Ser periodista en Irak

Un editorial del New York Times hace un par de días mencionaba a seis mujeres periodistas iraquíes a quien la International Women’s Media Foundation les dio un premio al "Valor en el Periodismo". Trabajan en el buró de la cadena de periódicos estadounidenses McClatchy Newspapers en Bagdad. Según el Times, es "un trabajo tan peligroso que no pueden correr el riesgo de que les saquen una foto, ni siquiera en el salón del hotel Waldorf-Astoria de Park Avenue". (Un promedio de un trabajador de prensa por semana ha muerto desde que comenzó el conflicto).

Una de las premiadas, Sahar Issa, dio un discurso brutal que pego completo abajo en inglés. Pero acá van en español un par de párrafos destacados, en la acostumbrada traducción libre de The Daily DG:

"Mi país no es un país sin ley. Sangre inocente es derramada todos los días, aparentemente sin propósito. Cientos de miles han sido muertos al parecer sin razón".

...“Vivimos dobles vidas. Ninguno de nuestros amigos o familiares sabe lo que hacemos. Mis hijos tienen que mentir sobre mi profesión. No pueden, bajo ninguna circunstancia, presumir de mis logros. Ni yo tampoco. Cada mañana, cuando salgo de mi casa, miro hacia atrás con congoja porque quizás no la vuelva a ver. Hoy puede ser el día en que los ojos de un enemigo me verán como lo que soy, una periodista, y no la trastornada anciana que cada día cruza el río para ir a cuidar a sus padres enfermos. No puedo bajar la guardia ni un momento".
...

TO BE A JOURNALIST IN IRAQ

“To be a journalist in violence-ridden Iraq today, ladies and gentlemen, is not a matter lightly undertaken. Every path is strewn with danger, every checkpoint, every question a direct threat.

“Every interview we conduct may be our last. So much is happening in Iraq. So much that is questionable. So much that we, as journalists, try to fathom and portray to the people who care to know.

“In every society there is good and bad. Laws regulate the conduct of the society. My country is now lawless. Innocent blood is shed every day, seemingly without purpose. Hundreds of thousands have been killed for seemingly no reason. It is our responsibility to do our utmost to acquire the answers, to dig them up with our bare hands if we must.

“But that knowledge comes at a dear price, for since the war started, four and half years ago, an average of about one reporter and media assistant killed every week is something we have to live with.

“We live double lives. None of our friends or relatives know what we do. My children must lie about my profession. They cannot under any circumstance boast of my accomplishments, and neither can I. Every morning, as I leave my home, I look back with a heavy heart, for I may not see it again — today may be the day that the eyes of an enemy will see me for what I am, a journalist, rather than the appropriately bewildered elderly lady who goes to look after ailing parents, across the river every day. Not for a moment can I let down my guard.

“I smile as I give my children hugs and send them off to school; it’s only after they turn their backs to me that my eyes fill to overflowing with the knowledge that they are just as much at risk as I am.

“So why continue? Why not put down my proverbial pen and sit back? It’s because I’m tired of being branded a terrorist: tired that a human life lost in my county is no loss at all. This is not the future I envision for my children. They are not terrorists, and their lives are not valueless. I have pledged my life — and much, much more, in an effort to open a window through which the good people in the international community may look in and see us for what we are, ordinary human beings with ordinary aspirations, and not what we have been portrayed to be.

“Allow me, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to reach out. Help us to build bridges of understanding and acceptance. Even though the war has cast a dark shadow upon your nation and mine — it is never too late.”