Fourth Estate’s Front Lines

I’ll leave it to you to be outraged about the plight of one American in Pakistan, except to say that the word “evil” seems just about right.

What I want to do instead is pay tribute. And I’ll ask you not to judge me self-serving even though the tribute is to my colleagues and this craft. The women and men of our free press risk their lives for freedom. Sometimes they pay with their lives.

Here’s to them. They go to war without guns, without helmets or night-vision goggles, without fire teams or satellite recon or buddies at their side or search-and-rescue helicopters at the ready.

Do they do it for the glory? Sure. But, let’s not forget, there would be no glory if there wasn’t high purpose too.

They do it because they believe--they know--that the world needs to know. They go because the rest of us expect them to.

Whatever horrors that humans inflict on each other would be manifestly worse except for prying eyes.

Every journalist I know has taken comfort from the words of Thomas Jefferson: “Were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers or newspapers without government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter.”

If you have ever lived in countries where there was no right to know, you understand what he meant.

So thanks, friends. Thanks for having the guts. And that hardly says enough. There isn’t a story or a photograph or a video clip in all the world that’s worth dying for. Editors always say that as you walk out the door with a fresh posting in your pocket. Yet you risk it. And not only that, you’re counted on to risk it. Our freedom rests on your shoulders too.

But those things are never said as you sweep out of the newsroom with a scruffy satchel slung over your shoulder.

“War correspondence is a dangerous business,” deadpanned Jon E. Lewis in his book, “War Correspondents.” But, he added, “somebody has got to do it. Readers demand it. We need it .... Somewhere a war correspondent is dying to give it to you. “

In this first war of the 21st century, eight journalists have died so far in search of the story, according to the New York-based Committee to Protect Journalists. At the deadline for this column, there were reports that another had been assassinated--an intrepid 38-year-old American who is, or was, about to become a father. Worldwide, 37 journalists were slain in the line of duty last year.

President Bush expressed his “deep concern” for Daniel Pearl of the Wall Street Journal. The whole global fraternity of journalists feels the same.

I don’t know Pearl. But I know the type. I’ve covered wars and rebellions with dozens like him. I know something about leaving a wife and a child at home and telling them not to worry.

Once I sat at a table in Bujumbura, Burundi, with half a dozen men and women like Pearl. We learned that a British television crew had just been ambushed and killed outside of town. We decided that we needed to start counting heads each night thereafter.

I owe my life to a South African photojournalist. At a rebel roadblock in Liberia five years ago, armed teenagers advanced on us with guns. “Don’t you know who I am,” said the quick-thinking veteran of many wars. “I’m Steven Seagal!” The warriors paused, looked puzzled and then decided, yes, they were in the presence of a universal celebrity--the cause for a party, not a slaughter.

Actually, this photographer’s name was Mark Peters. And his motto expressed the flair that typifies the best of the craft: “Always smile in the face of danger.”

My reminiscences are meant only to let you know that I’ve lived and worked among and watched and admired these people who put so much on the line from so many spooky places under such frightening circumstances--all of them in the belief that what they did might make things better by bringing a spotlight into the dark. I always felt humble in their presence, even when I was alongside. I feel more so now.

This morning I’ll have a hot breakfast in a comfortable chair with the newspaper in my hands. I’ll see those datelines from Pakistan and Afghanistan and Colombia and Nigeria and Algeria and the chaos of any of 50 other hot spots. I doubt if they’ll be a single word about how hard and unpleasant it was to obtain these stories. I’m positive that none of the men and women who report them will ask for our gratitude. But at a sad time for journalism, I thought we should offer a little anyway.