Why I Write.

I did not set out to become a writer. No one does.

These days, I do a lot more talking than writing. I guess that’s a reflection of where media has taken us. It’s just another way of telling the story, but secretly, I prefer read and writing over watching and talking.

I suppose for most of us it starts like this: too curious to sit still, and much too bothered to stay quiet.

The world was on fire, and it seemed like no one was really listening.

What with all that was going on in the world back then, I found myself being drawn away from the work I was expected to do, and towards something else altogether.

That was twenty years ago, give or take.

Now I find myself here, in a very different world, and with an air on uncertainty on the other side of fifty.

Though raised on the road, some things still don’t change—I’m still American born, and with a bit of passionate Irish in the blood, and a trace Scandinavian sensibility. And a wandering imagination, not to be confused with an attention deficit disorder. Somehow all that translates into a restless habit of crossing borders.

It’s been said that before you ever cross over physical borders, you will have already crossed them in the mind; the people, the landscape, the cityscapes, the atmosphere and texture of the place, the civilization. Since I was a youngster, I can vividly recall the anticipation of a road trip, or of moving house (which we did many times whilst growing up), excitement and anxiety, and a little fear too. Prior to a journey, I had already rendered my own version of the destination in my mind. Whether any of it was true remained to be seen, but it never really was. It’s something of a day dream ritual I do all the time. That’s how it happens for me anyway. It’s a very human thing, and no matter how many times we do it—no matter how many times we get it completely wrong, we still do it anyway. We can’t help it, because it’s irresistible.

In many ways, this seemingly childish daydreaming habit is one of the great excitants of journalism. You form a picture of something in your mind; a reflection of your expectations, mostly based on derivative media images, your own stereotypes, and ingrained biases. And when you eventually arrive at the place, or meet the person you were seeking, that’s where the discovery happens, the psychological adventure, and all the new knowledge that comes with it. Maybe that’s what pulls them towards a path in journalism or documentary films—where they will forsake everything, and bequeath all their worldly goods to Gumtree, and forego the creature comforts, all in the service of this intrepid trade. For some, there is a real passion and innate sense of duty baked into all that. At least that’s been my experience. It’s a strange thing, and adrenaline junkies and clinically insane photographers notwithstanding, you’ll find such traits tend to be the rule rather than exception.

Mine is not a normal career path, and I wouldn’t even call it a career. Not really. That’s a running joke in journalism; a career is supposed to pay a living wage. Too often real journalism doesn’t. But the compensation comes in other ways. Somehow, I made it to this point in time, with my principles and a few remnant ideals, only just, still in tact. A decade and half in the media sphere boils down to this: I’ve written things, said things, reported things—some of them read in places I never thought I’d reach, with knowledge garnered from places I never imagined I’d ever go, and from people I never thought I would ever meet. What began with a coffee, a croissant, and the Sunday papers in a West London café, learning those political ropes—somehow turned into a highly unconventional career in journalism, political commentary, geopolitics, and a few war zones. That’s how it goes sometimes. You take a step and the road keeps pulling.

There was no grand plan, no polished résumé. Just the world, cracking open after the end of history, Desert Storm, and then 9/11. I remember watching it all happen—not just the tanks rolling across the desert oil fields, or the towers falling, but the world unraveling, threadbare, one lie at a time. Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya and then Syria—countries turned to rubble and slogans, antiquities underfoot, and the collective West still ambling along, a clumsy but still dangerous hegemon, punch-drunk on former imperial grandeur and largess, held together by a patchwork of old tropes and state-approved narratives. I wanted to understand it. I wanted to see it with my own eyes.

So I went.

I was not embedded. I was not assigned. I was not wearing the body armor as is customary. I moved how I could. I looked, listened. I watched. I wrote. I spoke to cameras. There in between the diesel and the dust, and not intending to pick a side, but picking through the wreckage for the truth. Or at least something close to it.

Blogging was my first foray back in the early 2000s. Granted, the ‘blog’ word sounded a little unserious. But it was the thing at that time, and for some of us, it was a lifeline—a place to write what the editors wouldn't print, a place the shout what the usual pundits wouldn’t say. It wasn’t ‘real’ print, but it was real. We started a conversation with the world. Slowly, we began to reclaim the conversation.

All in all, from Beirut to Donbas, and everything in between, the journey sharpened me, maybe more than I care to admit. Not in a cynical way, but in a way where it’s hard to remember the pedestrian life, because the stories I’ve seen have showed me there is real life in there—not just politics and propaganda. Not just narratives to be managed. There’s nothing uplifting about it. Usually it’s a hellscape. Despite what the western desktop punditry say, these are not just “theatres of operations”. They have homes, usually built with their own hands. They grow their own food. They have sons and daughters, and widows. They are labourers, school teachers, engineers, farmers, shopkeepers, clergy, homemakers, and a few are soldiers. In my experience, some spoke English. Most did not. And no amount of my liberal bleeding heart comes near to what they bleed, daily.

