worth of the written word

Even during my elementary school years, my parents mused that I would make a good journalist - that the written form of communicating with and to the world would give me a challenge that I would enjoy taking on. It became a topic worthy of dinner-table conversation.

I listened. nodded. I didn't think much of it, to be honest.

But the idea had been planted in the back of my mind. As I moved onto high school, I used the idea of journalism as a safety net; if I wasn't sure what I wanted to do in the not-so-distant future, I could satisfy people with a simple, single-word answer.

Which, of course, is expected of today's confused teenagers.

What I didn't expect was to fall under the spell of the writer's majestic captivity and the state of the global community all at once. I saw myself wandering unfamiliar streets - notebook, pen, and recorder in hand. I began to see my name in print, below the headline I had chosen to represent my work. I suddenly had the quixotic need to experience the world and take on an active role in helping communities move forward.

The thrills, knowledge and satisfaction would be enough for me to make it in the world of media. It would outweigh the risks of travelling overseas, of possibly becoming a political or social target as is often displayed in cinematic features desgined to shock and entertain.

I didn't fully understand the ugly, reckless truths of my decision until it was staring at me through the words of a fellow journalist himself. I came across the story, in my final year in high school, of a reporter who had been taken hostage by the Taliban while pursuing a story in war-ravaged Afghanistan.

David Rhode was a husband, father and reporter for the New York Times, a position which sacrificed 7 months and 10 days of Rhode's life at the hands of Taliban commander Mullah Atiqullah. Upon his return, Rhode began documenting his experiences in a Times exclusive, confessing:

"I thought of my wife and family and was overcome with shame. An interview that seemed crucial hours earlier now seemed absurd and reckless. I had risked the lives of Tahir and Asad — as well as my own life. We reached a dry riverbed and the car stopped. “They’re going to kill us,” Tahir whispered. “They’re going to kill us.”

An interview that seemed crucial hours earlier now seemed absurd and reckless.

Coming across this genuine confession, I admit, has made me afraid. My simultaneous love for possibly dangerous controversy and the written word has brought me to a stand-still. Is my righteous political involvement and challenge a mere selfish, foolish and treacherous dream?

the words are reverberating;

aburd.
reckless.





**

this is a true and personal conflict that i have described above. just to let you know.
this is the article, a series called "Held By Taliban" in the New York Times. i strongly recommend you check it out. You won't forget this well-written, haunting story.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/18/world/asia/18hostage.html?_r=1&hp