August 4th, 2020. A horrific day: Beirut destroyed, over 200 civilians murdered, 1000s maimed and injured. It was also a day I picked up my pen. At the time I was working as a staff writer for The Phoenix Daily, a non-profit Lebanese Newspaper. The work was flexible, collegiate and above all enjoyable.
This work was different, however. It entailed a direct account of a traumatic experience and a desperate call to action. I always knew I could write, but the idea of broadcasting my emotions to the public felt alien, if not intimidating. I hated feeling vulnerable and somehow felt ostentatious or exhibitionist in expressing my grief. And yet, it felt so exonerating; to express the trauma of looking death in the eye, the pain of watching my family home get absolutely eviscerated and the anger I felt towards the Lebanese kleptocracy.
It was paradoxically the day I fell in love with journalism. It meant something to express my hurt from the heart, to raise two fingers to those who needed it and to be brutally, unapologetically honest. The article was therapy, but it was also fuel. On the back of decent reviews, the article would kickstart a burst of writing activity that would ultimately lead to an internship with a world-renowned international news network.
The initial stages of the internship were like a dream: I was dazzled by the significance of our coverage, awestruck by my colleagues’ eloquence and proud that my work was receiving wider recognition.
There were a number of unsettling drawbacks, however. When Israel unleashed the full force of the IDF onto Gaza in May 2021, the network’s perspective was problematic to say the least. I was frustrated at the blatant furthering of the “both sides” narrative, disappointed by the lack of historical nuance and insulted by my colleagues’ apparent exasperation in covering the “conflict” past a third day.
My patience finally expired after two guests were invited onto the show, why else, to give the perspective of both sides. One a young woman from Gaza, the other an IDF general. Contrary to my expectations, the news anchor directed the majority of her push-back to the traumatised Palestinian civilian rather than the military leader flattening press buildings. I couldn’t remain silent and proceeded to level a point-by-point critique of the segment to my superiors. Naturally, my one-man protest received zero material feedback, except a chorus of passive-aggressive nods and a throw-away reassurance that “critique is always welcome.”
The internship continued. More problematic coverage. More white-washing. My frustrations again peaked in August during the Taliban’s siege of Afghanistan. Be it the veneration of the American occupation, the portrayal of Afghan women as helpless lambs or the network-wide amnesia of America’s role in funding the very same unsavoury characters running riot.
If the internship were a girlfriend, these would all be MASSIVE icks. Nevertheless, it somehow took a more personal violation for me to fall out of love. In the weeks leading up to August 4th 2021, I aimed to make the explosion anniversary my centrepiece contribution to the internship. I researched, studied and prepared for my pitch at the “week ahead” meeting to be absolutely watertight. Preparing for that meeting was a mission; not to mention it involved reliving haunting flash backs of shattered glass, orange mushroom clouds and rivers of blood.
Instead, on the day of the pre-show meeting, the lead anchor insisted on covering a “regional” synopsis encompassing the constitutional crisis in Tunisia, the inauguration of a new Iranian President and the explosion anniversary. All in ten minutes. Acutely aware of my position at the bottom of the food-chain, I mustered the little courage I had left to try and persuade the anchor otherwise. She wasn’t having any of it and nonchalantly told me that “no one cares about Lebanon.”
Looking back, the anchor was kind of speaking facts – but at the time I never knew 5 words could feel so crushing. A year on from the biggest non-nuclear blast in history and amidst one of the worst economic crises in a century; Lebanon had been swallowed up and spat out by the international news cycle. To this particular anchor, it didn’t matter how much Lebanon was suffering, nor did it matter that I was Lebanese or a survivor. The explosion was worth a mere footnote, bundled up with two completely unrelated countries in a hodgepodge segment that was eventually scrapped.
The ruthlessness of corporate journalism is known, but the idea that a people’s past and present suffering could be so easily dismissed is sickening. In recalling my experience with the network, I wonder if I was too uncompromising or too bullish. I wonder if I could’ve done more to “engrain” the values of the company, or perhaps, keep my mouth shut until I could climb the ladder and begin to shift the narrative. And yet, every time the international news is forced to cover stories in the “global South”; we are reminded time and again why the mainstream narrative is intolerable. It only makes sense then, why the majority of my generation and younger are going to social media for their news.
This blog post is not an attack against journalists, nor is it an attack exclusively against my former employer. Indeed, journalists working for big companies are not a monolith, some journalists fight the corporate machine. Some fight simply by making voices heard. But in my case, I either lacked the people skills or emotional bandwidth to play the game. And quite frankly, after getting the ick more times a fuckboy on Love Island; I don’t see why I’d want to.
