DA spring 03 (Page 1) - Committee to Protect Journalists · 16 Russian Interior Ministry forces (below) in the southern republic of Chechnya, beat, kick, and briefly detain 40-year-old

DangerousAssignmentscovering the global press freedom struggle

www.cpj.orgSpring | Summer 2003

Covering the Iraq WarKidnappings in Colombia

Cannibalizing the Press in HaitiC o m m i t t e e t o · P r o t e c t J o u r n a l i s t s

Committee to Protect JournalistsExecutive Director: Ann CooperDeputy Director: Joel Simon

Dangerous AssignmentsEditor: Susan EllingwoodDeputy Editor: Amanda Watson-BolesDesigner: Virginia AnstettPrinter: Photo Arts Limited

Committee to Protect Journalists Board of Directors

Honorary Co-Chairmen:Walter CronkiteTerry Anderson

Chairman: David Laventhol

Franz Allina, Peter Arnett, TomBrokaw, Geraldine Fabrikant, JoshFriedman, Anne Garrels, James C.Goodale, Cheryl Gould, Karen Elliott House, Charlayne Hunter-Gault, Alberto Ibargüen, Gwen Ifill,Walter Isaacson, Steven L. Isenberg,Jane Kramer, Anthony Lewis, David Marash, Kati Marton, MichaelMassing, Victor Navasky, Frank delOlmo, Burl Osborne, Charles Overby, Clarence Page, Erwin Potts,Dan Rather, Gene Roberts, JohnSeigenthaler, and Paul C. Tash

Published by the Committee to Protect Journalists, 330 SeventhAvenue, 12th Floor, New York, N.Y.10001; (212) 465-1004; [email protected].

On the cover: A U.S. Marine standswith photographers while they workduring a sandstorm in the Kuwaitidesert south of Iraq on February 3.Photo: AP/Laura Rauch

Dangerous Assignments Spring |Summer 2003

FROM THE EDITOR By Susan EllingwoodHistory in the making. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

IN FOCUS By Amanda Watson-BolesCameraman Nazih Darwazeh was busy filming in the West Bank. Minutes later, he was dead. What happened? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

AS IT HAPPENED By Amanda Watson-BolesA prescient Chinese free-lancer disappears • Bolivian journalists are attacked during riots • CPJ appeals to Rumsfeld • Serbia hamstrings the media after a national tragedy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

CPJ REMEMBERSOur fallen colleagues in Iraq. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

COVERING THE IRAQ WAR 8

Why I’m Still Alive By Rob Collier A San Francisco Chronicle reporter recounts his days and nights covering the war in Baghdad.

Was I Manipulated? By Alex QuadeAn embedded CNN reporter reveals who pulled the strings behind her camera.

Why I Wasn’t Embedded By Mike KirschA CBS correspondent explains why he chose to go it alone.

HAITI IN CRISIS 16

Cannibalizing the Press By Trenton Daniel While Haiti’s pro-government militias, the most infamous known as the “Cannibal Army,” terrorize the local press corps, the governmentblames the media for the violence.

Speaking Up: An Interview with Radio Haïti-Inter’s Michèle MontasMontas, widow of slain journalist Jean Léopold Dominique, talks to Dangerous Assignments about the threats journalists face in Haiti and her ongoing quest to resolve her husband’s murder case.

IN THE NEWS: A New Beginning By Phillip van NiekerkTwo years after prominent investigative reporter Carlos Cardoso was murdered in Mozambique, journalists there are finally witnessing justice. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

DISPATCHES: Part of the Story By Andy McCord Peace may now be possible in the long-disputed territory of Kashmir, but journalists remain in danger. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

CORRESPONDENTS: Thinking Twice By Michael EasterbrookFor the first time in recent history, Colombian rebels targeted foreign correspondents in a kidnapping. How did that crisis affect their coverage of the civil conflict there? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

KICKER By Constantin Ciosu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Dangerous Assignments 1

C O N T E N T S

2 Spring | Summer 2003

History in the Making

In the six months since the last issue of Dangerous Assignments, much has happened here at

the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ). Before the Iraq War, and during the war itself, we

fought for the right of journalists to cover the conflict as freely and safely as possible. As

most readers now know, it was a bleak period for journalists—14 lost their lives bringing us news

from the front, and two more remained missing at press time. At CPJ, we feel the loss acutely.

They were our colleagues and our friends, and we dedicate this issue of Dangerous Assignments

to them.

The coverage of this war was unprecedented, and to give you a flavor of that, in this issue we

hear from Rob Collier of the San Francisco Chronicle, who was based in Baghdad; CNN’s Alex

Quade, who was embedded with the U.S. Air Force; and CBS’s Mike Kirsch, who reported from the

region independently. And while the world’s attention was focused on Iraq, attacks against jour-

nalists were carried out across the globe. The December 2002 murder attempt against Michèle

Montas, widow of slain Haitian radio correspondent Jean Léopold Dominique, was a reminder of

how dangerous that island nation remains for the media. We talk to Montas and look at the toll

that pro-government militias have taken on Haiti’s press corps. In Colombia, the kidnappings of a

Los Angeles Times reporter and photographer sent shock waves through the foreign press com-

munity there. And in Kashmir, the hope of a resolution to a long-running battle over the territory

has put journalists in an even more precarious situation.

One bright spot is Mozambique, where six men were tried and convicted in January of killing

investigative reporter Carlos Cardoso. They were each sentenced to lengthy prison terms, and while

some questions remain about the mastermind behind the November 2000 murder, the verdict was

a landmark in the country, setting an example for the region and, hopefully, for the world. �

—Susan Ellingwood

F R O M T H E E D I T O R

Covering the Iraq War, page 8

Haiti in Crisis, page 16

Thinking Twice in Colombia, page 26

AP/

Dusa

n V

ranic

AP/

Dan

iel

More

l

Scott

Dal

ton

West Bank

On April 19, Associated PressTelevision News cameramanNazih Darwazeh (on the left

in the top photo with his colleagues)was covering clashes in the WestBank between Israeli soldiers andPalestinian demonstrators who werethrowing rocks and Molotov cock-tails at the troops. Some Palestinianswere also firing guns, according topress reports. Darwazeh was filmingan Israeli tank stranded in a nearbyalleyway when a group of Palestinianyouth began running down the alleyaway from the tank.

According to two Reuters camera-men who were with Darwazeh, anIsraeli soldier took a position nearthe tank and fired a single shot at thejournalists from a distance of about11 to 22 yards (10 to 20 meters). Theshot shattered Darwazeh’s camera,entering his head above the eye. Hewas killed instantly, and his bodywas evacuated shortly after by med-ical workers (pictured surroundingDarwazeh in the bottom photo).

Darwazeh and his colleagues,who were clearly identified as jour-nalists, yelled in both English andHebrew before the shooting that theywere members of the media. Aspokeswoman for the Israel DefenseForces (IDF) defended the troops,saying that the stranded tank wasunder attack. Despite eyewitnessaccounts and video footage, the IDFsays it is unclear who fired the shotthat killed Darwazeh. �

—Amanda Watson-Boles


I N F O C U S

AP/

Jaff

ar I

shta

yeh

AP/

Jaff

ar I

shta

yeh

November

7 Free-lancer Liu Di (below, left) dis-appears after expressing fears ofbeing arrested for posting articlesonline criticizing the Chinese gov-ernment. Officials say she is underinvestigation but have not revealedher whereabouts.

26 Nigerian Islamic authorities issuea fatwa urging Muslims to kill jour-nalist Isioma Daniel (above, right),who had written that the ProphetMohammed probably would havechosen a wife from among thewomen competing at the Miss Worldpageant.

December

9 The Liberian government releasesjournalist Hassan Bility after holdinghim incommunicado since June 2002for reporting on a rebel group.

January

21 Pakistani journalist Fazal Wahabis killed, becoming the first journal-ist murdered in 2003 for his work.He had published several articlescriticizing local religious leaders andIslamic militants and had receivedregular threats as a result.

23 Grigory Pasko (below), a Russianmilitary journalist who was convictedof treason and imprisoned in 2001,is granted parole and freed.

February

5 CPJ delivers a petition with morethan 600 names calling for therelease of imprisoned journalistFesshaye “Joshua” Yohannes (below),a recipient of CPJ’s 2002 InternationalPress Freedom Award, to the Eritreanambassador in Washington, D.C.

