Stories of the Everyday

We are out ‘in the field’. That’s what journalists call it when they manage to peel themselves off their office chairs. Away from the safety of their computer screens. Out of their comfort zones.

There has been a flood in Botswana’s Okavango Delta. In a convoy of three 4 x 4′s we drive, true international observer style, around the outskirts of Maun, a town in the country’s north that has become the launching pad for tourists visiting the delta. Usually dry and dusty, the flood has turned Maun into a green oasis through which the Okavango flows. That’s good for tourism. Very good. Lodges that for the past 30 years lay alongside a dry riverbed – often used as a cricket field – are now launching sunset boat tours from their verandas.

But the flood also has a serious downside. Poor people’s homes, often built either in the dried out riverbed have been flooded, and many have been damaged beyond repair.

We are a group of journalists from all over southern Africa. Three local journalists from Maun have joined us as well. One of them proudly works for a tabloid called the Voice. She is dead keen to take the lead of the tour, boasting about her in-depth knowledge of the area. She also speaks the local language. She has a good point, so we all agree.

Thandi is delighted to be the centre of attention. She talks loudly and non-stop as we drive through areas affected by the flooding. When we cross a bridge, we see a group of children swimming in a shallow spot of the river, obviously enjoying the unusual respite from the unforgiving afternoon heat. We stop the cars, get out and are immediately surrounded by a group of laughing, excited kids.

Thandi starts chatting to them and soon finds out that the family of two of the boys has been displaced by the flood. They now live in a shaky tent on a relative’s plot after having lost most of their few belongings. When the boys are promised ride in the back of the 4×4, they eagerly agree to come along to show us the site of destruction.

Off we go, driving along narrow, sandy roads into a nearby village. The cars come to a halt at an abandoned cluster of houses. We walk around, inspecting the water damage, taking photos, with he children leading us. Five minutes later, we are on the road again, driving towards the tent where the family is housed, just a few hundred metres further on.

When we get there, we are welcomed icily. The head of the family, a woman in her late 30s, who is the grandmother, addresses us in a harsh tone in Setswana and turns her back. An incredibly rude gesture in an African context. Her daughter, who is in her early 20s or late teens, sits nearby, comforting a crying infant in her arms. She avoids eye contact and mainly stares onto her dusty feet in worn-out plastic sandals. A third woman gestures angrily into the direction we came from, grabs her child, a small boy of about four, and briskly walks off.

We look at each other in astonishment, slightly embarrassed, while Thandi launches into a heated conversation with the grandmother. The debate goes back and forth for a while, until Thandi turns towards us to inform our group in English about what’s going on. The family is upset, it turns out, because we visited their damaged home without permission. They saw our group walking in between the houses from their yard. Even though it was their children who showed us around, we should have followed protocol and sought permission from the head of the family.

Big mistake. My trust in Thandi starts to crumble. But there is more to their reluctance to talk to us. The family is also angry because delegations from the local council have been visiting them to hear their story and take pictures… and nothing happened thereafter. Nobody did anything to help. The many promises made turning out to be lip service. Even though we don’t understand the words spoken, it becomes very clear that they are not willing to give another interview. When they see us holding cameras and recorders, they point and say ‘no’.

But Thandi is far from giving up. Her true light as a tabloid reporter shining through. Animatedly, she continues talking to the grandmother and her daughter. Once can tell from her tone of voice and her gestures that Thandi is trying her best to persuade them to be interviewed. She insists, she urges, she hugs the grandmother and, at some point, falls onto her knees, hands in prayer, pleading.

Consternation spreads through our little group. We don’t know exactly what is going on, and Thandi is so busy with her tactics, she hardly fills us in. The conversation goes on and on. I am no longer sure I am interpreting the situation correctly. Have they changed their minds? Is she interviewing them? What’s going on? When I look around, I see similar question marks on my colleagues’ faces.

Eventually, Thandi turns around to translate. They family doesn’t want to be interviewed, she says, and the main reason for their anger is that the young woman’s newborn contracted pneumonia due to the flood and died a few weeks ago. To them, we represent just another form of authority. The lines between the media and government agencies blurry.

After 20 minutes of palaver, we eventually manage to prise Thandi away from the family. We thank the for their time, climb into the cars and make our way back to the hotel. As we drive off, Thandi proudly announces she got the story. The women eventually told her had happened to them, she argues – the destruction of their house, loss of livelihood and the death of the baby. She is convinced she has the right to publish the story, in the interest of making the family’s plight known in the country.

I sense my jaw drop. From a perspective of journalistic ethics, the case is clear: the women refused the interview and it is their right to do so. At no point during the conversation did the women say yes to an interview. No notes were taken. The conversation was clearly off the record.

The fact that Thandi plans to violate these people’s rights to be interviewed with the justification of raising awareness of a different violation of their rights flabbergasts me. Thandi is completely oblivious to this fact. A heated debate ensures in the car, during which Thandi declares it has her ‘role as an advocate and journalist’ to give a voice to the poor. By what means she achieves this doesn’t seem to matter too much.

It takes us over an hour to finally convince her that it would be unethical to run the story in her newspaper, if one can call a tabloid that. She agrees that she will have to find another family, with a similar plight, if she wants to show how the poor have been affected disproportionally by the flooding. With a bit of asking around, it shouldn’t be too hard to find people who would like to be interviewed and have their story published.

When we depart from Botswana a couple of days later, I leave with an uncomfortable niggle in my stomach. Did we mange to truly convince Thandi about the need for an ethical approach to this story? Or will she pitch the story to her editor as soon as we have turned our backs? All I can do is hope for the former.