War stories

As he prepares to return to Iraq, BBC broadcaster John Simpson says he believes the aftermath of September 11 and the so-called War Against Terror has had seriously damaging effects on media reportage, particularly in America. Simpson, who spearheaded the BBC’s coverage of the liberation of Kabul in Afghanistan last autumn, and whose new book News From No Man’s Land – Reporting The World is an account of that campaign, levels serious criticism against the US news networks, particularly for failing to report instances of attacks by Americans against anyone who looked vaguely Muslim. Post-9/11, he concedes that American journalism failed itself, victim to the worst censorship – the self-imposed kind.

“It’s easy to make sweeping condemnations,” he says, “but I couldn’t bear it at the time when I saw American television in Afghanistan or Pakistan, seeing the coverage done time and time again by their state correspondent saying what the state department told them, and their military affairs being reported by their defence department correspondent, reporting what the defence department was telling them. I thought that was complete abrogation, as much as to say to the US government, ‘Tell us what to think, tell us what to say, and we’ll do it faithfully’. I just found that quite unacceptable.”

Simpson himself endured much criticism and ribbing in the wake of his own Afghanistan reports, due mainly to a quip he made about Kabul being liberated by the BBC, whose reporting teams were in the city before the US military. To this day he remains incredulous that so much was made of what was obviously a joke.

“Important things happened that day,” he says, “and much of the emphasis in some of the newspapers was on a journalist. I mean, what’s the point of reporting the great events of the day if it’s all about some feeble joke made by some aged old hack?”

Now, as the American war machine once again gears up for attacks on Iraq, Simpson admits he will find it harder to return to the location of his remarkable reports ten years ago, crouched in his Baghdad hotel while missiles cruised down main street to turn left at the traffic lights.

“I’ve been banned by the Iraqis,” he says. “They simply will not accept me back. I wrote a book in 1991 after the war in which I spilled the beans a bit too much about the workings of Saddam’s government and people I knew, on the assumption that they were all going to be overthrown. And of course with my luck, they’re all still there; the people that I offended the most are the people with the most power! So about a month ago I gave up the thought that I might go back, and since I won’t go there I’ll go to Northern Iraq, which Saddam doesn’t control, and see if I can make my way down. I hope it won’t be such bad driving this time, that’s all.”

This is typical of Simpson, who ignored the BBC’s insistence that he should leave Baghdad back in 1991. And like many, he now remembers the Gulf War less in terms of a military campaign so much as televised surrealism.

“It was deeply, deeply surreal, and quite disturbing,” he says. “Don’t forget, these weapons that are now loosed off against every wide place in the road, none of these weapons had been used before, cruise missiles and these other penetration bombs hadn’t been fired in anger, nobody knew what effect they’d have on you. And we had all these stories about how your brain would be jellified and come out of your ears, and the physical skeletal structure would melt and everything, so it was really scary in the initial stages. And I have to say, I felt almost jubilant when I realised how precise those kinds of weapons were, because I realised I was actually in with a moderate chance of escaping alive.”

An abiding memory for many of the conflict is the extraordinary image of a missile practically turning a corner at a traffic intersection.

“The thing that worried me about that business with the missile turning left,” Simpson reflects, “was that I felt somehow I was being co-opted into the party (line) that said, ‘Actually this is rather like an electronic game, this isn’t serious, it’s all remote control, these things always precisely hit their target so you don’t need to worry back home that we might be hitting the wrong people, everything is perfect: the machinery works’. It didn’t of course. Lots of things went wrong and it wasn’t fun and real people got killed.”

So how does he work up the nerve to go through great difficulty getting to these places and then staying there when the bombing starts?

“It’s a continual process of burning your bridges behind you so that you get into that position and there’s nothing you can do to get yourself out, so you might as well make the most of it! I’m always amazed actually at the people who fight to get to difficult places and then fight to get out, directly they’re there. It seems to me that the number one rule of journalism in those circumstances is once you’ve got to the good place, stay there. You don’t just leave. I don’t wanna pretend that I’m some kind of hero at any of these things, I’m just doing what I’m paid to do. It’s just part of the job, just like having a four course meal is part of being a restaurant critic. You might say, ‘Well, what about all that heartburn you must suffer afterwards!’”

News From No Man’s Land is not only a fascinating account of the BBC’s Afghanistan reportage, but also serves as a highly readable trawl through the ethical and moral jungle of broadcasting and print journalism. In Simpson’s view, the journalist is basically an agitator with a license to ask awkward questions.

“I want people to think of me a little bit like a grenade with the pin out,” he says. “I think journalists should always be dangerous, difficult, unpredictable. I don’t think you should want to be part of the establishment, that sort of chummy business where you call the Prime Minister Bertie and he calls you John. I don’t like those insider people, the political journalist that is always hanging out with the politicians.”

Fighting talk perhaps, but it’s borne out by the fact that on his first day on the job, Simpson was punched in the stomach by Harold Wilson for interrupting a photo-op.

“The reason I told that story was not so much about myself and Wilson,” he says, “but about the kind of journalism that would regard that as something to keep quiet, and how things have changed in the 32 years since that happened. Unthinkable – imagine if Bertie Ahern took a swing at you – he’d be out of a job by the evening. Or if Blair took a swing at me – I’d be able to sue the British government and the BBC and be able to claim enormous amounts of money for counselling as well. Then, nobody even thought it was worth reporting. I just went back to the office and felt guilty.”

Heartburn and guilt. In his book, Simpson paints the journalist as a shabby, somewhat down at heel Graham Greene type character, middle-aged, living in a small room, prone to drinking and smoking too much, obsessed with the job to the detriment of his private life. Does he think being a journalist contributed to the break up of his first marriage?

“What broke up my first marriage was my ramshackle bad behaviour,” he says, “but yes, it was sort of accentuated by the kind of life I lived with the BBC. I mean, I feel I’m kind of married to the BBC and I’ve got to organise the rest of my life around that. God knows what happens when I leave it.”

Is this a Freudian thing – being married to Auntie Beeb?

“Somebody’s doing the shafting, but I don’t think it’s me actually – I think I’m being shafted!”