I am glad I am not living in an autocratic state, but just in a state where after 50 years we can't get the politics right, and healthcare and crime are burning issues. Thank God no ethnic strife has taken place, or I'll have to run with my jahaji bundle on my head. I can sit and write my satire to my heart's content on life in Trinbago, a place that could send a psychiatrist mad with the daily goings-on. Recent official stats say mental illness is on the rise, and one out of three is mad.
Every day the situations some journalists face in other lands and the outcome could make me cry too, like executive director of the International Press Institute (IPI) Alison Bethel-Mc Kenzie. And trust me, those were real tears for some 72 journalists who have been killed so far this year. If you know how glad I am, I am not an investigative or crime reporter in Mexico, Colombia, Venezuela, Russia or Cuba. Or a war correspondent in Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran or Somalia. I don't like the idea of my head hanging from a bridge, ordered by a drug baron, or sent to my family in a box. I don't even like the idea of being blown to bits by some gunman to whom journalist or press are dirty words. I am glad I am not in harm's way where they shoot the messenger.
However, readers will know that I have an ongoing beef with politicians, the West Indies Cricket team, the national soccer team and lately economists, or any issue that smells un-Trinidad or affects the people. But please, please, just don't call me a crusader. My greatest laughter is the pre-action protocol letter, the latest weapon of mass distraction, or the gagging writ which is tantamount to tying your hand behind your back. I am glad I operate from the Caribbean, especially Trinbago, where media freedoms are quite safe, except for the odd political leader who finds his headlines and photos are not big enough, or political operatives who change copy in the newsroom of the state media, or blank arms of the media from state advertising. These jokers in polka dot suits feel they control the treasury. Remember, recently there was one who called for journalists to be licensed? Another just recently objected to the media coverage of a labour leader who broke ranks with the government. However, arising out of the IPI World Congress was President Maxwell "Max" Richards' observation about the movement from the newsroom to official enclave by journalists as political mouthpieces. I have no problem with "eat ah food and drink ah juice journalists," now morphed into spin doctors and public relations experts. After all, man must live. But Holy Moses, they can't call themselves journalists when they have sold out their independence, or made a 360 degrees turn on their journalistic principles.
I am not fearful about the freedom of the press. I am convinced the public will protect the press. Ask Basdeo Panday and Ramesh Maharaj who tried to force down our throats a Green Paper which turned out to be toilet paper. They faced a massive public protest that had them hiding under their desks. Well, we can't ask Eric Williams who burned the Guardian in 1960, grand-standing on a nationalist platform, as he is long gone. Patrick, well he stormed a radio station after some stiff picong. His information minister who fell from his political perch was the baddest pitbull in the media yard. Where is he now? Planting peas in Tobago? The media have withstood these jokers. We are yet to see Kamla play her hand, although there are those around her who would like to manners the media, the press in particular. Just recently police stormed a newspaper looking for a reporter's source. I told myself if they ever come looking for my sauce (source) I will give them some chicken foot or pigfoot souse. You see me, I gone!
