The Journalist Who Walked Away

The blast was not particularly bloody by Baghdad’s standards, and nor was it the first Azad had witnessed – but it was enough to make him turn his back on a career in journalism.

He had spent barely three months in the Iraqi capital, working as an interpreter for an international newspaper. For a clever and restless young man, the job had seemed at first like the passport to a brighter future.

The roadside bomb went off a few hundred metres away from him, in a neighbourhood where he had rented a room. A policeman was killed and another officer was wounded, along with two civilians.

That night in 2008, Azad decided to pack his bags and go home. “Sometimes a man does what he has to, not what he wants,” he said recently, reflecting on his move. “I couldn’t bear my mother’s tears and her pleas for me to return.

“Journalism was not my destiny.”

Annual figures released by media watchdogs show more journalists have died in Iraq in the last decade than in any other conflict in the last 50 years. The death toll underlines the dangers of reporting in this country – but it does not tell the whole story.

Alongside the scores of dead journalists are countless others who abandoned their profession because of the threat of violence.

No record exists for how many media workers fit this category. Their departure has not been monitored in the same way as the murders and assaults – but its impact on press freedom has nonetheless been destructive.

Azad’s story is one of many. We became friends during the brief period he spent as my colleague at the international newspaper’s bureau. Nearly two years after I last saw him in Baghdad, we caught up again in Sulaimaniyah, his hometown in Iraq’s Kurdistan region.

He seemed to leading a more ordered life, having got married to the woman he loved. He had also found a job in the human resources department of a major telecoms firm.

“I’m not in danger here. I’m no longer a target for terrorists,” he said.

He said he stood by his decision to leave journalism. “With every explosion I heard near me, I felt that death was coming closer,” he said. “So I asked myself, why should I stay?”

But he admitted he still wondered what might have happened had he remained in Baghdad.

“I accepted the job with the [international newspaper] because of its reputation,” he said. “I still imagine myself working for them whenever I google my name. Instead of the 20 bylines I have right now, I tell myself I would have had 200 if I was still there.

“I always wanted to be famous. Right from high school, I wanted to present the news.”

Azad grew up in Iraq’s semi-autonomous Kurdistan region, at a time of great hardship. The Kurds were locked in a bloody uprising against then Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein.

During the Nineties, the region seemed to suffer twice over – as a result of a blockade imposed by Saddam and because of the broader sanctions imposed by the international community on Iraq.

Azad studied hard but was dissatisfied with his exam results. Abandoning dreams of becoming a doctor, he focused on improving his English.

Like thousands of other young Kurds, he tried to get to Western Europe and find work that would help support his family. He entered Turkey several times, hoping to make his way onwards illegally.

But he always ended up being caught by the security forces. He never spent long in custody as he used a variety of names and identities.

Every failed attempt increased his debt to the smugglers who trafficked Iraqis across the borders. In order to pay them off, he even spent a brief period working alongside them, guiding other would-be migrants.

When Azad arrived at the international newspaper’s bureau, I was struck by his rebellious spirit and his determination to succeed in a difficult environment.

He had left his home in Kurdistan at a time when many young, educated Baghdadis would have happily traded places with him. The semi-autonomous region was seen an island of security and prosperity while conflict ravaged the rest of Iraq.

Though he wore a ponytail, he kept it concealed under a cap to avoid attracting attention. On the streets of Baghdad, long hair was seen as a treacherous imitation of western fashions.

As a Kurd in an Arab city, Azad had few friends and initially seemed shy and guarded. His grasp of Arabic was imperfect. He occasionally confused his pronouns and took longer to understand jokes. Sometimes he seemed distracted, as if his mind was still with his family and his fiancée in Kurdistan.

I tried to help Azad with his Arabic, and familiarise him with the city. Gradually, he began to make friends and develop contacts.

He threw himself into his work, yet the dread of violence was never far from his mind. He was particularly unnerved by the bombings which the newspaper sent him to cover.

“One of the attacks was near my flat,” he said. “I went with a colleague but we weren’t able to produce our notebooks or record anything, because it was too dangerous. The street smelt of grilled flesh. I saw a woman’s hand dismembered and pools of blood everywhere.”

On another occasion, Azad was planning to visit Baghdad’s Karrada district. He changed his plans at the last moment – just before the area was bombed.

Incidents such as these contributed to Azad’s eventual decision to leave Baghdad.

“I believe God has ways of warning a man of threats,” he said. “I preferred to be jobless than have a promising job in which I faced death.”

From his new job in Sulaimaniyah, Azad still follows the news over the internet.

He is still restless, and dreams of fulfilling his potential. After a friend recently ran for parliament, Azad has been pondering a move into politics.

“Had I stayed in Baghdad, I would have made good contacts with the leaders. This would have been good for my career,” he said, somewhat wistfully.

Khalid al-Ansary is an IWPR-trained journalist in Baghdad. This story was edited by Neil Arun, an Iraqi Crisis Report editor based in Baghdad.