I am writing not to perform, although there is always some performance in it. But I’m not here to opine, or wax on about the great and the good. I will keep asking the hard questions, and challenging the soft certainties. Whether it is through essays, reports, or looking at footage new and old, I will keep pulling at the seams of the official story. That’s what I’ve always done, and have no intention of dropping that old habit.

I will write about war and peace—the proverbial game of nations. That elusive concept of peace—is not so much a slogan, but rather, a task. It’s not an end state, but a process, and a painful one at that. Likewise, the job of journalism isn’t so much a profession as it is a responsibility. And it’s not a silly thing to say that we are all journalists. In the digital age, we all play that role to some degree or another, and we all share some responsibility to try and get it right.

There is a war on words now, too. Not just with censorship, but with the meaning of words. The etymological landscape is becoming ever warped, like political terraforming, courtesy of a flailing establishment that can’t work out whether it’s coming or going. These days, “democracy” has become a feigned virtue, a performative jingle that rolls off the lips of petty tyrants. “Freedom” is sold in an ornate, ephemeral package of “security’. And what about “truth”? That’s critical case—struggling to retain its philosophical and epistemological bona fides, in danger of becoming an A.I. generated, algorithmic, crowd-sourced and twice minced before it even reaches our screens. There’s no point in painting a rosy picture. Get used to the discomfort. None of that will stop us though—from going deeper than the predictable headlines, and away from the depressingly predictable partisan talking points.

We’re still here, still carving out segues. Don’t listen to the intelligensia and so-called ‘thought leaders’ of the self-appointed liberal elite. This is not a ‘post-truth’ world as they claim. Far from it. If anything, it’s these same people who live in their own self-styled post-truth bubble. The reality is that some truths don’t change. People still want to live. They want to love. They want to work. They want to be able to raise children. They want to live with a modicum of dignity. And no, these are not “western values”. They are human ones. You see it every day, in your London flat where the heat and electric bill that doesn’t make sense anymore. And it’s the same in Gaza, in Lebanon, Syrian, and Russia, and on Lakota and Navajo reservations too. It’s the same everywhere.

Just so you understand, I am not in it for an ideology for ideology’s sake. I am, at heart, a classical liberal, albeit with a libertarian instinct. I am and always have been highly critical of cartels and empires, and not terribly impressed by the trappings of power. I believe in the individual and rights enshrined therein. I believe in liberty. But I also believe in the collective good too—we are nothing without it, because it nourishes our families and communities. There is a balance there, and it’s never easy to reach, but what matters is that we try. None of that can happen without free speech, and when you silence dissent, you are then choking off that conversation, and in doing so, you kill something fundamental for human existence, something sacred. Yet, that is actually happening now. By the hand of the state, or through its corporate arms, of third sector adjuncts, in ways both crude and elegant, it’s happening. Cancel this person, censor that one, or label a grassroots activist organisation as “terrorists”. It’s happening alright. And all to ‘keep you safe’, or so we’re told. Ad nauseum.

What you’ll find in the posts ahead here will not be not a diary or memoir. More like a map of moments. A ledger of history. Thoughts and reflections on what I see, and what I’ve seen. Where I am, and where I’ve been—and what it’s all meant, or might mean still.

I hope you’ll find that some of it resonates. If any of it makes you think, then I hope I’ve made it worth your time and attention.

Over the years, one of the most challenging things I ever read was Orwell’s short essay, Why I Write, which is so dense in meaning, it feels more like a treatise. It took me years to understand his politics, and where his lucid, prescient warnings were emanating from. But in this particular essay, the message which rang out to me was this: don’t be predictable, don’t tow the party line, and whatever you do, just don’t try to be like everyone else.

So here we are. Another week, another slew of headlines, and media noise, part of an endless spiraling Samsara of distractions. But somewhere in there, there is also a chance—to tell the truth. I try to exploit that where I can.

Alas, old habits die hard. Vices come and go. I still drink coffee and its trusty sidekick, the odd croissant. Shockingly, I still use a pen to order my thoughts, and still keep my latest in a long line of battered notebooks by my side. Once in a while, I will read the papers, as nostalgic entertainment, but also to feel the power of a printed narrative.

And yes, I still believe that words, carefully chosen, can cut through the noise. They can find you. They can wake something in you. They can light a fire.

So let’s begin.

I'm not sure what's next, first just building a pier, and with any luck, find a boat and see which way we'll be pitching our sail.

The direction always follows the wind. Let that wind fill the void of what’s not being said, and what matters most to you.

As always, thank you for your support.