Training Journalists in Africa
I almost jumped. I know it’s a desperate move but I didn’t see many ways out. Journalism was killing me, or perhaps I should say, the lack of journalism I was seeing, feeling and writing was depressing me to no end. I felt that no one wanted to read real stories, and when they did – only when they had no other choice -- they simply didn’t care. They didn’t care about Iraq or war, or corruption or the destruction of this country’s natural resources or the dissolution of its hard won freedoms. I couldn’t take it and I saw no other way. I applied to grad school. Heck, I even applied to a business school. I considered a day job.
But then something completely unexpected happened. I was asked to go to Cameroon to help a Nigerian colleague train other journalists in that country. At first I didn’t believe him. Why would he ask me and what would I have to say to other journalists in a country I knew very little about? In fact Africa is one of my last frontiers. I’ve always been a bit intimidated by the huge expanse, the level of violence in various areas (despite the snarking, I don’t have a death wish) and, to be quite honest, the specter of AIDS. I’ve traveled alone most anywhere but in Africa, suddenly the possibility of an assault could be considered deadly.
My colleague Ndaeyo, who I first met at the Neiman Conference on Narrative Journalism at Harvard when I crashed one of their elitist speaker dinners, insisted that anything we had to share would be welcome. “It’s the most important work I’ve ever done in my life,” he told me of his newly formed organization the International Centre For The Advancement of Journalism, ICAJ. “You must come see for yourself.” We had bonded a bit at the Harvard conference. I felt his newly formed organization to train African journalists was an amazing idea and I was sure it would be funded. More importantly, I told him how distraught I had been and continued to be in Iraq, where efforts (whether real or perceived) to create democracy were laughable in the best of moments and in the worst were terribly, tragically dangerous and off base. Training journalists as a means of promoting democracy, free speech and community, was something I could finally get behind. I told him I would do whatever I could to support his efforts.
And so our conversation continued and within a matter of months he asked if I would join him on one of his trainings, this time in Cameroon where we would be joined by a third trainer from the Cameroonian town of Boue. Far be it from me to turn down a chance for adventure, so by the end of the month I had a ticket in my hand, and malaria pills burning a hole through my wallet. I was heading to Africa.
Ndaeyo was right: the training was amazing. Hand chosen groups of journalists from around the country, and representing all forms of media, sat before us for the day-long sessions that we led mostly though personal anecdote.
Ndaeyo was energetic and engaged, talking of his history covering Nigerian politics and dealing with government pressures. I started slowly, still unsure what a white woman from America could possibly offer this group of people. The answer came quickly. They were eager to learn anything and everything we had to offer. They wanted to know how to conduct an interview, how to write a lede, how to cultivate sources and how to identify a story. We talked about the basis for our devotion, which was a responsibility to truth, to representing those who had no voice, and to warning and educating communities of what actions would impact them. I repeated the mantra as if it was news to me, and in a sense it was. I had forgotten what I loved about journalism. I had forgotten its importance and its power in shaping and informing society.
Our most frequent discussions were around the issue of gombo, or bribes. Gombo is intrinsic in Cameroonian culture, and particularly where it comes to journalism. In fact journalism listed just after government, military and police as best occupation to receive money through bribes. People weren’t going into journalism because they believed in the intrinsic value of reporting but as a way to make illegal money! We have our own form of bribes in the United States, I assured the gathered journalists, but they often take the form of access. Write a story the government/military/corporate interest doesn’t like and you won’t be invited to the next press conference or have your call returned. Same same but different, as we say in these parts.
Regardless the nature of the bribe, its destructive nature is the same. Taking a bribe makes your work illegitimate, makes it impossible to include both sides, and if you later decide to write against the hand that has fed you “you will die,” Ndaeyo said menacingly. ‘They will kill you.”
“At the very least, if you’re going to take a bribe, make it a very big one and then leave and go retire in a beautiful place,” he joked, lightening the moment. But the message was clear. After the session several young men came to Ndaeyo in a kind of confessional, professing their guilt for taking bribes but unsure how to escape the temptation given the low wages of the profession.
The problem of economics is so much bigger than he or me. How could we tell anyone not to take money when they aren’t able to feed their families, or even themselves? This wasn’t about morally vacant individuals; it was about finding a means of survival. There was no clean answer. But the first step was telling people that there was another way to conduct business and to be successful. Journalism could be a tool, if used correctly, to help one rise above.
Another popular, though tense, subject was about homosexuality. A local newspaper had recently published a “Top 50” list of suspected homosexuals, many of whom it turned out were high government officials. But neither the list nor the adjoining article gave any evidence as to why these people were listed, only that the journalist had “sources” proving their “guilt.”