10 CPJ board member Terry Andersonurges Tunisian authorities to freeInternet journalist Zouhair Yahyaoui,jailed since June 2002, and editorHamadi Jebali (below), imprisonedsince 1991.

12-13 Bolivians angered by a newincome tax (below) fill the streets ofthe capital, La Paz, in protest, leadingto two days of rioting that kill 25 andinjure more than 100, including fourjournalists.


A S I T H A P P E N E D

A look at recent red-letter cases from the CPJ files…Bo

xun.c

om

CPJ

/Elis

abet

h W

itch

el

CPJ

AP/

Aiz

ar R

aldes

AP/I

TAR

-TA

SS

Reu

ters

/Moham

ed H

amm

i

16 Russian Interior Ministry forces(below) in the southern republic ofChechnya, beat, kick, and brieflydetain 40-year-old Chechen journal-ist Zamid Ayubov, who was writing astory about the soldiers.

March

1 A bomb destroys the car (below) ofNino Pavic, an influential independ-ent newspaper publisher in Croatia.Some of his journalists had recentlyreceived threats for a series of arti-cles on mafia groups.

6 CPJ sends a letter to U.S. defensesecretary Donald Rumsfeld (below)urging the U.S. military to respectjournalists’ rights and safety duringthe war in Iraq.

11 After spending four months in jailon criminal libel charges, prominentSierra Leonean journalist Paul Kamarais freed.

12 Serbian prime minister ZoranDjindjic is assassinated. In response,the government imposes worrisomemedia restrictions that remained ineffect until April 22.

18 With world attention focused onthe war in Iraq, Cuban authorities(below) launch a vicious crackdownon the independent press, jailing 28journalists, who were later givenprison sentences ranging from 14 to27 years.

18 Gunmen in Colombia shoot andkill Radio Meridiano-70 host LuisEduardo Alfonso Parada less than ayear after the station’s owner, EfraínVarela Noriega, was killed in June2002.

20 The corpse of Romanian journal-ist Iosif Costinas, who was workingon a book about organized crimewhen he disappeared in June 2002, isdiscovered in a forest in westernRomania.

26 Togo bars the entire foreignpress corps from working in thecountry, reportedly because Presi-dent Gnassingbé Eyadema (below)was offended that foreign reportersdeclined to cover a government-sponsored seminar on elections inAfrica. In May, CPJ named Togo oneof the World’s Worst Places to be aJournalist.


Juta

rnji I

ist

AP/

Musa

Sad

ula

yev

Reu

ters

/Man

nie

Gar

cia

AP/

José

Goit

ia

Reu

ters

/Eri

c G

ailla

rd

April

21 Attackers set fire to the car ofVietnamese journalist Hoang ThienNga, who had received threateningphone calls only days before for writ-ing exposés on Dai Hung, a lawyerwith alleged ties to both the criminalunderworld and high-ranking gov-ernment officials. �

—Amanda Watson-Boles

Golestan, 52, an Iranian free-lance cam-eraman on assignment for the BBC, waskilled in northern Iraq after stepping on aland mine when he exited his car near thetown of Kifri.

Michael Kelly, The Atlantic Monthly and The Washington PostApril 3, 2003

Kelly, 46, editor-at-large of the Boston-based Atlantic Monthlyand a columnist withthe daily WashingtonPost, was killed whiletraveling with the U.S.Army’s 3rd InfantryDivision just southof the Baghdad air-port. The driver of

the humvee that Kelly was traveling in ranoff the road while trying to evade Iraqigunfire. The driver, Staff Sgt. WilbertDavis, was also killed.


Kaveh Golestan, Free-lancerApril 2, 2003

David Bloom, NBC NewsApril 6, 2003

Bloom, 39, a cor-respondent withthe U.S. televisionnetwork NBC, diedof a pulmonaryembolism. He hadbeen covering thewar as an embed-ded journalist withthe U.S. Army’s 3rdInfantry Division.

Christian Liebig, FocusApril 7, 2003

Liebig, 35, a reporterfor the German weeklymagazine Focus, diedin an Iraqi missileattack while embed-ded with the U.S.Army’s 3rd InfantryDivision south ofBaghdad.

Julio Anguita Parrado, El MundoApril 7, 2003

Parrado, 32, a corre-spondent for theSpanish daily ElMundo, died in anIraqi missile attackwhile embedded withthe U.S. Army’s 3rdInfantry Divisionsouth of Baghdad.Parrado, who died

with Focus magazine’s Christian Liebig,was the second El Mundo correspondentkilled in conflict in almost two years.

C P J R E M E M B E R S

Paul Moran, Free-lancerMarch 22, 2003

Moran, 39, a free-lance cameraman onassignment for theAustralian Broadcast-ing Corporation, waskilled in an apparentsuicide bombing whena man detonated a carat a checkpoint innortheastern Iraq.

Terry Lloyd, ITV NewsMarch 22 or 23

Lloyd, 50, a veterancorrespondent withBritain’s ITV News,disappeared aftercoming under firewhile driving to thesouthern Iraqi cityof Basra on March22, 2003. The fol-lowing day, the

British television network ITN, which pro-duces ITV News, confirmed his death.

Gaby Rado, Channel 4 News

March 29 or 30

Rado, 48, a correspon-dent with Britain’sChannel 4 News, wasfound dead outsidehis hotel in northernIraq on March 30,2003. Some specu-lated that he acci-dentally fell off theroof of the hotel.Britain’s ITN, which

produces Channel 4 News, said there“appears to be no direct connection withany military action.”

The Following Journalists Died Covering the Iraq WarA

P/N

ews

Ltd.

AP/

Dav

id J

ones

AP/

Chan

nel

4 N

ews

AP/

Atl

anti

c M

onth

ly

AP/

Has

an S

arbak

hsh

ian

AP/

NBC

New

s

Reu

ters

/Foc

us

AP/

Javi

Mar

tinez


Tareq Ayyoub, Al-JazeeraApril 8, 2003

Ayyoub, 35, a Jordan-ian journalist with theQatar-based satellitenetwork Al-Jazeera,was killed when a U.S.missile struck the sta-tion’s Baghdad head-quarters. The station’seditor-in-chief, Ibrahim

Hilal, said that the U.S. military knew theoffice’s location, and that witnesses sawthe plane fly over the building twicebefore the attack began.

José Couso, Telecinco

April 8, 2003

Couso, 37, a cameraman for the Spanishtelevision station Telecinco, died after aU.S. tank fired a shell at Baghdad’s Pales-tine Hotel, where most journalists in thecity were based. He was hit in his jaw andright leg and died in a hospital whileundergoing surgery.

Taras Protsyuk, ReutersApril 8, 2003

Protsyuk, 35, a Reuters cameraman fromUkraine, died after a U.S. tank fired a shellat Baghdad’s Palestine Hotel, where mostjournalists in the city were based. Theshell, which also killed José Couso, hit thehotel balcony where several journalistswere monitoring a battle occurring by theTigris River, which is near the hotel.

Mario Podestá, Free-lancerApril 14, 2003

Podestá, 52, a veter-an free-lance Argen-tine war correspon-dent on assignmentfor the Argentinetelevision stationAmerica TV, waskilled in a car acci-dent on the highwaybetween Amman,Jordan, and Bagh-

dad. Eduardo Cura, the station’s newsdirector, said that a tire explosion in thecar in which Podestá was traveling causedthe accident.

Veronica Cabrera, America TVApril 15, 2003

Cabrera, 28, a cam-erawoman withArgentina’s AmericaTV, died in a Bagh-dad hospital frominjuries she sus-tained in an April 14car accident on thehighway betweenAmman, Jordan, andthe Iraqi capital.

Eduardo Cura, America TV’s news director,said that a tire explosion in the car in whichCabrera was traveling caused the accident,which also killed Mario Podestá.

Elizabeth Neuffer, The Boston GlobeMay 9, 2003

AP/

via

Al-Ja

zeer

aA

P/ E

FE,

Tele

cinco

Am

eric

a T

V

AP/

The

Bost

on G

lobe

Am

eric

a T

V

AP/

Paw

el K

opcz

ynsk

i, R

eute

rs

Neuffer, 46, a veteran foreign correspon-

dent for The Boston Globe, was killed in a

car accident “when the car in which she

was a passenger apparently struck a

guardrail near the town of Samarra, about

halfway between Tikrit and Baghdad,” The

Globe reported. Her translator, Waleed

Khalifa Hassan Al-Dulami, also died.


