Where is Afghanistan | Politics, Writing

For an unforgettable account of foreign reporting, we need to jump back nearly a century.

A circular staircase in stone in Lisbon.

Lisbon 2017

For an unforgettable account of foreign reporting, we need to jump back nearly a century:

‘You know, you’ve got a lot to learn about journalism. Look at it this way. News is what a chap who doesn’t care much about anything wants to read. And it’s only news until he’s read it. After that it’s dead. We’re paid to supply news. If someone else has sent a story before us, our story isn’t news.’

Evelyn Waugh has sent us to the fictional state of Ishmaelia, and now we must report back, which means that we must steal, distort, or simply invent the news. It is 1938, though it could, alas, have been yesterday.

The European powers independently decided that they did not want that profitless piece of territory; that the one thing less desirable than seeing a neighbor establish there was the trouble of taking it themselves. Accordingly, by general consent, it was ruled off the maps and its immunity guaranteed. As there was no form of government common to the peoples thus segregated, nor tie of language, history, habit, or belief, they were called a Republic.

We’re young, unqualified, and wide-eyed, but that’s not a drawback because we’ve been named Foreign Correspondent. We’ve left the smoking presses of Fleet Street for a faraway land, and now we’re learning how to manufacture a story that sells papers back home.

'The Beast stands for strong mutually antagonistic governments everywhere…Self-sufficiency at home, self-assertion abroad.’

Because we’re heading somewhere we know little about, and because our readers can match our ignorance, what about the classic journalistic questions? Here’s our first sign of doubt. Should we really dismiss all those whos and whats and whys and wheres and hows—the only true tools of our trade? We’re told to abandon our petty concerns and focus on the intrigue. We’re told to focus on tension. We’re even offered page one.

‘We think it a very promising little war. A microcosm, as you might say, of world drama. We propose to give it fullest publicity. The workings of a great newspaper.’

Is our editor right? Do the people want conflict and intrigue? Should we provide them the war they desire?

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There’s no grand mystery behind why Scoop, the Evelyn Waugh novel where you’ll find these excerpts, has lasted all these years. Or why it’s still quoted by journalists. If you’ve ever taken the complex and distilled it into a false simplicity, you’ve lived in the world of Scoop; if you’ve ever shaded or massaged or just given the slightest nudge to the truth, you’re in Scoop; if you’ve ever set out with a dramatic narrative and looked for a story to illustrate that narrative, you’re in the land of Scoop journalism; if you’ve ever written the story beforehand and simply filled in the blanks with realtime quotes—which happens quite often—you, too, live in Waugh’s newsroom. Journalists still quote these lines because the novel bites with the shock of recognition rather than the shock of surprise.

One line, in particular, stands out. It’s the line I’ve heard quoted most often by journalists, and it arrives when the main character receives his press card: “They were small orange documents, originally printed for the registration of prostitutes.” I don’t remember ever hearing this line referenced without a knowing grin underneath the words. Don’t forget to linger for a moment and look for the client in that metaphor.

And now try to remember the coverage you’ve read about Afghanistan. Twenty years worth of reporting and opinions and features. What percentage of the stories tackled the core journalistic questions? All those whos and whats and whys and wheres and hows. And what percentage told you who’s up, who’s down, how it’s playing, what’s trending, what the polls indicate, what’s outrageous, what’s shocking, who was right, and, more importantly, who was wrong?

Here’s a notable story that might be familiar: think back two Presidents, back to when a General disputed a policy in public, back to when this General flew back to Washington for a rather public firing. Do you remember the drama? The personalities? The countless stories about power? Do you, by any chance, recall the specifics of the dispute? The strategic differences? Or did you simply read domestic political theater, as practiced in Afghanistan?

Of course there are plenty of worthwhile exceptions. Plenty of reporters avoid the temptations of the typical newsroom incentives. Here’s just the first sentence of a recent piece from a very good journalist, though these words, unfortunately, look almost quaint when compared to what’s usually reported:

For the past 10 days, thousands of private citizens have been working around the clock, through informal networks of friends and colleagues, to organize evacuation flights from Afghanistan to countries like Albania and Kyrgyzstan, and to help Afghans get their name on passenger manifests and safely reach the Kabul airport.

In just one sentence, follow his clauses in sequence: when, who, when again, what, where, why. Over a much longer essay, information is conveyed, and an opinion is stressed, without any need for hyperbole or glitz or scandal.

So there are still exceptions. And some reporters still turn out good work. But it’s clearly not the norm. It’s not what’s discussed, what’s known, or even what’s expected. Blaming journalists is only satisfying, however, for a short time. The Beast in Evelyn Waugh’s novel provides the war the “fullest publicity” because its incentives are to sell papers. If readers and policymakers wanted a different narrative, The Beast would serve that dish too.

Journalists wake up each morning, swallow a bit of coffee, and follow the incentives they find. Right now those incentives are for drama, intrigue, and theater. Policymakers follow the same predictable path. What’s desired is what’s provided—by both journalists and policymakers. And what was desired in Afghanistan didn’t shift much over twenty years. Even though most people who read stories about the invasion of Afghanistan in October 2001 did it with newsprint on their fingers, and nearly everyone who read about the withdrawal did it while staring at a screen. Who decided the incentives over those twenty years? At least there’s a helpful aspect to the change in technology, as readers can now squint hard at those screens and spot the problem.