Stories to think about: when a journalist is killed

Stories and News No. 994

Javier Valdez was murdered Monday at noon, near the Ríodoce (Twelfth River) headquarters, the newspaper he co-founded in 2003. Valdez has been hit 12 times, in what his colleagues believe is a premeditated aggression because of their common and courageous commitment against drug cartels.
A few weeks ago, he had been terrifying premonitory of his fate, when, after the murder of yet another journalist, Miroslava Breach, he had said: "Let them kill us all, if that is the death sentence for reporting this hell. No to silence."
According to an organization for the press freedom, Article 19, at least 104 journalists have been assassinated in Mexico since 2000 to date.


When a journalist is killed.
When a journalist is killed, with him, some words die.
The ingenuous ones and those who focus on the target.

But the sound of each single letter moves apart from the end of the speech and rises even higher when the wind feeds on the bravery of listeners.
When a journalist is killed, while he was still scrabbling lies away from the story imposed by force or deceit, the virtuously drawn empty spaces are immediately filled again by horizons usurpers.
The traditional ones, that’s clear, and even the imaginative ones, which for the most part of the world are vital rafts to have at least one more day.
But the noble gesture is ineradicable, and it is sufficient for a proud, or even unconscious, imitator to shake back in favor of the sacrificed creature: "It was worth it, dear friend of us all."
When a journalist is killed, while he was still scrabbling lies away from the story imposed by force or deceit, though he was left alone to face the monsters, the latter win twice, grimly observing the won face of two, distinct types of victims.
The one of the fierce fellows, from the closed eyes that only a virulent coward would be able to blind, and the one of the easy silence profiteers.
But the solitude of this story is like the story of a solitude, as long as time runs, no one is able to predict the final.
When a journalist is killed, while he was still scrabbling lies away from the story imposed by force or deceit, though he was left alone to face the monsters, and you know there were many others before, it means that for every death brutality has become more human.
That illusory set of features that should make us the chosen species on the planet, though at this point of the path we should perhaps ask ourselves who or what really made that questionable choice.
But this same bitter count can be enumerated in the opposite direction, feeding admiration and astonishment before those who, with clear evidence of danger, have nevertheless chosen the way for the same martyrdom.
When a journalist is killed, yes.
When a journalist is killed, with him, some dreams die.
Those naive, of course, but among them the possible miracle as well.
Anyway, it remains somewhere, you just have to know where to look.
Because when a journalist is killed, while he was still scrabbling lies away from the story imposed by force or deceit, though he was left alone to face the monsters, and you know there were many others before, it means that someone was right.
And somebody else, no matter how cruel he is, still today, is trembling with fear.
Of what a journalist will write…


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