In terms of sheer numbers, the war in Iraq was perhaps the best-covered

conflict in history. Six hundred journalists were embedded with coalition

forces; several hundred independent, or “unilateral,” reporters roamed Iraq

and surrounding countries; and about 150 journalists stayed in the Iraqi

capital, Baghdad, to tell the story of the bombing campaign and the last

days of Saddam Hussein’s regime. Dangerous Assignments asked three jour-

nalists—one in Baghdad, one embedded, and one independent—to bring us

face to face with their vastly differing experiences covering this war.

Covering the Iraq War

Above: A March 27 news conference at the Coalition Media Center in Doha, QatarOpposite: A pre-war issue of Iraq Daily, an Iraqi English-language paper

AP/

Stev

en S

enne

AP/

Bren

nan

Lin

sley


Waiting in Baghdad’s Pales-tine Hotel for Americanmissiles and bombs to

come raining down on the city wasan act of extreme faith in Americanmilitary technology. Aim accurately,please.

But the foreign journalists whowere hunkered down in Baghdad dur-ing the war were also gambling thatthe Iraqi government would play bythe book and refrain from kidnap-ping or killing us during the regime’sfinal days.

Would the Iraqi government,which kidnapped dozens of journal-ists in the 1991 war and held themtemporarily during and after the war,repeat the same tactic?

We believed that the regimewould not, mainly because it washoping that international coverage ofcivilian suffering would help spurthe anti-war movement in the UnitedStates and Europe. That gambleturned out to be more or less correct.The 150 to 250 foreign journalists inBaghdad during the war wereallowed to work and report until thevery end.

The regime imprisoned andexpelled several reporters who didnot have journalist visas andharassed several others. Our move-ments were restricted, and generallywe were allowed to work only in buscaravans organized by the Informa-tion Ministry. And although news-paper writers were not censored, TVreporters had to show the Informa-tion Ministry’s “minders” theirfootage before transmitting it, pre-sumably to prevent the exchange ofmilitarily useful information. But—except during the heaviest missileattacks, when fireballs were eruptingonly a few hundred meters away—wewere never prohibited from leavingthe hotel, and many of us couldmove through significant portions ofthe city.

When it came to covering the civil-ian casualties of the war, there wasnothing improper or unprofessionalabout our work—the bloodshed wasreal, sickening, and all too frequent.Although it was rarely possible tocompletely discount U.S. claims thatthe explosions that killed and maimedinnocent Baghdad residents were

caused by Iraqi anti-aircraft fire orhad been set off deliberately to drawworld sympathy, the circumstantialevidence pointed overwhelminglytoward U.S. culpability.

Saddam’s regime imprisoned and

expelled several journalists who

didn’t have proper visas.

Robert Collier is

a reporter for the

San Francisco

Chronicle who

covers international

news.

Why I’m Still AliveBy Robert Collier

Journalists takecover as they comeunder fire fromIraqi troops innorthern Iraq onApril 4.A

P/Pe

ter

Dej

ong


C O V E R I N G T H E I R A Q W A R

AP/

Huss

ein M

alla

A television correspondentreports outsideBaghdad’s Palestine Hotelon April 16.

But if this was propaganda war-fare and we were being tasked as footsoldiers, it was surprising that theIraqi Information Ministry turned outto be so incompetent. InformationMinister Mohammed Al-Sayyaf will godown in history as one of the worstspokesmen of any country duringwartime. His constant claims of dra-matic Iraqi victories over Americantroops became more and more laugh-able with each passing day. And hishead-in-the-sand refusal to allowreporters to deviate from daily groupschedules—even for such “positive”stories as examining dud U.S. mis-siles that fell over the city—was abad PR strategy by any standard.

Perhaps the biggest shock formany reporters, myself included,was that we encountered almost nopersonal hostility on the streets fromaverage Iraqis. Even in situations in

which we had to interview victims’relatives immediately after blasts,we felt no danger.

I’ll never forget covering the after-math of one particularly gruesomeexplosion on March 29 in an outdoormarket in a poor Shiite area of west-ern Baghdad. After dark, several otherjournalists and I followed the crowdsof mourners to the neighborhood’smosque. Chaos reigned, with wailingand jostling people hovering overcoffins laid out on the floor. Despitesuch extreme grief and anger, themourners spoke to me calmly andpolitely, even though my Americannationality was displayed clearly onthe government press card hungaround my neck. They denouncedPresident Bush lividly, but they treat-ed me as an honored guest.

This is not the way it is supposedto be, I kept telling myself, with a mix-ture of embarrassment and relief. �

Was I Manipulated?By Alex Quade

My CNN team was embeddedwith the U.S. Air Force dur-ing the war in Iraq. We lived

with and covered the airmen at abase “near the Iraqi border.” UnderAir Force and host-nation restric-tions, we were not allowed to revealthe base’s name and location or toshow host-nation aircraft or person-nel. Now that we are no longerembedded, we can disclose that wewere at Kuwait’s Al-Jaber Air Base.

Air Force public affairs officerssupervised our crew 24 hours a day,

Alex Quade is

a field producer/

reporter with CNN

based in Europe.

She has covered

conflicts in Kuwait,

Macedonia, Kosovo,

Afghanistan,

and Iraq.


until week two of the war, when theygrew tired of monitoring our round-the-clock live shots from the flightline. Early in the war, they hadlooked through our videocamera’sviewfinder regularly to ensure wewere not taping Kuwaiti aircraft,buildings, or personnel.

Although some television crewsembedded with ground forces used“lipstick,” or small remote, cameras,we were never allowed to use them ina plane’s cockpit, even though U.S.Defense Department embeddingguidelines “highly encouraged” theiruse. The Air Force took days, evenweeks, to grant permission for ourcrew to go along on sorties, but somepermissions never came through. Wesought to accompany the airmenbeing dropped into just liberatedIraqi airstrips, and while we managedto get on a few missions, often by thetime permission was approved, thestory was no longer news.

It’s hard to say whether our expe-rience was typical. We heard thatjournalists embedded with the other

On April 10, journalists waitto travel into Iraq at Jordan’sal-Karama border crossing.

services had much better access thanwe had. Certainly, coverage of air-crews could have been as compellingas that of the ground forces. For us,however, it was clear that the AirForce was going through a teethingprocess with the embed system. Intheory, embedded journalists shouldlive and work among the troops, aspart of the unit, and accompany themon missions. But the Air Force is moreaccustomed to media who visit baseson organized, one-day tours.

The public affairs officers wereinterested in getting out a messageof clean and clinical statistics: thedaily number of sorties, precision-guided munitions used, and leafletsdropped. Doing in-depth coveragewas not their priority for us.

While we felt “managed,” we werealso given unbelievable access. Wedid live shots from the tarmac andinterviewed pilots as they climbedinto the cockpit to go on bombingmissions and when they returned.For the first time in history, viewersheard about missions on live televi-sion before pilots debriefed withtheir commanders—even before thePentagon brass knew what targetshad been hit, what the pilots hadencountered, and whether they hadbeen shot at.

AP/

Huss

ein M

alla

Three embeddedjournalists waitfor the all-clearsignal during a March 24 Scudmissile attack on Kuwait.

AP/

Chuck

Lid

dy


We tried to cover our embedassignment as objectively as wecould. Our complaint: There weregreat stories—great television—thatwent untold, and, as a result, the AirForce did not benefit from theopportunities to record history thatthe embed system could have pro-vided. Our coverage was good, but itcould have been much better.

As embedded journalists, werewe manipulated by the military? Ican only speak for my crew embed-ded with the Air Force: Manipulatedis too strong a word. Managed, mon-itored, supervised, baby-sat, andneedlessly restricted? Perhaps. Butmanipulated? No. �

We came face to face withheavily armed Iraqi soldiersalongside the road. My ini-

tial thought was, “We’re dead.” It was the first day of the war.

