Journo for life
When people ask me why I wanted to be a journalist — given the undue stress that the job demands, the untold sacrifices to be made, and the incommensurate pay we practitioners get in return (and an apparent lack of benefits #buhaymedia) — I tell them this is the least I could do to make the world a better place.
Too idealistic, most people would say. But I believe the power to set the agenda, to inform the public and to make them well-informed would catalyze social progress... when utilized with scrupulous care, good intentions, and well-directed integrity.
Too passive, a friend would tell me. But I believe unbiased, truthful and accurate reportage helps the citizenry choose the more sensible courses of action, thereby making them active participants and not simply naive beneficiaries of policy-making.
To be sure, there are slow news days when we have to rely on press releases for stories inasmuch as there are moments when nothing we do even seems to make a dent in the fruition of a better, if not utopian, society we all dream of. However, there, too, are rare instances that make me remember why I am here, why I chose to be a journalist.
Today is one of them.
As I was preparing for work, I realized that this day marks the sixth month since I became a news desk editor for a national broadsheet. There are quite a number of stories I wrote or in which I was involved, as an occasional reporter and writer for the same media company and as a previous affiliate of two broadcast production companies and a center for investigative reporting. Here are three stories I am proud to have written myself:
Most would think the five-letter badge on our IDs automatically translate to perks, prestige, and privileges because we get to rub elbows with known personalities; we are always the frontliners at, and the first-to-know of, historic events; and our names and faces are being recognized even by people whose existence we are not even aware of, but it is not, and it should never be the case, even if some people are “exploiting” the industry.
Journalism is the closest thing to public service without being a politician. It should never be about glam and glory; it should be, in essence, about service, about stories and the characters in them, their actions, the motivation behind their actions, and their needs. It should never be about the storyteller.
Journalists tell stories not because we want to write, or because we have to and we can make a living out of it — although that, of course, is one way of seeing it — but because there are stories that need telling, those that could change lives and inspire.
I am glad to be reminded of my purpose.
Above all, I am glad I decided to be (and am) a journalist. I would not have it any other way. •
Too idealistic, most people would say. But I believe the power to set the agenda, to inform the public and to make them well-informed would catalyze social progress... when utilized with scrupulous care, good intentions, and well-directed integrity.
Too passive, a friend would tell me. But I believe unbiased, truthful and accurate reportage helps the citizenry choose the more sensible courses of action, thereby making them active participants and not simply naive beneficiaries of policy-making.
To be sure, there are slow news days when we have to rely on press releases for stories inasmuch as there are moments when nothing we do even seems to make a dent in the fruition of a better, if not utopian, society we all dream of. However, there, too, are rare instances that make me remember why I am here, why I chose to be a journalist.
Today is one of them.
As I was preparing for work, I realized that this day marks the sixth month since I became a news desk editor for a national broadsheet. There are quite a number of stories I wrote or in which I was involved, as an occasional reporter and writer for the same media company and as a previous affiliate of two broadcast production companies and a center for investigative reporting. Here are three stories I am proud to have written myself:
- Tagapagligtas
Peace negotiations were imperiled in the wake of the tragedy in Mamasapano, Maguindanao last January 25, when police commandos in an official mission to capture three international bomb-makers were killed in an encounter with Moro groups. Emotions were heightened, sensibilities offended, as death came early for 44 members of the Special Action Force, 18 Moro fighters and at least five civilians.
When I was working on this story for our Sunday magazine, my first assignment for STARweek, I regarded it as my personal tribute to all concerned parties, particularly our unheralded elite police force troopers, for their efforts for the attainment of peace.
Questions remained unanswered — more so then than it is now, although there still are queries left unsettled — and I dared to provide as much detail as I could about those whom we hail as heroes for their gallantry, that we even had to install, for their remembrance, an 18-feet tall monument, and to relate the hardships they had to overcome before earning the right to be among the elite police force and to wear the much coveted black beret.
Surely, it was no easy feat. Great sacrifices had to be done, and even greater sacrifices were made for the call of duty.
My source and his wife were, thankfully, very open about their experiences relating to police missions and operations and their family life, although, as expected and understandably, there were classified information they could not divulge.
As they spoke about their life as husband and wife, both having been in the frontlines of conflict in the performance of their respective duties, I awed at how they dealt with the risks of death and other unspeakable horrors head on — armed with strength but never without fear. I realized then that true courage is choosing to face the battles despite the uncertainties and the fears.
Another thing I learned amid the harrowing tragedy and the controversy surrounding the proposed Bangsamoro Basic Law that followed: It takes greater courage to end a war than to start one. - “Solar lolas”
Somehow, I find value that my work allows me to write more feature stories because, while the daily grind has more worth due to its information-giving updates, feature stories carry optimism and harbor a heart for service. (Nothing beats investigative pieces and data journalism for me, though.)
^ Photo courtesy of DIWATA (Women in Resource Development, Inc.)
I met four timid Aeta grandmothers sometime in the third quarter of last year as they were bound to India for a special solar engineering course in Barefoot College. These women had never left their communities, let alone their families, yet they took the risk of staying for six months in a country not even their own and with people they had not even met yet in a mission to bring light to their homes.
The project called “Tanging Tanglaw” has been successful, although funding for the materials for the solar lamps remain wanting. When I met the Aeta grandmothers for the second time early this month, they were more open and confident — one even asking me to take a video of the speech of Bunker Roy, founder of the Barefoot College, on her mobile phone for her. Haha!
Roy described these women fittingly in his address, “They left as grandmothers and came back as tigers.”
- Battle of Manila
I have always been enamored by war coverage — but certainly not because of the grit and glory conflict reporters seem to radiate, which almost always intrigue young journalists and eventually lead them into dreaming of one day having such reputation as the veterans of war. It just seems to me that in times of conflict, the best and the worst of humanity come out as truthfully as it would, in all its rawness and honesty. The stark contrast of life and death, of goodness and greed — this, for me, is the beauty of war.
This is not to glorify wars, of course. Its effects that linger on to generations and generations are far worse than death itself, as the latter claims only lives, while war curbs exactly what makes life worth living: hope.
This much I proved to myself when I had spoken with some victims, and families of the victims, of the Battle of Manila. It may be obscure and cliche, but the impact of the ruin of Manila seven decades ago, particularly in the context of the economy, can still be felt today, not only in the Philippine capital but also in the rest of the country.
There is always much to say, but not enough words to say it. I learned, however, that sometimes all it takes to understand the cost of war is to hear the silence of its victims and their loved ones.
Most would think the five-letter badge on our IDs automatically translate to perks, prestige, and privileges because we get to rub elbows with known personalities; we are always the frontliners at, and the first-to-know of, historic events; and our names and faces are being recognized even by people whose existence we are not even aware of, but it is not, and it should never be the case, even if some people are “exploiting” the industry.
Journalism is the closest thing to public service without being a politician. It should never be about glam and glory; it should be, in essence, about service, about stories and the characters in them, their actions, the motivation behind their actions, and their needs. It should never be about the storyteller.
Journalists tell stories not because we want to write, or because we have to and we can make a living out of it — although that, of course, is one way of seeing it — but because there are stories that need telling, those that could change lives and inspire.
I am glad to be reminded of my purpose.
Above all, I am glad I decided to be (and am) a journalist. I would not have it any other way. •