“What’s wrong with this story?” we asked to a room full of blank stares. Apparently nothing was wrong.
“Is it right to accuse people of something illegal, regardless of the crime (it just so happens homosexuality is illegal in Cameroon) without giving any evidence, or without having the accused have his or her say?” More blank stares.
One man reiterated the fact that the journalist had “evidence”.
“What evidence? Where is it? Is it corroborated? Why isn’t it in the article?”
For lack of a better response he said – and this will forever mark me – “Homosexuality is such an evil in our society, I think it is for the better good to have the names out there. Some of these people we knew are homosexual, and even if they aren’t, even if there is no evidence, they are probably guilty of other things, like corruption.”
Now I was the one with the blank stare.
What could we do but remind these people of some of history’s darker moments. From my own culture I could remind them of burning witches, blacklisting communists, or even turning in “terrorists” because they don’t agree with the current government. Adolf Hitler thought Jews were a scourge to society, and Saddam Hussein killed thousands of Shiites for the most minor of offenses, like smiling at the wrong time. Given these extremes, is it such a big burden to allow the accused to have a say? we asked them.
Perhaps it was the disturbing nature of the homosexual attack but by the time the subject turned back to gombo, and during our last day of training, I was not very compassionate or patient.
In a burst of frustration I implored those gathered before me to do whatever they wanted regarding bribes, “but if you take money, then don’t call yourselves journalists.” My voice was weak with emotion. “You have so much power to create democracy, to start wars or move societies. Do it responsibly. Make journalism sacred. Make it a church that you honor. Because there are people who have died trying to write about the truth. Please don’t dishonor them.”
I immediately realized this speech wasn’t for them. It was for me. It was for me to remember the values and promise of a profession that I truly believed could change the world. Those values have been lost in a swirl of advertising, killed stories and lack of public reaction. Though they are true and real.
Participants said they came away from our workshop inspired and enthusiastic. They had come to learn but left with so much more. One woman wrote in her evaluation, “Now I know you don’t have to take bribes. You make me want to be a better journalist and a better person.”
I would agree, the workshop also made me want to be a better journalist and a better person. I felt renewed and inspired to work harder and to improve my skills. Most of all I felt moved not to give up, that I could walk away from the edge and remember, once again, the power of journalism.
Photos to come
Here’s one article about our trip, though wish he had been there for day two, once I had warmed up a bit!
http://allafrica.com/stories/200602160419.html
And here’s an interview with my rockstar colleague Ndaeyo Uko
http://www.postnewsline.com/2005/10/like_beer_a_goo.html
But then something completely unexpected happened. I was asked to go to Cameroon to help a Nigerian colleague train other journalists in that country. At first I didn’t believe him. Why would he ask me and what would I have to say to other journalists in a country I knew very little about? In fact Africa is one of my last frontiers. I’ve always been a bit intimidated by the huge expanse, the level of violence in various areas (despite the snarking, I don’t have a death wish) and, to be quite honest, the specter of AIDS. I’ve traveled alone most anywhere but in Africa, suddenly the possibility of an assault could be considered deadly.
My colleague Ndaeyo, who I first met at the Neiman Conference on Narrative Journalism at Harvard when I crashed one of their elitist speaker dinners, insisted that anything we had to share would be welcome. “It’s the most important work I’ve ever done in my life,” he told me of his newly formed organization the International Centre For The Advancement of Journalism, ICAJ. “You must come see for yourself.” We had bonded a bit at the Harvard conference. I felt his newly formed organization to train African journalists was an amazing idea and I was sure it would be funded. More importantly, I told him how distraught I had been and continued to be in Iraq, where efforts (whether real or perceived) to create democracy were laughable in the best of moments and in the worst were terribly, tragically dangerous and off base. Training journalists as a means of promoting democracy, free speech and community, was something I could finally get behind. I told him I would do whatever I could to support his efforts.
And so our conversation continued and within a matter of months he asked if I would join him on one of his trainings, this time in Cameroon where we would be joined by a third trainer from the Cameroonian town of Boue. Far be it from me to turn down a chance for adventure, so by the end of the month I had a ticket in my hand, and malaria pills burning a hole through my wallet. I was heading to Africa.
Ndaeyo was right: the training was amazing. Hand chosen groups of journalists from around the country, and representing all forms of media, sat before us for the day-long sessions that we led mostly though personal anecdote.
