Ten years ago (2003), I remember watching an interview on Spanish TV
that really got me thinking about journalism and in particular about
journalists. The interviewee had a Polish name, very difficult to remember, I
thought, but spoke Spanish fluently and had such charisma that after listening
to him for ten minutes, I started writing down the titles of all the books he
had written, which he was discussing with the TV host. The man was Ryszard
Kapuściński, a Polish born war journalist that would die a few years after this
interview took place.
As soon as the show finished, I
ordered one of his books. A year later, I bought another one. I started
browsing online, looking for interviews and articles of this remarkable man. This
is how I became acquainted with Kapuściński’s work. It did not occurred to me,
however, that what I was reading on Travels With Herodotus was not journalism, but rather literature. Realist? Yes, but
literature nevertheless.
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The Polish author has been
equally idolatrized and demonized and now I understand where this comes from.
While I admire Ryszard Kapuściński’s flawless writing style and his incredible
stories of war, poverty and survival around the world, I realize that perhaps
being a wonderful writer does not mean you are, per se, a great journalist. I
still think that Kapuściński invented a new concept of reportage or as he called it, reportage d’auteur in which through the eyes and experiences of the journalist, a story
is told. This leads, inevitably, to a certain degree of subjectivity and Ryszard
Kapuściński himself never denied that he was unable to separate reportage from literature.
While he saw himself mainly as a writer, his
career was devoted to being a reporter, so it would be fair to say that when
critiques complain about inconsistencies in the journalist’s work or even false
details about meetings with certain personalities that never took place as it
is the case of the alleged meeting with Patrice Lumumba, which could have never
taken place, as he visited Africa for the first time when Lumumba had already
been assassinated, according to journalist and non-authorised biographer of the
author, Artur Domoslavski.
A journalist, from my point of
view, is not supposed to be a person that makes a story more appealing and
exciting by telling half truths or adding facts that never took place. These abilities
could make a great historical writer, maybe, whose imagination can be used to
make historical novels more appealing to the public. But a journalist? Shouldn’t
a journalist be something else?
This discussion has changed my
perception of this great writer, who will always have my respect as a literary
author but who perhaps will not be my role model of a transparent, objective
and ethical journalist from now on.
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