From the early hours of the morning, the pages are filled with flowery phrases: "The press is the conscience of the nation," "We stand with the truth," "We are the eye of the truth"... while the eye is blind, the truth is gagged, and the conscience is on unpaid leave.
Yes, we celebrate press freedom, but in our own special way: journalists enjoy complete freedom to write about the rose festival, cooking competitions, and the weather conditions in areas that have not yet been bombed. When they get close to the pulse of truth, they find someone who whispers gently: "Write... but without a headache."
Journalism, as the official curriculum says, is a fourth estate. In reality, however, it is treated like a cleaning lady in the basement of the first estate, wiping the dust off the lie, polishing the official statement, and silently exiting through the back door.
Our journalists don't work; they survive. He writes while looking behind him, publishes while apologizing, and sleeps clutching his switched-off phone for fear of a call beginning with "We have an arrest warrant." Yet, he is asked to be the voice of the people... provided his voice is low, hoarse, or muffled inside a PDF file that hasn't been opened since 2011, as his voice might disturb some.
No one is ashamed. Quite the opposite: press freedom seminars are held under the auspices of those who wrote the law that silences it, and courage awards are given to journalists who cannot leave their bedrooms. Indeed, we are so good at acting that we are classified in freedom of expression indexes as working to improve the index.
In Gaza, the celebration is more practical: no speeches, no flowers, no cake, and no armor other than a bulletproof vest, which will not protect against bullets. They celebrate on top of the rubble and shells, a camera raised to document a moment that may be their last. There, there is no need for restrictive laws, as the bombing is faster than censorship and more honest than all the condemnation statements.
The world? He simply writes a neat statement titled "We Are Concerned," accompanied by a drone photograph. The statement is then folded and filed away in the "Let's Do Something Later" archive.
Thus, we celebrate press freedom as we celebrate the sun on a cloudy day: we write about it often, we paint it on walls, but we never see it.
Every year, may you remain silent and safe, and may your publications pass the censor before they reach the readers.
