I dedicate this diary to journalists who have placed themselves in danger in order to get the story. This is a dedication to those who have died and those who have thankfully faced down injury and threats of harm and survived.
This is intended to shame the Richard Cohens of our media, the perfumed princes and shrinking violets, who run aghast from inboxes filled with words. No matter how foul the invective, no matter how righteous the F-bombs, no matter how they shake the crisp styrofoam cups of coffee in their pampered hands in their plush offices, they are nothing compared to what journalists have proudly faced in the service of democracy and a widely informed public.
This is for Richard Cohen. A knock upside the head. Grow some skin around those brittle bones.
This is for us. Please show some love for the immensely brave hearts of the men and women who stuck their necks on the line for us - and still do.
I dedicate this to the journalists killed in action in Iraq. The numbers are large. The numbers are scandalous. According to the Committee to Protect Journalists it stands at 69
killed, not including 25 media support workers also dead.
This is to the 40 journalists kidnapped in that theater. Some released, some not.
This is to the numbers killed in all the world from 1996-2005. Murders: 238. Crossfire in wars: 67. Reporting in other dangerous situations: 33.
Please take a moment and scroll through the links to read on each individual story.
This is to Don Bolles, blown apart in his Datsun in June, 1976, for having the temerity to investigate the Mob and shady business transactions.
This is to Daniel Pearl, abducted and killed in Pakistan in 2002, for tracing lines of terrorist money.
This is to Veronic Guerin, in 1996, for investigating Irish drug traders.
This is to Don Mellett, shot to death in his garage for investigating crime figures in Ohio, 1926.
This is to Fritz Gerlich, sent to the concentration camps in Germany for writing articles critical of Hitler.
This is to Carlos Cardoso, killed in 2000, for investigating corruption in the privatization of the largest bank in Mozambique.
This is to all of them, and more, in the past, and in the future. This is to those who needed the story, who had to find the truth, who had to fight the wicked and the criminal in order to set things right, at enormous cost.
This is to those who received legitimate threats, legitimate slander, legitimate invective, who braved it all and soldiered on regardless.
This is to those who thankfully survived it all.
This is to shame the lackluster, the pompous, the pampered, the Richard Cohens, who cannot brave a few hundred righteous emails calling him out for one stupid column about a comedian's dinner room skit. This is for his bleeding heart. This is for his quivering fingers, his quivering lip. This is for his warm burrowed office. This is for his cushy insider chats. This is for his big salary.
We do not ask you, Richard, to be mighty, to run alongside battlefields, or in any way get your trousers wet. We just need you stop making this about yourself. We need you to recognize the seriousness of what has been going on.
This is for your stubbed toe. Your torn cuticle. Your spilled coffee. Your burned tongue. Your paper cut. This is to your prodigious sense of humor. This is to your tepid blood that pumps slowly through your veins. This is to the shrug of your shoulders, your search for a fluffier pillow. Your slouch. Your sense of entitlement. Your cowardice.