before the 2003 war, we were attacking Iraqi civilians with our
inhumane economic sanctions. Yet where were the media protesting
against this injustice?
October 1999, I stood in a ward of dying children in Baghdad with
Denis Halliday, who the previous year had resigned as assistant
secretary general of the United Nations. He said: “We are waging
a war through the United Nations on the people of Iraq. We’re targeting
civilians. Worse, we’re targeting children . . . What is this all
Halliday had been 34 years with the UN. As an international civil
servant much respected in the field of “helping people, not harming
them," as he put it, he had been sent to Iraq to implement the oil-for-food
programme, which he subsequently denounced as a sham. “I am resigning,”
he wrote, “because the policy of economic sanctions is . . . destroying
an entire society. Five thousand children are dying every month.
I don’t want to administer a programme that satisfies the definition
Halliday’s successor, Hans von Sponeck, another assistant secretary
general with more than 30 years’ service, also resigned in protest.
Jutta Burghardt, the head of the World Food Programme in Iraq, followed
them, saying she could no longer tolerate what was being done to
the Iraqi people. Their collective action was unprecedented; yet
it received only passing media attention. There was no serious inquiry
by journalists into their grave charges against the British and
American governments, which in effect ran the embargo. Von Sponeck’s
disclosure that the sanctions restricted Iraqis to living on little
more than $100 a year was not reported. “Deliberate strangulation,"
he called it. Neither was the fact that, up to July 2002, more than
$5bn worth of humanitarian supplies, which had been approved by
the UN sanctions committee and paid for by Iraq, were blocked by
George W Bush, with Tony Blair’s backing. They included food products,
medicines and medical equipment, as well as items vital for water
and sanitation, agriculture and education.
The cost in lives was staggering. Between 1991 and 1998, reported
Unicef, 500,000 Iraqi children under the age of five died. “If you
include adults,” said Halliday, “the figure is now almost certainly
well over a million.” In 1996, in an interview on the American current
affairs programme 60 Minutes, Madeleine Albright, then US
ambassador to the UN, was asked: “We have heard that half a million
children have died . . . is the price worth it?” Albright replied,
“We think the price is worth it.” The television network CBS has
since refused to allow the videotape of that interview to be shown
again, and the reporter will not discuss it.
Halliday and von Sponeck have long been personae non gratae
in most of the US and British media. What these whistle-blowers
have revealed is far too unpalatable: not only was the embargo a
great crime against humanity, it actually reinforced Saddam Hussein’s
control. The reason why so many Iraqis feel bitter about the invasion
and occupation is that they remember the Anglo-American embargo
as a crippling, medieval siege that prevented them from overthrowing
their dictatorship. This is almost never reported in Britain.
Halliday appeared on BBC2’s Newsnight soon after he resigned.
I watched the presenter Jeremy Paxman allow Peter Hain, then a Foreign
Office minister, to abuse him as an “apologist for Saddam." Hain’s
shameful performance was not surprising. On the eve of this year’s
Labour party conference, he dismissed Iraq as a “fringe issue."
Alan Rusbridger, the Guardian editor, wrote in the New
Statesman recently that some journalists “consider it bad form
to engage in public debate about anything to do with ethics or standards,
never mind the fundamental purpose of journalism." It was a welcome
departure from the usual clubbable stuff that passes for media comment
but which rarely addresses “the fundamental purpose of journalism” — and especially not its collusive, lethal silences.
truth is replaced by silence,” the Soviet dissident Yevgeny Yevtushenko
said, “the silence is a lie.” He might have been referring to the
silence over the devastating effects of the embargo. It is a silence
that casts journalists as accessories, just as their silence contributed
to an illegal and unprovoked invasion of a defenceless country.
Yes, there was plenty of media noise prior to the invasion, but
Blair’s spun version dominated, and truth-tellers were sidelined.
Scott Ritter was the UN’s senior weapons inspector in Iraq. Ritter
began his whistle-blowing more than five years ago when he said:
“By 1998, [Iraq’s] chemical weapons infrastructure had been completely
dismantled or destroyed by Unscom . . . The biological weapons programme
was gone, the major facilities eliminated . . . The long-range ballistic
missile programme was completely eliminated. If I had to quantify
Iraq’s threat, I would say [it is] zero.”
Ritter’s truth was barely acknowledged. Like Halliday and von Sponeck,
he was almost never mentioned on the television news, the principal
source of most people’s information. The studied obfuscation of
Hans Blix was far more acceptable as the “balancing voice." That
Blix, like Kofi Annan, was playing his own political games with
Washington was never questioned.
Up to the fall of Baghdad, the misinformation and lies of Bush and
Blair were channelled, amplified and legitimised by journalists,
notably by the BBC, which defines its political coverage by the
pronouncements, events and personalities of the “village” of Whitehall
and Westminster. Andrew Gilligan broke this rule in his outstanding
reporting from Baghdad and later his disclosure of Blair’s most
important deception. It is instructive that the most sustained attacks
on him came from his fellow journalists.
In the crucial 18 months before Iraq was attacked, when Bush and
Blair were secretly planning the invasion, famous, well-paid journalists
became little more than channels, debriefers of the debriefers — what the French call fonctionnaires. The paramount role of
real journalists is not to channel, but to challenge, not to fall
silent, but to expose. There were honourable exceptions, notably
Richard Norton-Taylor in the Guardian and the irrepressible
Robert Fisk in the Independent. Two newspapers, the Mirror
and the Independent, broke ranks. Apart from Gilligan and
one or two others, broadcasters failed to reflect the public’s own
rising awareness of the truth. In commercial radio, a leading journalist
who raised too many questions was instructed to “tone down the anti-war
stuff because the advertisers won’t like it."
In the United States, in the so-called mainstream of what is constitutionally
the freest press in the world, the line held, with the result that
Bush’s lies were believed by the majority of the population. American
journalists are now apologising, but it is too late. The US military
is out of control in Iraq, bombarding densely populated areas with
impunity. How many Iraqi families like Kenneth Bigley’s are grieving?
We do not experience their anguish, or hear their appeals for mercy.
According to a recent estimate, roughly 37,000 Iraqis have died
in this grotesque folly.
Charles Lewis, the former star CBS reporter who now runs the Centre
for Public Integrity in Washington, DC, told me he was in no doubt
that, had his colleagues done their job rather than acted as ciphers,
the invasion would not have taken place. Such is the power of the
modern media; it is a power we should reclaim from those subverting
Pilger was born and educated in Sydney, Australia. He has been
a war correspondent, filmmaker and playwright. Based in London,
he has written from many countries and has twice won British journalism’s
highest award, that of "Journalist of the Year," for his
work in Vietnam and Cambodia. His new book, Tell
Me No Lies: Investigative Journalism and Its Triumphs, is
published by Jonathan Cape next month. This article was first published
in the New Statesman.
John Pilger 2004