To put it simply, I despise conflict. Whether it’s an informal debate at the dinner table about the pros and cons of becoming a vegetarian or a particularly contentious discussion in my English class—chances are, I am opting out of expressing my personal opinions. I am ninety-nine percent certain that this conflict avoidance derives from a deep-rooted fear of upsetting others by disagreeing with them, but I, in the spirit of evasion and instead of addressing the root of the issue, decided to speak with someone masterful in the art of generating and expressing opinions: a journalist.
What I knew of the journalistic experience was limited to some semblance of knowledge I had on Christiane Amanpour’s life (which was, and still is, very little) and the backlash journalists face from politicians, most famously from former President of the United States, Donald Trump. The phrase “fake news” was one highly prevalent in President Trump’s vernacular, and the authors—pardon me, perpetrators—of said news were almost always journalists. Six weeks prior to the 2020 presidential election, Trump mocked Ali Velshi, a Canadian reporter who covered a Black Lives Matter protest in May, calling him “that idiot reporter from CNN.” President Trump further characterized the rubber bullet fired at Velshi’s knee as “law and order.” The anti-journalist mindset that Trump brought to the media paired with the anti-Trump mindset that some journalists brought to the media allowed me to gain an understanding of how journalists are perceived by the public. Unlike President Trump, however, I don’t happen to dislike journalists, per se, but I simply find the job nonviable (for me, at least) yet simultaneously mystifying. I see journalism as an intriguing, unknown world that my passive disposition renders me incapable of exploring.
I convey this sentiment to Azad Essa, journalist and relative (through marriage) at the beginning of our first conversation. I tell him of my personal biases in hopes that he can provide me with relevant knowledge to help dismantle my assumptions.
As I begin to explain the purpose of our discussion, my words start to trip over one another as I recite the meaningless notes that felt sophisticated when I had written them, but now seem so immature that I can’t possibly utter another syllable. I give Azad bhai an imperceptible (or so I hope) glance, and I realize that he is mimicking the action of clicking his pen on the ballpoint end, so that little, rounded indentations form on the pad of his thumb and no noise results. As he leans back slightly into his chair, I remember that this is the same man who fist-bumped me when we met at a Thanksgiving dinner.
I close out of my notes tab and allow our Zoom meeting to fill the entirety of my screen. I don’t know much about Azad, but the few memories I happen to possess comfort me, and I am able to think a little clearer as I break the ice, asking him what his favorite television show is at the moment. “Cricket,” he replies without a second thought. “You might want to ask me just about that, it’s far more interesting than my job, honestly.”
As we converse, I conclude that, for a journalist, Azad is far less opinionated than I expect him to be. I assume that visible disgust will overshadow his face when he, early in our conversation, directs me to open the most recent news update regarding the evictions that Palestinians in Sheikh Jarrah are facing. However, the lack of strong emotion on his face contradicts my assumption, while reflections of little white squares pop up onto his glasses. I vaguely hear the soft clicks of Azad’s wireless mouse as he scrolls through the article, and I am astonished at the calmness of his facial expression—relaxed and smooth, similar to a lake I could skip stones across (successfully, too). In lieu of an anger-induced outburst, he unconcernedly answers my question about the types of work that different levels of journalists complete on the daily, referring to the two-sentenced, intermittent updates on the state of Palestinian citizens as “desk work.”
I learn that the job of conveying a serious human rights violation as it plays out in real-time is, essentially, the lowest-level position one can have as a journalist. Even securing a low-level job in journalism is no easy feat, either, as media outlets have begun to hire fewer employees and lay off their senior reporters, making the field of journalism increasingly competitive. And what might a low-level reporter earn for completing “desk work”? A median salary of $34,150, which, when taking into account the location of approximately half of the jobs in journalism (Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, and Washington D.C.), is insufficient to pay the cost of living in these urban areas. Fortunately, reporters in more expensive areas tend to be paid much higher than the national median salary, with journalists based out of Washington earning a median salary of $74,320 and New York earning $66,180. Yet, the grueling process of finding a position in the journalism industry is no guarantee that you will keep that job; the increasing rate of high-paid senior reporters that are being laid off from their jobs each year has persisted since 2005 and shows no signs of stopping.
I asked Azad, given the increasingly difficult and competitive process of succeeding as a journalist, why he has decided to become one. He answers deliberately, slowly remarking that he hasn’t thought about the answer to this question in “a long time.” He begins to leaf through the relatively crisp pages of his book written in 2010, Zuma’s Bastard: Encounters with a Desktop Terrorist, searching for an answer he has stowed away in old pages. As I begin to mention that I would really love to read one of his literary works, he interjects, “No, no, don’t do that to yourself, it’s really terrible…if you decide to do that, you can feign your respect for me afterward,” and now I am scrawling down the time in the interview (36:42) onto a post-it note and writing the word “funny” next to it as Azad begins to talk about the reasoning behind his desire to become a journalist.