Cameraman Rudy Marshall and I hadsneaked into Iraq from Kuwait thenight before as non-embedded jour-nalists. We were speeding north in arented four-wheel-drive vehicle, trav-eling on what British soldiers hadmistakenly told us was a securedstretch of highway. The sickeningreality was that we were deep insideenemy territory, heading directlyinto the Iraqi army stronghold ofBasra in southern Iraq.

That’s when I saw them up ahead,about 250 mustached and beardedIraqi soldiers in dark green uniforms.They were gripping assault rifles and


Why I Wasn’t EmbeddedBy Mike Kirsch

Mike Kirsch

is a correspondent

with WFOR/CBS 4

TV in Miami. He

has also covered

Afghanistan,

Central America,

Bosnia, and Kosovo.

rocket-propelled grenade launchers,hunkered down in trenches on bothsides of the road defending theentrance to the city. It was too late tostop or turn around. My heart sank. Ithought about my wife, Almira, backhome in Miami, six months pregnantwith our first child, a girl we’d callEmma. Almira had asked me severaltimes to cover the war from KuwaitCity and not risk going into Iraq.

Being shot, killed, and dumpedon the side of the road would now bemy grotesque punishment. Filledwith overwhelming guilt for drivingus into an ambush, I glanced at Rudysitting next to me in the passengerseat, who only days earlier hadreceived a happy phone call from hisoldest daughter informing him hewas going to be a grandfather for thefirst time.

In the frozen terror of themoment, neither Rudy nor I had theprofessional wherewithal to pick upone of our video cameras and startrecording. The failure to perform

The cloud of a bomb dropped onApril 3 by coalitionforces in northernIraq swells in front of Kurdishfighters (right) andjournalists (left).

AP/

Pete

r D

ejong


under stress undoubtedly saved ourlives. In addition, the fact that wewere in a lone, civilian vehicle, asopposed to a convoy of U.S. orBritish military vehicles, definitelylowered our threat level in the sol-diers’ eyes and bought us sometime. It was also helpful that we hadremoved our Kuwaiti license platesbefore crossing into Iraq. But surely,I worried, the Iraqis would noticethe U.S. Marine–style, sand-coloredcombat helmets and flak jackets wewere wearing, not to mention thestrips of tape we had stuck all over

stop, but I just kept driving. Any hes-itation or sign of panic would havebeen like dumping a bucket ofbloody chum into a frenzy of sharks.

We made it through. Rudy asked,“What do we do now?” We had twooptions. We could drive into Basraand be captured for sure, or we coulddrive back through the same gaunt-let of Iraqi soldiers and try to hightailit back to the nearest British forces.“We have to go back,” I said. Rudyremained silent. It was a suicide mis-sion either way.

When I was sure we were farenough past the Iraqi soldiers thatthey could not see us turn around, Ihung a slow U-turn, telling Rudy tokeep his head down. As weapproached their positions, I noticedone soldier running to a pickup truckthat had an anti-aircraft gun mount-ed in the bed. I floored it, accelerat-ing to more than 100 miles per hour.Soldiers were running and jumpinginto their trenches. Then I heard thefirst snapping cracks of machine gunfire over the top of our vehicle.

The car began to wobble undersuch high speed, and I fought tokeep it under control, my head rest-ing just above the steering wheel.Then I saw the tracers flying over thetop of our vehicle. These illuminatedbullets, I knew from previous experi-ence in war zones, were blasting atus from that anti-aircraft gun in thepickup. I thought about the six fullcans of gasoline racked on the rear ofthe car. I closed my eyes, hoping therounds would not strike the gas. Iimagined us blowing up and rolling,end over end, to our deaths.

And then it was over. We hadmade it through again. My heart wasracing. I couldn’t believe it. “Wemade it?” Rudy asked, lookingaround wildly. “We made it,” I said,shaking my head, still unable toswallow. This was only the first ofmany near death experiences to fol-

A U.S. Marinesearches a journalist at asecurity check-point outside the PalestineHotel in Baghdadon April 16.

AP/

Dusa

n V

ranic

AP/

Eliz

abet

h M

alby,

The

Balt

imor

e Su

n

the vehicle in the V-shape that sym-bolized “friendly” and was standardon all coalition vehicles.

Rudy and I just stared forward,avoiding eye contact. My eyes dartedleft and right for quick glimpses oftheir reactions. Soldiers tugged onone another’s shirt sleeves, pointingat us. Some of them raised theirhands indicating that we should


low for Rudy and me as free-bird,non-embedded journalists coveringthe war in Iraq.

The next day, we learned thatBritish television journalist TerryLloyd of the ITN network had beenkilled on the same highway less thanan hour after we were there. Terryhad told me a week before his deaththat as non-embeds, we would be inpositions to cover the war on a much

broader scale than embedded jour-nalists. Terry was right, although hepaid the ultimate price to providethat coverage.

Indeed, Rudy and I were lucky tosurvive as non-embeds, but what ajourney we had, entering Iraq fromKuwait the night before the war,moving north to witness the battlesfor Umm Qasr and Basra, as well asthe fall of Nasariyah and Baghdad.

Many embedded colleagues Italked to after the fighting marveledat how much we, as non-embeds,saw and reported. Before the war,

many of them had teased us, smirk-ing that we would be the empty-handed bastard children among jour-nalists. But now they wished theyhad had the same freedom we had tobuzz around from one British orAmerican military unit to the next, orto stop at our leisure to interviewIraqi civilians in liberated villagesalong the way. Many of these embedsfelt nailed down to one unit and, as aresult, felt that their reporting waslimited. In the end, embeds hadmore protection than non-embeds.But non-embeds, at least this one,had more fun—and a much richertour of the war in Iraq. I’d do it thesame way again. �

Any hesitation would have been

like dumping a bucket of bloody

chum into a frenzy of sharks.


Journalists recordthe delivery of aid by the KuwaitRed Crescent Society in the southern Iraqi cityof Safwan on March 26.

Cannibalizing the Press

For Haiti’s infamous pro-government militias, no news is good news.

By Trenton Daniel

Esdras Mondelus, the 31-year-olddirector and owner of a provin-cial radio station in impover-

ished Haiti, is anxious to pay off theloan he used to buy a US$4,500 gen-erator for his office. But no loan, nomatter its size, can buy this journalistwhat he wants most—a little peaceand security. On the evening ofNovember 25, 2002, Mondelus losthis electrical unit, a backup, andother equipment when a group ofunidentified assailants set fire to partof his station, Radio Etincelle, orRadio Spark.

And what brought on the attack?Mondelus says that after his newsoutlet broadcast coverage of large-scale opposition demonstrations, thenotorious and feared Popular Organi-zation for the Development ofRaboteau, a pro-government groupotherwise known as the “CannibalArmy,” violently targeted the station.

The Cannibal Army is not theonly such group in Haiti, a smallCaribbean nation of 8.3 million people.With cryptic yet memorable nameslike Clean Sweep, Dominican Wasp,the People’s Power Youth Organiza-tion, and Little Church Community,these militia forces—also called“popular organizations” and mostlycomprised of young, unemployed

Trenton Daniel, a former Haiti-based journalist, writes for TheMiami Herald.

November, the perpetrators have set-tled for the next best thing: Mon-delus, three of his reporters, andthree radio correspondents haven’tpicked up their tape recorders sincethe fire. Instead, all but one have fledthe country—only Mondelus remainsthere today.

For these popular organizations,no news, quite literally, is good news.

In 1986, Haiti overcame 29 yearsof a dictatorial dynasty when a

grassroots movement helped topplethe corrupt and violent regime ofFrançois “Papa Doc” Duvalier andhis son Jean-Claude “Baby Doc.” A


H A I T I I N C R I S I S

AP/

Dan

iel

More

l

Haitian journalist Rony Mathieu (center), of Magik Stereo Radio, after being attackedby pro-government supporters in January

men—mob the streets to fomentfear and unrest against real andperceived political adversaries alike.They often erect flaming tire barri-cades and hurl stones at motoristsand pedestrians.

It is not uncommon for journal-ists working at privately owned radiostations to find themselves in harm’sway, often accused of “working forthe opposition” or of serving “foreigninterests.” And by the spring of 2003,the violence against the media con-tinued unabated, with little hope ofstopping.

