Remembering
A Valiant Journalist: Atwar Bahjat
By Ramzy Baroud
15 March, 2006
Countercurrents.org
A
few weeks ago I learned that a journalist who was one of my colleagues
was kidnapped, then, five days later, released unharmed with his driver
in Baghdad.
I was shocked, then relieved.
I somehow managed to find some humor in the not-so-humorous event.
Prior to his Iraq trip, my
colleague, a young British reporter, had asked me if he "could
use my name" as a reference should he be kidnapped. Despite the
fact that I was unsure how my name - little known in Arabic press that
dominated Iraq - would be of any help, I agreed.
I thought, if such an incident
really occurred - where I would receive a telephone call from the kidnappers
- I could try to persuade them in Arabic, that this journalist doesn't
deserve such a fate. In fact no journalist does, especially those coming
to Iraq to truthfully depict and convey its tragic fate to the world.
I thought I could appeal to them in the name of Palestine, being a Palestinian,
or, if nothing else worked, I would offer to
be swapped with the young journalist, being a US citizen.
I never received that fateful
telephone call, however. My colleague, whose life seemed nearing its
end on more than one occasion during the five-day ordeal, never communicated
my name to the kidnappers. What good would've that done anyway? I still
wonder. The dark humor in this however, is that he apologized, and promised
to "drop my name" in the event of another kidnapping.
This is what has become the
fate of journalists in occupied Iraq: Victimized by all parties involved
- a frustrated military trying to hide facts, desperate militants seeking
ransom or attention or both, and shadowy agents of chaos whose only
mission is to fuel the fire and exacerbate the confusion, using whatever
means necessary.
According to Reporters Without
Borders, a total of 82 journalists and media assistants have been killed
since the start of US war on Iraq and the subsequent invasion and occupation
in March 2003. Seven of those were killed this year alone. One of the
seven is Al-Arabiya correspondent, Atwar Bahjat, a young Iraqi journalist
and most certainly one of the best.
Her body, riddled with bullets
was found along with those of two other Iraqi journalists Adnan Khairullah
and Khalid Mahmoud - near Samarra. The three were kidnapped shortly
after Atwar concluded her last live report, conveying the drama that
followed the insidious bombing of the revered Al-Askari Shiite shrine
in the city on Feb. 22.
The daughter of a Sunni father
and a Shiite mother, Atwar negotiated her way as a journalist and as
an Iraqi to win the respect and the admiration of many. Throughout her
career, however short, she managed to redefine the role of Arab women
in the field of journalism, introducing a new breed.
Rightly, a great deal has
been said about Atwar Bahjat by friends, colleagues and outsiders.
But the ingrained memory
I have of Atwar is our constant battle over chairs in the Al-Jazeera
newsroom. Let me explain.
Before moving to Al-Arabiya
television, Atwar worked for Al-Jazeera, first as a reporter in Iraq,
then as a newsroom journalist in the station's headquarters in Doha,
following the pro-US Iraqi government's decision to shut down the station's
offices in her country.
Atwar was clearly unhappy
with that arrangement. Her strength lied in her ability to convey the
overlooked emotions of ordinary Iraqis, be it from hospital morgues,
streets or other places. Something seemed to be missing in her life.
Before I decided to leave
Al-Jazeera myself, in July last year, I spent a few months in the station's
newsroom. It was there where my path crossed with Atwar's. One of the
few Al-Jazeera women wearing a head scarf, Atwar's presence insistently
broke the ominous, redundant routine of the newsroom. Tireless in her
pursuit to locate exclusive interviews, her distinguishably loud, yet
warm Iraqi accent always echoed throughout. "Yes, my dear, my
eyes, stay on the line for a minute, anything for you," this was
Atwar's trademark; her kindness was indeed unmatched.
Though we both did different
jobs, I managed to pass on to her many press releases, names and contacts
of anti-war American activists and intellectuals, whom I felt were underrepresented
in the station's news reporting. Things worked well, until a chair crisis
ensued in Al-Jazeera's old newsroom, which left her and myself battling,
almost daily over a
haggard chair, missing one of its three wheels. She insisted that it
was hers and of course, I always conceded. Last time I saw her a few
days before I left the country. She stood in Al-Jazeera's parking lot,
as I was leaving, waiting for a taxi on a rare rainy afternoon in Doha.
She peeked into my car and exchanged a few endearing words with my children,
who were instantly mesmerized with Atwar's colorful and chic attire.
I try, without avail to replace
her happy image on that day with the dreadful one - that of a lifeless
body riddled with bullets.
"Whether you are a Sunni
or a Shiite, Arab or Kurd, there is no difference between Iraqis, united
in fear for this nation," she said in her last report, hours before
she was murdered. Surely, those who wanted to perpetuate this sense
of fear and jeopardize the nation's unity believed that her voice must
be silenced, and it was.
I don't know what other lesson
is to be learned from her death aside from the fact that it's another
episode in this senseless war and occupation. How many other precious
lives will be lost this way, before we take a collective moral stand
to declare: Mr. President, Mr. Prime Minister, enough is enough.
-Ramzy Baroud teaches mass
communication at Curtin University of Technology and is the author of
forthcoming The Second Palestinian Intifada: A Chronicle of a People's
Struggle, now available at Amazon. He is also the editor-in-chief of
PalestineChronicle.com