Dumb Luck
I’ve worked as a photojournalist for the past 5 years, so I’m used to a different kind of reporting than what we are doing in Craft 1 at the CUNY Graduate School of Journalism. There are, however, a lot of similarities. Like its visual counterpart, good written reportage takes a great amount of talent, foresight, and interpersonal skill; all things I’m having trouble applying to my adopted medium. Lucky for me, sometimes its as easy as point-and-click. That is a drastic oversimplification of the elusive “story that writes itself,” – which, of course, doesn’t really exist – but I came pretty close to it on Wednesday.
My assignment was a protest across the street from the U.N. building where a small group of mostly Iranian Americans assembled to show support of Camp Ashraf, an Iranian refugee camp in Iraq where 3,500 freedom-fighters and dissidents reside and is controlled by U.S. and coalition forces. They were not protesting America’s presence there – they applaud their protection and they demand that it continue. They were protesting the ill will of the Iranian regime that wants the refugees repatriated to Iran, its pressure on the Iraqi government do so, and the apparent willingness of the Americans to negotiate that. If this happened, they said, it would mean almost-certain death of the 3,500 refugees, many of whom are members of the main opposition party, the People’s Mujahedin of Iran.
After some basic information gathering, I was told that I needed to speak with a woman from Tehran who currently lives in Los Angeles. She told me about her arrest and 5-year imprisonment 27 years ago for publicly speaking out against a law deeming women as second-class citizens. I knew a little about this law, that was enacted following the Islamic Revolution in Iran, but I didn’t know that its defiance was punishable by death. Luckily she is still alive, but she told me about three of her female cousins who were executed several years later for defying the same law.
She also told me about a young interrogator at the prison named Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who I probably don’t need to say is the despot who is currently president of Iran and who is speaking at the U.N. on September 23rd, despite the promise of massive protest in New York.
“Holy crap,” I thought as I frantically took notes while she told stories about Ahmadinejad and the other interrogators telling the female prisoners that they have sinned – first because they were born females, second because they spoke out in public, and third because they fight for rights which they had, wrongfully according to Ayatollah Khomeini, and then lost.
I think the story turned out pretty well, if only because it would’ve taken an epic failure on my part to screw it up. And since there wasn’t a media feeding frenzy there, I didn’t have to vie for a spot at the carcass. I know I can’t expect this for every Daybook, but it was nice to be served a nice, quiet feast this time.