Although the attackers did notburn Radio Etincelle to ashes last


Michèle Montas, news director of Radio Haïti-Inter and widow of Haitian

journalist Jean Léopold Dominique, who was assassinated in the spring of

2000 by unknown assailants, has been repeatedly targeted for pursuing her

husband’s killers and for her station’s independent news coverage. In Decem-

ber 2002, armed gunmen attacked Montas’ home, killing a bodyguard in

what she says was an attempt on her life. The threats continued, and she

was forced to close her station in February. Radio Haïti-Inter remained off

the air at press time.

In March 2003, Montas talked with Dangerous Assignments’ deputy editor,

Amanda Watson-Boles, about the risks that journalists in Haiti face from pro-

government militias known as “popular organizations,” and why she contin-

ues to fight to bring her husband’s murderers to justice.

Amanda Watson-Boles: Tell me about the role that popular organizations

currently play in threatening journalists and press freedom in Haiti.

Michèle Montas: Well, I think their role has become more important

recently, particularly because of the atmosphere of impunity in Haiti. The

impunity in Jean’s case, he being the most well-known journalist in Haiti,

has emboldened those groups to threaten journalists and to make journal-

ists targets.

And I would say not only journalists. Any group that is vocal. There

have been some human rights advocates who have been threatened and are

now in danger—people who have been vocal in defending and speaking out

against the way the members of those popular organizations are acting.

I think the fact that we have had more and more attacks on human

rights activists, on the press, and on students by those groups is essen-

tially related to the impunity situation. Impunity is the crux of the matter.

AWB: The government has accused the Haitian media of being biased and

of publishing slanderous coverage. Do you think Haitian journalists are

balanced in their reporting?

MM: I don’t think you can generalize on this. A number of journalists are

credible journalists doing their jobs, trying to be objective. However, a

number of other journalists have taken sides. They have been for the

opposition, or they have at times not worked on the side of truth and

objectivity. However, being a journalist who has opted for the opposition

does not make you a legitimate target. I think it is mind-boggling that the

Speaking Upleader of that movement, Jean-Bertrand Aristide, was elected pres-ident in 1990, only to be oustedseven months later by a militaryjunta. In 1994, a U.S.-led invasionrestored Aristide, and Washingtoncelebrated the move as a foreign-policy success. But today, with Aristidepresident again, Haiti is a largely dis-appointing democratic experiment:Political assassinations are com-mon, corruption is rife, and theeconomy continues to plunge. Andthe media, while more open thanunder Duvalier rule, face a menac-ing climate.

Anonymous telephone callstelling talk-show hosts and theiropposition politician guests to watchwhat they say are common, andsome journalists are kidnapped,either to threaten them or extortmoney. One radio announcer wasabducted by a group of maskedassailants last July. (He was laterfound tied and blindfolded, butalive, on the side of a road.)

Roosevelt Benjamin, news direc-tor for the privately owned radio sta-tion Signal FM, believes that mostthreats against the media can betraced to the popular groups. “Theyalways threaten us because of thenews that we broadcast, news that isunfavorable to the government,” hesays. “Everyday here in the country,journalists are facing threats fromthe popular organizations.”

In addition to risks from thesegroups, journalists face violence atall levels of society. Since 2000, tworadio broadcasters have been killedfor their work. One of them, JeanLéopold Dominique, wielded a widereach across the country with hiscaustic editorials, which spared vir-tually no one. On April 3, 2000,when Dominique was about to enterhis station, Radio Haïti-Inter, justbefore his morning broadcast, the

government has said so candidly that journalist Brignolle Lindor [who was

hacked to death by machete-wielding members of a popular organization

in December 2001] was not killed as a journalist but as a member of the

opposition. It is as if they are saying, “It’s OK to kill him because he’s a

member of the opposition.”

But they couldn’t say this about Jean Dominique, because Radio Haïti

has been a credible voice for 30 years now. And you cannot say that

Radio Haïti has taken sides against the government. We have at times

criticized the government, but

simply by doing our job as

reporters. Can you say that

Radio Haïti is doing something

else besides practicing journal-

ism? You cannot say so.

AWB: Do you think the govern-

ment has a tendency to charac-

terize criticism as slander?

MM: Yes. However, I have to say

that slander does exist and is

used quite a bit. Libel is some-

thing that too many Haitian jour-

nalists are not careful about.

AWB: And that probably causes

problems for journalists who are

careful.

MM: Exactly. Because it sup-

ports the government’s argu-

ments when they say that jour-

nalists are actively playing the

role of the opposition. Some

journalists are opposition. They

are being used by opposition

groups against the government.

But in the case of Radio Haïti, I think it’s very difficult for them to come

to that conclusion.

AWB: How did the attempt on your life in December 2002 and the death of

one of your bodyguards affect your resolve to continue independent

reporting in Haiti and to continue seeking justice in your husband’s case?

MM: It has forced me to think a little more carefully about the dangers

incurred by my own journalists. What happened in December proved to me


Michèle Montas at her Radio Haïti-Inter office in Port-au-Prince in April 2002. Montas wasforced to close her station in February 2003 after numerous threats. A framed photo ofher murdered husband is in the background.

AP/

Dan

iel

More

l


that they would stop at nothing. The people who were instrumental in my

husband’s assassination are ready to strike again. They will not stop until

they actually silence Radio Haïti, and it has forced me to make the decision

to temporarily stop broadcasting. But it didn’t change my resolve. I am still

determined to get justice in my husband’s case, because I happen to think

there can be no freedom of expression in Haiti if that case is not solved.

AWB: President Jean-Bertrand Aristide has visited you to assure you of

his commitment to bringing your husband’s murderers to justice. Based

on your conversations with him, how confident are you in his ability to

resolve the case and create a safer climate for journalists in Haiti?

MM: I’m not that confident. However, I hope he is fully aware of the impor-

tance of Jean Dominique’s case. He has to make choices, and all those

choices determine whether he will be able to stay in power. It’s that impor-

tant. For the first time in many months, the Organization of American

States has penned its commitment to resolving the political situation in

Haiti, the security conditions, and to solving two major civil cases: Jean

Dominique and Brignolle Lindor, the two journalists who have been killed

in Haiti in the last three years.


69-year-old journalist was shot andkilled, along with a security guard,by an unidentified assassin.

In March 2003, the governmentprosecutor issued an indictmentcharging six largely unknown menfor the murder. The long-overduelegal action, however, drew criti-cism from advocacy groups andDominique’s widow because it failedto name the murder’s masterminds—reinforcing an already ingrained tra-dition of impunity in the country.(See interview on page 17.)

Although it is unlikely that pop-ular organizations were involved inDominique’s death, they certainlythreatened him before his murder.In October 1999, a group support-ing Dany Toussaint—a powerfulsenator from the ruling FanmiLavalas party who has been linkedto Dominique’s killing—demon-strated in front of Radio Haïti-Interto protest one of the journalist’smany scathing editorials.

The organizations, which arewidely reported to receive financialsupport from the Aristide adminis-tration, are not as visibly ruthless asthe Tonton Macoutes, the privatemilitia of “Papa Doc,” which openlyterrorized the population and muz-zled the press during his family’srule from 1957 to 1986. In fact, whenthe popular organizations emergedin the mid-1980s, the groups aimedto quash Duvalier rule, serving asadvocates for community needsunder the family’s harsh regime. Butthey have evolved into somethingmore sinister, journalists say.

“After the coup in 1991, they[were] … fighting for democracy andthe return of Aristide,” says MarvelDandin, news director of the privateRadio Kiskeya, which is based in thecapital, Port-au-Prince. But after Aris-tide returned to power, they morphedinto groups that aggressively pressure

Can you say that Radio Haïti is doing

something else besides practicing journalism?

You cannot say so.

AWB: You’ve said that in the wake of your husband’s death, media owners

and journalists of all stripes came together to condemn the murder and

seek justice in the case. Do you think that the same unity has endured

recently as attacks on the press have intensified?

MM: Yes. Definitely. Media owners have been together on this. Journalists

have been together on this. I think they all realize that it’s a question of sur-

vival. In the case of Radio Haïti, we have lost lives, but in their cases it can

happen too. I think they are all aware that we have to stick together on this.