Ndaeyo was energetic and engaged, talking of his history covering Nigerian politics and dealing with government pressures. I started slowly, still unsure what a white woman from America could possibly offer this group of people. The answer came quickly. They were eager to learn anything and everything we had to offer. They wanted to know how to conduct an interview, how to write a lede, how to cultivate sources and how to identify a story. We talked about the basis for our devotion, which was a responsibility to truth, to representing those who had no voice, and to warning and educating communities of what actions would impact them. I repeated the mantra as if it was news to me, and in a sense it was. I had forgotten what I loved about journalism. I had forgotten its importance and its power in shaping and informing society.
Our most frequent discussions were around the issue of gombo, or bribes. Gombo is intrinsic in Cameroonian culture, and particularly where it comes to journalism. In fact journalism listed just after government, military and police as best occupation to receive money through bribes. People weren’t going into journalism because they believed in the intrinsic value of reporting but as a way to make illegal money! We have our own form of bribes in the United States, I assured the gathered journalists, but they often take the form of access. Write a story the government/military/corporate interest doesn’t like and you won’t be invited to the next press conference or have your call returned. Same same but different, as we say in these parts.
Regardless the nature of the bribe, its destructive nature is the same. Taking a bribe makes your work illegitimate, makes it impossible to include both sides, and if you later decide to write against the hand that has fed you “you will die,” Ndaeyo said menacingly. ‘They will kill you.”
“At the very least, if you’re going to take a bribe, make it a very big one and then leave and go retire in a beautiful place,” he joked, lightening the moment. But the message was clear. After the session several young men came to Ndaeyo in a kind of confessional, professing their guilt for taking bribes but unsure how to escape the temptation given the low wages of the profession.
The problem of economics is so much bigger than he or me. How could we tell anyone not to take money when they aren’t able to feed their families, or even themselves? This wasn’t about morally vacant individuals; it was about finding a means of survival. There was no clean answer. But the first step was telling people that there was another way to conduct business and to be successful. Journalism could be a tool, if used correctly, to help one rise above.
Another popular, though tense, subject was about homosexuality. A local newspaper had recently published a “Top 50” list of suspected homosexuals, many of whom it turned out were high government officials. But neither the list nor the adjoining article gave any evidence as to why these people were listed, only that the journalist had “sources” proving their “guilt.”
“What’s wrong with this story?” we asked to a room full of blank stares. Apparently nothing was wrong.
“Is it right to accuse people of something illegal, regardless of the crime (it just so happens homosexuality is illegal in Cameroon) without giving any evidence, or without having the accused have his or her say?” More blank stares.
One man reiterated the fact that the journalist had “evidence”.
“What evidence? Where is it? Is it corroborated? Why isn’t it in the article?”
For lack of a better response he said – and this will forever mark me – “Homosexuality is such an evil in our society, I think it is for the better good to have the names out there. Some of these people we knew are homosexual, and even if they aren’t, even if there is no evidence, they are probably guilty of other things, like corruption.”
Now I was the one with the blank stare.
What could we do but remind these people of some of history’s darker moments. From my own culture I could remind them of burning witches, blacklisting communists, or even turning in “terrorists” because they don’t agree with the current government. Adolf Hitler thought Jews were a scourge to society, and Saddam Hussein killed thousands of Shiites for the most minor of offenses, like smiling at the wrong time. Given these extremes, is it such a big burden to allow the accused to have a say? we asked them.
Perhaps it was the disturbing nature of the homosexual attack but by the time the subject turned back to gombo, and during our last day of training, I was not very compassionate or patient.
In a burst of frustration I implored those gathered before me to do whatever they wanted regarding bribes, “but if you take money, then don’t call yourselves journalists.” My voice was weak with emotion. “You have so much power to create democracy, to start wars or move societies. Do it responsibly. Make journalism sacred. Make it a church that you honor. Because there are people who have died trying to write about the truth. Please don’t dishonor them.”
I immediately realized this speech wasn’t for them. It was for me. It was for me to remember the values and promise of a profession that I truly believed could change the world. Those values have been lost in a swirl of advertising, killed stories and lack of public reaction. Though they are true and real.
Participants said they came away from our workshop inspired and enthusiastic. They had come to learn but left with so much more. One woman wrote in her evaluation, “Now I know you don’t have to take bribes. You make me want to be a better journalist and a better person.”
I would agree, the workshop also made me want to be a better journalist and a better person. I felt renewed and inspired to work harder and to improve my skills. Most of all I felt moved not to give up, that I could walk away from the edge and remember, once again, the power of journalism.
Photos to come
Here’s one article about our trip, though wish he had been there for day two, once I had warmed up a bit!
http://allafrica.com/stories/200602160419.html
And here’s an interview with my rockstar colleague Ndaeyo Uko
http://www.postnewsline.com/2005/10/like_beer_a_goo.html
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