“I wanted to become a cricketer, okay… and I wasn’t good enough to become a… um, professional sportsperson, right?” he says, the last word muffled by our combined laughter. As he speaks of his path to becoming a journalist, I note that Azad has a consistent cadence to his voice; it often rises and falls to the same (or similar) pitches. Yet, his speech is far from lifeless. He speaks with a distinct South African accent, lilting and gentle, consonants soft and vowels that are almost melodic. He also weaves in the short question “right?” into the end of his sentences, but, unlike the way it’s said in America, his version rises in pitch slowly and patiently, ending with the soft sound of the letter “t.” I find it difficult to respond without a grin and an affirming response along the lines of, “right, of course.”
He continues. “[I] wasn’t smart enough to become a doctor or… you know, any of these other things. But I was always fascinated by writing, and that was something that I learned from my dad.” Azad’s dad, I learn, has a book of his own, to which I make a note of looking into later. Azad proceeds, and says, “When I was in India in 2004—I studied in Germany and in India—erm… for my masters, right? And I was obsessed with going to watch the cricket series in Pakistan, while I was studying in India, I wanted to go to Pakistan for the first cricket series between the two countries in 14 years.” As he continues, excitement creeps into his voice, and I can only imagine how thrilling the match might have been for him. He tells me of how exam dates overlapped with the dates of the cricket match, despite his confirmation with his professor that the dates would not coincide. He says, with a smile, “So I went to my professor and I told him that, the final exam for your course, I’m not writing it. I’m going to Pakistan.” I laugh as I begin to understand how intense Azad’s enthusiasm for cricket truly is. Azad continues, telling me that he was granted an alternate assignment in place of the final exam, in which he and the two peers who accompanied him to Pakistan were required to write a reportage based on their respective experiences in the country. I marvel at Azad’s self-advocacy and wonder if I, or any of my friends, would have the nerve to confront a professor like that. The assignment, which ultimately resulted in a series of journalistic essays and a short film, eventually inspired Azad to transition from a sociology professor to writing an award-winning blog that turned into a book and gave way to a job offer from Al-Jazeera. Azad says all of this matter-of-factly, and I wonder how he manages to stay so humble and grounded as he tells me his accomplishments.
Just as Azad tells me his story like we have spoken countless times before, through his actions, he regards me with a sense of amity and openness. He is dressed casually when we meet, wearing a purple-gray t-shirt and sweatpants. He often leans back in his chair (all professorial, contemplative-like) and periodically stands up to retrieve something of interest (a book, a post-it note, etc), a glimpse of an Adidas logo reflecting back the artificial light. I simultaneously feel like his student and equal. Our interaction walks the line of familiarity and respect.
We then speak on the topic of Azad’s inspiration to become a journalist once more, when I am less rehearsed in my questions and he is less pressured in his responses. We speak with more freedom, I think. Azad tells me of his experience growing up as an Indian Muslim, at the end of apartheid, in a poverty-stricken area of South Africa. I hear the creak in his chair as he leans slightly towards the camera, removing his glasses and placing them on his desk. I now see a new vulnerability in his eyes, one previously masked by the separation of time and space but presently unveiled in the opportunity to convey the injustices he seeks to reveal. “I was going to this white school,” he says, “where we had three football fields and had an Olympic size pool, and we’d have this and that…” he trails off.
“And the people that lived around me didn’t have running water.” He pauses at that statement. He asks me, “How is it that you can become anything or do anything…if you’re not making some meaningful, or attempting to, make some meaningful impact in the world around you?”
I feel an onslaught of emotions well up inside of my chest. Guilt and shame, mostly, for being selfish in my perception of journalism and what messages it serves to convey. Gratitude, for the privilege and opportunities that I possess. A sense of shock clutches me, too, as I ponder the information synthesis strategies that are ingrained in my head, encouraging me to disengage from the emotional aspects of an argument and see all sides of it through a methodical, step-by-step process of obtaining information. That process, though unintentionally, is so, so ignorant, yet we see it through time and time again. Unemotionally gather information, understand the varying perspectives, and apply the process as needed. Lather, rinse and repeat.
A personal truth and the emotional weight that comes with it, so I am learning, are never able to be constrained. In actuality, to lack the need of representing frequently diminished voices in the media is a privilege in itself. Being pushed by a greater force, the need to represent your community or to share a certain narrative is a responsibility that I don’t carry on my shoulders nearly as much as others do. I imagine that, similar to a dream deferred, a belief unexpressed bears a great burden on the believer.
As Azad and I start to close our final discussion together, I mention that I have never left the United States, to which he (somewhat comically) gasps in response. More seriously, he tells me, “You should one-hundred percent travel, just… go there with your eyes open a bit and your heart open a bit… just don’t try to settle into a routine before you see and feel things.”
His words reverberate, each echoing a bit more after our one-and-a-half-hour conversation than they would have a little while earlier. The silence holds so much weight you’d think it would be dense and unyielding, yet somehow it stretches over seconds or minutes or hours, perhaps, I couldn’t tell you for sure. I can say that I will carry the spirit of that silence from here on out, and let it represent the undercurrent of empathy and appreciation that I am still learning. I can also thank Azad for teaching me the difference between opinion and belief, the opinionated and the believers. Journalism can be informative and inspiring, I know now, for how else can we watch the believers convey their truths and learn to portray our own.