Jean was not just a journalist. He was a symbol of what the struggle for

democracy is all about in Haiti. Jean was a product of 30 years of fighting

dictatorships and military regimes, and of fighting for press freedom. More

than freedom of the press, Jean represented all the democratic ideals. So

what was struck was a symbol. And as long as impunity on that symbol

remains, I think it’s not just a question of Haiti, it’s a question of free

speech everywhere. �

machete-wielding members of agroup known as “Asleep in theWoods” (because its members aresaid to hide in the forest), hacked todeath Brignolle Lindor, news directorof Radio Echo 2000, while he was en


torching it. Désir later retracted histhreats, saying his earlier remarkshad been misinterpreted.

But some popular organizations’actions are not open to misinter-pretation. On December 3, 2001,

Haitian demonstrators protest in February 2003 to demand justice in the case of murdered journalist Jean Léopold Dominique.

AP/

Dan

iel

More

l

the president’s opponents. Now,Dandin contends, “They are instru-ments, the tools of power of the gov-ernment that help repression. … Theyare like a militia now.”

Guyler Delva, secretary-generalof the Association of Haitian

Journalists and a newspaperreporter, has documented 61 casessince 2000—the majority of them in2002—in which media workers wereharassed or threatened. Seventeenof them were roughed up by police,three by opposition supporters, twoby students, and five by unknownassailants. Members of ruling party–affiliated populist groups and gov-ernment authorities, such as mayors,harassed 34 journalists, Delva says.

According to Delva, even thoughno journalists have been murderedfor their work since 2001, overallthe situation has become more dan-gerous because of an increasinglyunstable political climate. Thereport also lists the names of 22journalists who went into exileshortly after December 17, 2001,when about two dozen unidentifiedgunmen stormed the NationalPalace in an apparent coup attempt.The incident prompted pro-govern-ment militias to burn down opposi-tion-party offices and accost jour-nalists working for private radiostations.

“It’s been aggravated. It’s worse,”says Delva, who filed a complaintlast year against the leader of thePeople’s Power Youth Organization,René Civil, after the politician madeviolent threats against Delva at anationally broadcast news confer-ence. Equally menacing, Figaro Désir,of the Clean Sweep group, calledDelva “a traitor serving the white for-eigner” and threatened to have him“necklaced,” or killed by placing aflaming tire around his neck and


As attacks against the press inten-sify in Haiti, the government contin-ues to insist that journalists shouldtake the blame. “As soon as [membersof the opposition] use violent wordsto provoke the government,” Especaargues, “you understand how thingsturn violent. It’s not that [popularorganizations] are prone to violenceor attacking the other side.”

Nonetheless, says Especa, offi-cials are working to restore control

over turbulent Gonaïves. However,the Cannibal Army’s leader, Amiot“Cubain” Metayer, remains at largeafter escaping from prison inAugust 2002. None of this comfortsMondelus, who wants nothing morethan stability in the town so he canwork again. But, he adds, paying offthe loan for his generator would benice, too. �


route to one of his other jobs as acustoms official near Petit-Goâve, aprovincial town west of Port-au-Prince. Lindor’s name had reportedlyappeared on a ruling-party list ofopposition supporters who shouldbe specifically targeted by a zero-tolerance crime policy that Aristidehad launched earlier in the yearimplying that police can summarilypunish common criminals caught“red-handed.” A government officialresponded by saying that Lindor waskilled not because he was a journal-ist, but because he was an oppositionpartisan, which, many observers say,insinuated that such violence isacceptable.

In some cases, popular organiza-tions have severed the news linkbetween Port-au-Prince and provin-cial towns, almost creating an infor-mation vacuum. For example, inNovember 2002 in Gonaïves—whereHaiti proclaimed its independence in1804 as the world’s first black repub-lic and also home to the unrest thatended Duvalier rule in 1986—sevenjournalists went into hiding afterreceiving menacing telephone callsand verbal threats for covering anti-government protests. Haitians seethose threats as a barometer ofchange in the country’s politicallandscape, which underscores theimportance of having a news opera-tion based there.

For Radio Kiskeya news directorMarvel Dandin, whose correspon-dent was among those run out ofGonaïves in November, “It’s not thesame,” he laments. His reporter’sdeparture has forced him to rely onsecond-hand information from anarea resident, which isn’t always reli-able, he says.

Back at Radio Etincelle, Haitianofficials fault station owner and

director Esdras Mondelus and his

colleagues for the attack on the out-let, saying that their “unprofessional”work creates the impression thatthey are taking sides in a politicallycharged climate. Government spokes-man Luc Especa contends that somejournalists can’t report objectively orimpartially. “They need to learnsomething about ethics,” he says.“They need to learn how to deal withthe news in a polarized environment.… Journalists shouldn’t take sides.”

Jonas Petit, deputy president ofthe ruling Fanmi Lavalas party, hasan even harsher opinion of Haitianjournalists: “They lie every day,” heinsists. But he calls accusations thathis party bankrolls the popularorganizations and violence againstjournalists “crazy,” arguing that theadministration is too poor for suchexpenditures.

As attacks against the press intensify in

Haiti, the government continues to insist that

journalists are ultimately at fault.

These journalists were forced into hiding after being threatened by the Cannibal Army.

AP/

Dan

iel

More

l


Two-and-half years afterMozambique’s best-knowninvestigative reporter, Carlos

Cardoso, was gunned down, hisghost still lingers in this southernAfrican nation.

In April 2003, seven police officerswere charged with aiding in the Sep-tember 2002 escape of Anibal dosSantos Jr., one of those accused ofkilling Cardoso, from a maximum-security prison before the November2002 trial began. Dos Santos, who wastried in absentia, was rearrested in

South Africa just seven hours beforethe verdict, which sentenced him to28 years in prison, was announced.

This prevented him from testify-ing in open court about his knowl-edge of high-level officials who mayhave had a hand in Cardoso’s murderand their criminal activities. ManyMozambicans suspect that the con-venient manner of his escape and

Phillip van Niekerk is a Washington,D.C.–based journalist. He representedCPJ at the trial in Maputo.

reappearance was a cover-up thatcould only have been engineeredwith the complicity of senior govern-ment authorities. The arrests of thepolice officers now open an intrigu-ing route to discover which impor-tant officials were involved.

Even more critical is the ongoinginvestigation into the role ofNymphine Chissano, a son of Presi-dent Joaquim Chissano, whom sev-eral defendants in the Cardoso trialhad accused of ordering the assassi-nation. Nymphine, who has denied

were sentenced to long periods inprison for the murder.

Just hours after the verdict wasannounced, wood carvers in thebustling street markets of Maputobegan hawking near perfect represen-tations of the judge, the defendants,and the trial lawyers, down to varia-tions in skin color. And it’s no wonderthe nation was riveted by the trial.

Cardoso was a highly respectedpioneer in the region, a journalistwho set an example for all reportersby taking on the continent’s rulersand holding them accountable fortheir actions. The landmark verdicthas allowed Mozambique, whosejournalists have lived for years in anenvironment of impunity and fear, toset an example for other nations inthe region—that those who assassi-nate journalists will not get awaywith it. (CPJ records show that in 94percent of cases worldwide duringthe last 10 years, killers have notbeen arrested or prosecuted for mur-dering journalists in reprisal fortheir work.)

Cardoso’s murder trial alsoshowed that high-level governmentofficials can be forced to account fortheir actions—even if those officialsare related to the president.

In 1975, hundreds of years ofslavery and colonialism under Por-tuguese rule gave way to Mozam-

I N T H E N E W S

A New BeginningIt’s taken almost three years, but Mozambique is finally starting tofind justice in the murder case of a famous journalist.

By Phillip van Niekerk

After Cardoso’s death, few Mozambican journalists

were prepared to carry the baton.

the allegations, was even forced toappear in court to testify.

The trial, which opened onNovember 18, 2002, almost

exactly two years after Cardoso hadbeen shot dead on a street in the cap-ital, Maputo, gripped the imaginationof Mozambique’s 20 million citizens.The country came to a standstill onthe morning of January 31, 2003,when radio and television stationsbroadcast the verdict from the maxi-mum-security prison of Machava onthe outskirts of Maputo. Six killers


bique’s independence, followed byMarxist one-party rule and a brutalrebel insurgency backed by the thenapartheid government in SouthAfrica. Since 1992, the country hasbeen at peace, nominally following asystem of multiparty democracy, buteconomic reforms have spawned anew, often criminal, political andbusiness elite—what Carlos Cardosodedicated his life to covering.

