned it all on my walls like a deraged detective looking for clues. Sure, it sharpened my critical thinking and gave me a different understanding of colonialism, imperialism, feminism and human rights, the fragility of human ecosystems and how it can all burn down in the bat of an eye. But it was never enough.
A sponge for knowledge. I resented my degree choice and hoped I had picked something more relevant. But none of it would have helped my inadequacy, it was simply not my story to tell. So I reluctantly let it go.
It comes into a larger and complex debate on journalism and the ethics of foreign reporters I am far from being an expert on and should not adventure myself on that territory. But to put it in a nutshell: why? why do foreign correspondents exist?
Of course, the lack of involvement in a situation offers an “objective” eye, and foreign reporters translate events into their own culture, hopefully providing the keys, for citizens worlds away to understand. They relay information when journalists on location are oppressed, and their freedom to inform is taken away. They are essential because democracy dies in darkness.
It is what we saw in Iran and the Women Life Freedom revolution; thousands of journalists, photographers, protestors, being arrested, condemned, executed. It is what we are seeing in the heart-shattering coverage of the Palestinian genocide, the journalists reporting are, well, being killed and seeing everyone they know being killed, and soon there will be no one to tell those stories. And it is what will happen if the freedom of the press continues its global erosion.
Both perspectives are important for the sake of the story, but it should always be a collaborative effort, between foreing and local reporters (look at me writing a theory on foreign reports when I said I wouldn’t go there).
I will always hold a special place for that line of work, I dreamed of becoming a war reporter for so long, imagining myself as a Middle East bureau correspondent, and I still long for it every time I read stories from journalists. It took a long and painful time to mourn my dream job. The part of my me I took so long to cultivate, enrich and build but as I spent weeks writing this article, it reminded me why I wouldn’t be comfortable writing those stories. Geez, even now, grief remains and reminds me what could have been, my nostrils tickle and my tear ducts fill up.
It’s about the colour of pomegranates, the scent of saffron and the rubble all around. Somewhere I long but don’t belong, something too rich and complex to describe, an unattainable dream.
On a more serious note, The Intercept published this detailed account of the death of Samer Abu Daqqa, a cameraman for Al-Jazeera and I can only think how a press jacket is the apparent equivalent of a bull’s eye. The preferred target of the IDF, as no journalists mean no stories and no stories mean nothing happened. 101 getting away with genocide. The murder of Abu Daqqa was added to Reporters Without Borders’ (RSF) second complaint to the ICC for war crimes against journalists in Gaza. Quoted in the article, Al Jazeera correspondent in Palestine, Wael al-Dahdouh is a reminder of what it means to be a journalist:
“It is clear that this is all happening in the context of pressure and punishment of Palestinian journalists by the Israeli military. Yet, as I always say, despite all the hurt and pain, we will continue in carrying this message and fulfilling our duty and relaying information and pictures and news to our viewers, so they can be the first ones with everything that is happening in the Gaza Strip.”
As of 14 January, a preliminary count by the CPJ shows at least 82 journalists and media workers were killed in Gaza, a place where journalists fear wearing their protective gear because it makes them a target. Over 25.000 Palestinians have been murdered by Israel and the silent accomplice it found in the West. The same West bombing Yemen over trade routes and the safety of their ships, which under normal circumstances I would kind of “understand”, but the hypocrisy of it all makes me sick.
Photo of Wael al-Dahdouh by Ahmad Salem for Bloomsberg, via Getty.
Hihi I’m shaking before posting because this essay is inspired by my own experience (and a degree in journalism gathering dust in a corner). It is a personal opinion, and I possibly gave myself an easy way out of work I couldn’t do. Focusing on the Middle East because it is my favourite area, but it applies to other places.
The freedom of the press is regressing everywhere, and the Western world is not an exception (the UK is currently ranking at 26 on the 2023 World Press Freedom Index, and the US is 45. Both losing places compared to 2022). For more information: https://rsf.org/en/index
Further readings:
I genuinely believe into the power of culture and history, it gives us the keys to understand the unfamiliar and - argh so cringe - make the world a better place. So here’s a little list of things to read, a new view of a different place.
“For me, it’s important to build a relationship with people, in order for them to be interested and invested in what’s happening,” said Alaqad. “I’m not just a journalist, I’m not just someone covering the news. I’m also living it.” I already linked the article in the post but please please please read it.
Zahra Hankir, the editor of the essays collection, was recently interviewed by Anne Helen Petersen on her new book on the cultural aspect of eyeliner and it is so worth the read.
I also recommend Black Wave by Kim Ghattas to understand the roots of the Iran-Saudi Arabia conflict. And The Silk Roads by Peter Frankopan for a new point of view on the history of the world.
where she discussed the importance of cultivating an inner garden.Last but not least, there are so many incredible books by as many incredible writers from infinite perspectives that I wouldn’t know where to start the list. I can only suggest that anyone pick a book from a different point of view and lose themselves in it. One of my all-time favourites is the classic 1001 Nights. I own the libretto edition in four volumes (in French) and it is my favourite translation of it so far.