On December 9, 2012 Nada Bakri gave a reading at Al-Bustan's event in Philadelphia in remembrance of her
husband, Pulitzer-prize winning journalist Anthony Shadid.
When I asked Nada Bakri if
she thought that journalism could affect change in the world, she responded
wryly, “sure, if you’re Anthony Shadid.” As someone who has grown to revere
journalism for its ability to convey untold stories and pose unasked questions
I was unnerved by her answer. When I say “change” I don’t mean anything as
grand as world peace, yet making a difference on an individual basis still
seems like a worthy and fulfilling pursuit. Indeed a central principle of
Al-Bustan’s mission is that sharing the arts and culture of the Arab world can
foster respect and understanding between people of diverse backgrounds. Shadid
has made extraordinary contributions to American understanding of contemporary
life in the Arab world. But was his ability to touch and challenge readers with
in depth articles about ordinary life in a world so different from their own
unique?
Many reporters have
likewise immersed themselves in a seemingly different world and skillfully
engaged readers with their stories about ordinary people who have been
marginalized not only by society but also by the media. Last year Katherine Boo
revealed hope and resourcefulness amongst the harsh circumstances of Mumbai’s
Annawadi slum in her book Beyond the
Beautiful Forevers. Drawing on 3 years of research she has written a work
of nonfiction from a fly on the wall perspective that reads like a novel driven
by elegant writing and compelling characters who exhibit endless creativity.
|
Katherine Boo interviewing residents of the Annawadi slum |
One
of his private vanities was that all the garbage sorting had endowed his hands
with killing strength—that he could chop a brick in half like Bruce Lee. “So
let’s get a brick,” replied a girl with whom he had once, injudiciously, shared
this conviction. Abdul had bumbled away. The brick belief was something he
wanted to harbor, not to test.
His
brother Mirchi, two years younger, was braver by a stretch, and wouldn’t have
hidden in the storeroom. Mirchi liked the Bollywood movies in which
bare-chested outlaws jumped out of high windows and ran across the roofs of
moving trains, while the policemen in pursuit fired and failed to hit their
marks. Abdul took all dangers, in all films, overseriously. He was still living
down the night he’d accompanied another boy to a shed a mile away, where pirated
videos played. The movie had been about a mansion with a monster in its
basement—an orange-furred creature that fed on human flesh. When it ended, he’d
had to pay the proprietor twenty rupees to let him sleep on the floor, because
his legs were too stiff with fear to walk home.
As
ashamed as he felt when other boys witnessed his fearfulness, Abdul thought it
irrational to be anything else. While sorting newspapers or cans, tasks that
were a matter more of touch than of sight, he studied his neighbors instead.
The habit killed time and gave him theories, one of which came to prevail over
the others. It seemed to him that in Annawadi, fortunes derived not just from
what people, did, or how well they did it, but from the accidents and
catastrophes they dodged. A decent life was the train that hadn't hit you, the slumlord you hadn't offended, the malaria you hadn’t caught. And
while he regretted not being smarter, he believed he had a quality nearly as valuable
for the circumstances in which he lived. He was, chaukanna, alert.
She manages to convey the
depth of her knowledge about Annawadi and its residents without producing a dry
string of facts and anecdotes or a one-dimensional presentation of poverty. So
familiar is she with the residents that in her hands they become fully formed
characters, individuals that the readers can identify with rather than
representatives of poverty.
Shadid similarly drew
audiences into the lives of Iraqis when he emphasized the “street sentiment”
during and after the Iraq war. With his knowledge of the region and Arabic
language skills he set scenes with complex characters who we got to know
through detailed conversations and beautifully captured moments.
|
Anthony Shadid working in Cairo |
In
the houses along the street, neighbors and relatives spoke of injustice -- a
resonant theme in the lives of Shiites Muslims, whose saints and centuries of
theology are infused with examples of suffering and martyrdom.
"We're
poor. We can't go anywhere else. What is the fault of the families here?
Where's the humanity?" asked Abu Ahmed, a 53-year-old neighbor sitting in
a home with three pictures of Ali and a painting of his son, Hussein. "I
swear to God, we're scared."
Their
talk was angry, and they were baffled.
If the
Americans are intent on liberation, why are innocent people dying? If they want
to attack the government, why do bombs fall on civilians? How can they have
such formidable technology and make such tragic mistakes?
In
Hussein's Iraq, with a 30-year-political culture built on brutality, some were
convinced the Americans were intent on vengeance for the setbacks they believed
their forces were delivered in Basra and other southern Iraqi cities. Others,
in moments of striking candor, pleaded for the United States and Britain to
wage war against their government, but spare the people.
Without being social
activists these journalists write pieces that manage to be catalysts for change
by challenging peoples’ assumptions and enriching their understanding of issues
facing people around the world. Just as Boo is careful to write about the
complexities and incongruities of life in Annawadi, Shadid presents the
multiplicity of opinions and concerns occupying the thoughts of residents of a
neighborhood in Baghdad. They seamlessly tuck history and statistics into
poignant narratives. Building on their prose-like writing, deep understanding
of the situation, and respect for their subjects, these journalists have
powerfully illustrated current conundrums and in doing so, engrossed and
educated their readers. Their accounts are meaningful because they give voice
to marginalized people who wouldn’t otherwise have the opportunity to share
their story.
Of course there are
historic examples of journalists whose writing has had direct political
ramifications. In 1890 journalist Jacob Riis immersed himself in the poverty of lower
Manhattan and
incorporated humor, graphic detail, intimate descriptions, and anecdotes to
captivate his readers and raise their consciousness about the issue of urban
poverty (with a heavy dose of the era’s xenophobia, it must be said). In 1890 Jacob Riis pushed tenement reform to the top of New
York’s policy agenda with his seminal work How the Other Half Lives.
While
it’s too early to credit Shadid and Boo’s writing with specific social changes,
all of these journalists have successfully engaged their readers,
forging a connection between people who they might not otherwise meet. Ultimately
their compelling and empathetic storytelling encourages us to recognize the
humanity in those who may seem different from us. A change indeed.
- Miranda Bennett, Outreach and Programs Coordinator