In July 2001, a CPJ delegation vis-ited Maputo and found that Cardoso’sassassination had created a climateof fear among journalists. He hadbeen exposing bank and real estatefraud, as well as drug trafficking.Cardoso was particularly exercisedby a corrupt clique within the localelite that had found common causewith organized crime. No top-rank-ing state officials have been tied towhat Cardoso called “the gangster

faction” inside the ruling party, FRE-LIMO, which he supported staunchlyuntil his death. But children ofprominent politicians, includingthose of President Chissano andFRELIMO leader Armando Gebuza,have been accused of illegal pursuitsby the local press.

After Cardoso’s death, fewMozambican journalists were pre-pared to carry the baton. Accordingto his friend and longtime collabora-tor Fernando Lima, Cardoso waskilled because he was the only trueinvestigative reporter in a countrywracked by decades of civil war, cor-ruption, and organized crime. Infact, Cardoso’s murder left theMozambican press with no leader,while fear continued to spread inlocal newsrooms.

CPJ also found disturbing ques-tions about the shoddy nature of themurder investigation, as well as awidespread sense that the legal sys-tem could never deliver justice. Eightmonths after CPJ’s inquiry, in Janu-ary 2003, Judge Augusto Paulinoanswered the cynics. The ruling,which took four hours to render, wasas eagerly awaited as a state of thenation address. He sentenced localbusinessman and loan shark AyobAbdul Satar, former banker VincenteRamaya, Carlitos Rachide Cassamo,and Manuel Fernandes to 23 years andsix months each. Another suspect,Momade “Nini” Satar, got 24 years.

But the most closely followedaspect of the trial was the involve-

ment of Nymphine Chissano. Forcedto testify, Nymphine came to court toproclaim his innocence. One of themost significant parts of Paulino’sjudgment was his finding that thereis enough evidence to conclude thatthe president’s son and others mayhave been involved in planning the

murder, and that the plot could havebeen hatched at a house of one ofNymphine’s close associates.

Judge Paulino ignored politicalpressure and death threats to deal astunning blow against organizedcrime and the culture of impunity inMozambique.

The severest test of Mozambique’slegal system lies ahead. How will

the government handle the trialsinvolving bank fraud exposed byCardoso before his death, or theinvestigation into the role ofNymphine Chissano and other politi-cians in the murder? No matter theoutcome, to most Mozambicans, acritical moment was already reachedwhen the president’s son had his dayin court and was called to account.

But for Mozambique’s press corps,the trial, verdict, and arrests of thepolice officers have gone a long waytoward ending the culture of impunitythere. Many journalists are now seiz-ing the opportunity to continue theimportant work that was brutallyscuttled when Cardoso was mur-dered. Now, say Cardoso’s col-leagues, his life’s work will not havebeen in vain. �

The murder trial gripped the imagination of

Mozambique’s citizens.

Investigative journalist Carlos Cardosowas gunned down on November 20,2000.

CPJ


After decades of strife, there isfinally a slim chance forpeace in Kashmir, but that’s

not necessarily a good thing for thepress. In fact, it may have killed ParvazMohammed Sultan.

At 5:30 p.m. on January 31, 2003,two men entered Sultan’s office atthe independent newswire serviceNews and Feature Alliance in Srina-gar, the summer capital of Jammuand Kashmir State. They had a briefconversation with the 36-year-oldeditor and then shot him in thehead. Sultan was rushed to the hos-pital, but doctors declared him deadwithin minutes of his arrival.

Journalists working in the Kash-mir Valley, which has a large Muslimmajority and is claimed by bothIndia and Pakistan, have long beenvulnerable to attacks by various par-ties to the conflict. They have beencaught in cross fire and havereceived death threats from sepa-ratist militants backed by Pakistan,as well as from counter-militantsbacked by India. Recent politicalchanges, which, paradoxically, offersome hope of a resolution to the 56-year-old custody battle over the

Andy McCord is a New York–basedwriter. He is currently working on abiography of Pakistani poet FaizAhmed Faiz, supported by a fellow-ship from the National Endowmentfor the Humanities.

territory, have only heightened thedangers for reporters, especiallyKashmiri ones.

Why? Because, say observers,both sides in the conflict—the Indiangovernment and pro-Pakistan mili-tants—have much to lose if peacebreaks out. For India, resolving theconflict means making concessionsit isn’t ready to make, while mili-tants aren’t ready to give up theirdecades-long jihad, even if the localKashmiri government is poised forpeace negotiations. In this long-run-ning conflict, war has become abusiness of sorts, and with journal-

ists reporting on politics, the mediaare in everyone’s way.

“The most difficult period is whenthe situation starts getting better,”says Muzamil Jaleel, a Kashmiri Mus-lim who has covered the region for10 years. “The separatists think wehave one responsibility, and the gov-ernment thinks we have another.”

Sultan’s colleagues say thatalthough they know of no specificthreats against the journalist, wireservices such as the News and Fea-ture Alliance are under constantpressure to carry statements issuedby competing political and militant

D I S P A T C H E S

Part of the StoryFor Kashmiri journalists, reporting is difficult when caughtbetween separatists and the government.

By Andy McCord

A photographer runs for cover from border security soldiers during a demonstrationin Srinagar, India.

AP/

Raf

iq M

aqbool

groups. In the months before hisdeath, Sultan’s news service had car-ried reports on fighting within aprincipal militant group betweenfactions that favor and those thatoppose dialogue with India. “When-ever a journalist is killed, it remainsa mystery,” says Jaleel, who is also acorrespondent for the New Delhidaily Indian Express.

Mystery surrounds much of theviolence in Kashmir, where esti-mates of the dead since late 1989—when mass demonstrations againstIndia sparked state repression,which in turn escalated the armedinsurgency against India—rangefrom 25,000 to 75,000 people.According to CPJ research, nearly adozen journalists were killed duringthat same time period.

The Indian government, whichhas criticized moves toward

peace in the region, has also lashedout at Kashmiri journalists recently.In India’s capital, New Dehli, IftikharGilani sits on a parched lawn nearLodi Gardens discussing his new-found freedom. Having spent sevenmonths in prison, Gilani isn’t usedto the sunlight. “One can’t know howimportant this individual freedomis,” he says. In India, “a peon can beprosecuted if he tells a reporter thathis boss takes two lumps of sugar inhis tea,” adds Gilani, a well-respectedKashmiri journalist for the KashmirTimes and a stringer for several lib-eral Pakistani newspapers andDeutsche Radio. On June 9, 2002,income tax investigators raided hishome and later charged him withviolating the colonial-era OfficialSecrets Act. His offense? He haddownloaded from the Internet pub-licly available information about theIndian army.

Gilani suspects other motivesbehind his arrest, however. Thesame day he was detained, hisfather-in-law, Syed Ali Shah Gilani,an important fundamentalist Kash-miri Muslim politician, was arrested

in Kashmir. The elder Gilani wascharged with receiving Pakistanimoney and passing it on to armedmilitants. He remains in custody.

Initial press reports lumped thejournalist together with his father-in-law and sought to brand Gilani asa spy. Fortunately, the press corps inNew Delhi took up his case. “I was ajournalist, and so my case was high-lighted,” says Gilani. But that doesn’tmean he didn’t suffer. According toGilani, for two months guards andfellow prisoners at Tihar Jail, anenormous prison in the capital, beathim. He says he was accused of “rap-ing Mother India.” And on one occa-sion, a prisoner forced Gilani toclean a toilet with his shirt and thenwear it.

Throughout the summer and fall,the Delhi Union of Journalists andpress freedom groups, including CPJ,worked on Gilani’s case. His defenselawyers sought access to a memofrom the army’s Department of Mili-tary Intelligence that reportedly

discredited the Home Ministry’sassertion that Gilani’s documentswere matters of national security.That evidence was finally introducedin court in early December 2002. Amonth later, the spying charges werewithdrawn, and the journalist wasreleased on January 13, 2003.

