I will let you know in the starting itself that this piece isn’t going to be a professional writing about the World Press Day, neither is it well researched. It’s just going to be about what I think the press is and how it affected me.
Not being much of a newspaper enthusiast, I’ve never watched or read about politics. But the idea of journalism always piqued me. Even when I was little, sometimes glancing accidentally at the TV when news was on, I very much stared at the people who were in the scene, holding a camera or a microphone. But later on, I knew what drew me were their words. The actual journalists who were behind the picture.
I used to make up scenarios of accidents or robberies and used to report those incidents to my family. My Dad seemed very impressed, just like any other father. But I did not know that he would take it for real and ask me to take up journalism in later years. I didn’t hash out the idea, nope. I started reading much about how the press works and what exactly journalism meant.
It wasn’t that complicated, at least to me. But is the job difficult? Incredibly. I didn’t know that before. Being emotionally stable and summoning all your strength not to be shook because of the events you would be reporting, or clicking pictures of, is physically and mentally challenging and tiring. It isn’t as simple as we think it is. Mustering up words uses up a lot of brain juice.
Is the press all about talking on TV? Not at all. From reaching the scene of coverage on time to be able to portray everything perfectly to the public, there is sweat and blood. But I was unsure. Still am. Because fame doesn’t fuel me, respect does. And the press members, taken from the directors to the people who cover the scene of crime nowadays are very rarely respected or in fact, are acutely safe.
I’ve read so many times that any member from the whole of the press family who has taken up a serious issue and has written/covered/reported about it, their story hasn’t ended well. I hated the fact that they’re asked to mask the specifics most of the time. If the press is about showing the truth, then what’s happening? I hoped that what I’d read about the murders, killings, kidnappings, holding ransom, and whatnot of the journalists, reporters who’ve exposed the truth and nothing else to be my nightmares, but life was cruel. My interest in the press area descended into fear and I tried to stop giving a second, third or even the thousandth thought about it.
But one choice which I so strongly loved didn’t fade away that easily. I’ve always known that the press is very powerful. That it’s the thing which keeps us on par and in tune with the world. But when the society can’t support their freedom, I hadn’t wanted to be a part of that community where I have to worry about death with every article I’ve written, with every crime I’ve covered, with every report I’ve ead out to the public, and with any work I’d contributed to the world of press. My dream ultimately shattered. I didn’t fight with my parents that I’d still wanted to do some good through the camera. BBut what defense did I have to prove my point?
I rested my case because the one question that ate at me is that: Is my passion worth my life?