For journalists covering Kashmir,political institutions that may

one day provide protection for thepress are extremely weak. WhileIndian press associations came toGilani’s rescue, they haven’t sup-ported their Kashmiri colleagues inall cases. Powerful, New Delhi–basedmedia organizations can be extremelynationalistic, especially when it

comes to Kashmir, and many Kash-miri journalists often feel isolatedfrom their colleagues in other partsof India. Jaleel also notes that Pak-istani journalists have not paidmuch attention to the pressurestheir Kashmiri counterparts endurefrom Pakistan-backed militants. Asfor Kashmiri journalists themselves,Jaleel says, “There is no journalists’union in Srinagar, because nobodywants to be known as president ofthe union.”

State elections last fall brought inan opposition coalition promisinggood governance and a wide-rangingdialogue about the future of Jammuand Kashmir. Ironically, though thenew political balance in Indian-heldareas of Kashmir could ease ten-sions, the prospect of change hasjournalists worried. In Sultan’s mur-der, suspicions center on pro-Pak-istan Muslim militants. In the Gilanicase, Gilani himself speculates thathis arrest may have occurred to pres-sure his father-in-law. But whatever

the reason, India managed to removeGilani, an important non-militantKashmiri, from the debate on Kash-mir’s future during the crucial periodin the run-up to the elections.

To Gilani, Jaleel, and other Kash-miri journalists, there is no biggerstory than the fate of their disputedhomeland. “As Kashmiri Muslimjournalists, we are part of the society,and in a way we are part of thestory,” says Jaleel. But for themoment, neither pro-Pakistan mili-tants nor the Indian governmentwants such news reported freely.And until that changes, Kashmirijournalists will be caught in the mid-dle of a developing—but deadly anddangerous—peace. �


War has become a business of sorts, and with

journalists reporting on politics, the media are in

everyone’s way.


As bloody as Colombia’s 40-year-old civil conflict hasbecome, foreign correspon-

dents covering it have always foundcomfort in the fact that the violencerarely touched them. Barring theoccasional brief detention at a guer-rilla roadblock, they’ve roamedfreely throughout Colombia’s vast,unprotected countryside for years,reporting stories that would havesurely resulted in death threats orworse had local reporters pennedthem. In Colombia last year, 27 jour-nalists were threatened with death,and three were killed in the line ofduty. None of them were members ofthe foreign press.

Yet for many foreign correspon-dents working in Colombia, the feel-ing that they were immune to themayhem crumbled earlier this yearwhen leftist rebels kidnapped twojournalists in the eastern departmentof Arauca who were on assignmentfor the Los Angeles Times. Eventhough British reporter Ruth Morrisand American photographer Scott Dal-ton were later freed unharmed, thespecter of abduction has promptedsome correspondents to change theway they cover the conflict, which pitsleftist rebels against rival paramilitarycombatants and the government.

Michael Easterbrook is a free-lancejournalist based in Bogotá, Colombia.

“I think all foreign correspondents are more careful now,” says T. Chris-tian Miller, who covers Colombia andother Latin American countries forthe Los Angeles Times. “They thinktwice about where they’re going andwhy they’re going there.”

Morris and Dalton, both in theirmid-30s, had been living and work-ing as journalists for years in Colom-bia before traveling to Arauca, an oil-rich region on the Venezuelan borderswarming with both rebels and right-wing paramilitary fighters. The twojournalists had ventured there to

report on rising violence in the areaand how the government’s battleagainst the armed groups was affect-ing civilians.

Early on the afternoon of January21, they were traveling along a ruralhighway to interview victims of awave of bombings blamed on theleftist Revolutionary Armed Forcesof Colombia (FARC) when their taxidriver ran into a roadblock mannedby about 10 combatants from theFARC and the National LiberationArmy (ELN), the smaller of the coun-try’s two main guerrilla groups. The

Thinking TwiceThe kidnapping of two journalists in Colombia made some foreign correspondents nervous, but it hasn’t kept the international press fromreporting on the war there.

By Michael Easterbrook

C O R R E S P O N D E N T S

Journalists in Bogotá, Colombia, at a protest calling for the release of photgrapherScott Dalton and reporter Ruth Morris

AP/

Juan

Her

rera


told Morris that after seeing howmuch press attention the abductionsgarnered, the rebels were forced tokeep them longer than they hadwanted to ensure that their releasewas handled safely.

However, new anxieties did surfaceover the behavior of the FARC com-mander Geronimo. In an effort toforce the government to release jailedFARC fighters, the 16,000-strong rebelarmy is already holding hostage threeAmerican contract workers, 47 policeofficers and soldiers, and some 20

that American journalists in particu-lar are running a much bigger riskwith the FARC than they did lastyear,” adds Wilson, who believes thatWashington’s increasingly aggressiverole in helping the Colombian gov-ernment fight the rebels has height-ened the risk for all Americans in thecountry.

Even though most correspondentssay the abductions will not preventthem from traveling to hot zones likeArauca, some say they will spendmore time talking to local authoritiesto determine what the rebels are up tobefore entering those areas. Other for-eign journalists say they will do every-thing they can to avoid running intoFARC fighters while reporting in zoneswhere they’re known to be active.

“Previously, I’d go out to FARC-con-trolled areas looking to interviewthem,” says the L.A. Times’ Miller. “Mypolicy right now is that even if I hadan offer to meet with a FARC leader, Iwouldn’t do it, not until it’s clear inmy mind what their intentions arefor international journalists.”

After visiting their families, Mor-ris and Dalton returned to Colombiaand were soon back at work. In an e-mail message sent in March fromJerusalem, where she was on a short-

rebel armies are waging separateinsurgencies against the governmentbut have recently begun fighting sideby side in Arauca to confront thegrowing government military pres-ence in the strategic region. One ofthe rebels insisted on taking thejournalists to see his commander.

Armed with AK-47s, two rebelsclimbed into the taxi and directedthe driver to a spot 30 minutes downthe road, where a commander knownas “Gumfoot,” from the ELN’s EasternWar Front, and another leader knownas “Geronimo,” from the FARC’s 45thFront, began a tug-of-war for the cap-tives. Gumfoot prevailed, but onlyafter promising Geronimo that if theELN decided to release the captives,it would hand them over to the FARCfirst, says Morris.

On their first night in captivity, a35-year-old female combatant fromthe ELN promised to take good careof the journalists and said they werelucky the FARC hadn’t taken them.“They might have killed you,” thewoman told Dalton, before warningthat they would be shot if they triedto escape. During the following days,they changed camps frequently, mov-ing higher and higher into the moun-tains. Meals consisted of a starch-heavy mix of yucca, plantains, rice,corn tortillas, and, on one occasion,stew from an armadillo the rebelshad shot and butchered. After 11days, the journalists were released inthe mountains to a Red Cross dele-gate and flown to their homes inColombia’s capital, Bogotá.

Concerns that the journalists’abductions marked a new strategy

in the guerrilla war were quicklyeased after it was learned that thekidnappings had apparently been aspur-of-the-moment decision by themilitiaman at the roadblock, who hadmistakenly concluded that the jour-nalists might be valuable for therebels, known for kidnapping hun-dreds of people in recent years tobankroll their wars. An ELN leader

A rebel from Colombia’s National Libera-tion Army (ELN), who kidnapped twojournalists from the Los Angeles Times

Local Colombian journalists are most at risk:

Last year, 27 were threatened with death, and

three were killed because of their work.

Scott

Dal

ton

politicians, including former presi-dential candidate Ingrid Betancourt.News that the FARC had tried to kid-nap Morris and Dalton stoked fearsthat it might be trying to strengthenits bargaining position by grabbinginternational journalists.

“The FARC wanted [Morris andDalton], and that signals somethingvery frightening,” says Scott Wilson,a Colombia-based correspondent forThe Washington Post. “Everythingtaken together, I think it suggests

term assignment, Morris wrote that,other than making an effort to alertguerrilla groups before traveling toregions they control, her abductionwill probably have little effect on theway she reports in Colombia.

Asked how it would change theway he works, Dalton ponders thequestion for a moment before decid-ing. “It might make me think twicebefore going to a dangerous area todo an assignment,” he says. “But I’llstill do it.” �


K I C K E R

Illust

rati

on:

Const

anti

n C

iosu

Documents

DA spring 03 (Page 1) - Committee to Protect Journalists · 16 Russian Interior Ministry forces (below) in the southern republic of Chechnya, beat, kick, and briefly detain 40-year-old