After
UN Eviction, AFP & Angola
Freeze Out, Concern But
Inaction from USUN's Pressman
By Matthew
Russell Lee, Series,
Video
I,
II
UNITED NATIONS,
March 1 –
After the UN's eviction, I
wanted to scan and upload UN
official Cristina Gallach's letter
saying my files would be
evicted on April 6. But If I
left the UN, how could I get
back in? I went to an event in
the General Assembly lobby,
Daniel Craig 007 talking about
UN Mine Action. I Periscoped
it, tweeted a few photos, adding
that I had to leave at 7,
hashtag #ThanksGallach. Or
better yet, #ThanksBan.
The United Nations
Correspondents Association
scribes, smelling blood and
seemingly in the know,
ratcheted up their campaign. I
went to a Security Council
stakeout to ask the outgoing
president of the Council,
Angola's Gaspar Martin, a
question about Burundi.
“Journalists first,” the
correspondent from Agence
France Presse hissed. As if
retyping that the French
mission gave her was
journalism. But they were able
to enforce their will, the UN
was happy to do it. I came
down the ramp where US deputy
David Pressman was speaking to
a gaggle of scribes. I took
out my tape recorder and
joined the pack.
“You have to move,” the
guard at the top of ramp said
loudly. I shook my head, no.
“Move it,” he demanded,
pointing to the Security
Council stakeout twenty feet
away. I could look but not
touch, or in this case record.
They'd gotten the two tier
system they had wanted.
Journalists first!
One of the UN
Correspondents Association
members, who'd quietly tried
to help me before in 2012,
tried again this time. He said
he'd draft a letter for others
to sign, that what was
happening to me was too much.
Send me a copy, I told him.
Then he added, he might sent
it out through UNCA. No
way, I told him. That got it
all wrong.
Finally he didn't send
any letter at all, letting Giampaolo
Pioli tell him that UNCA
itself would belatedly fight
for the rights of the Green
P's, the non resident
correspondents. Bullshit, I
told him.
Not only the end of the
road, but the end of the month
had arrived. I'd been emailed
an invitation from Angola to
their end of presidency
reception, in the cheaper,
South Delegates Dining Room.
Their spokesman approached me
at the stakeout. I was
thanking him for the invite
when he tried to revoke it. It
would be better, he said, if I
didn't in fact come. “The
spokesman will be there,” he
said, as if I didn't deal with
Dujarric everyday.
I can act polite, I told
him. He nodded, apparently
understanding me to be saying
I wouldn't go. But that, I
wouldn't accept, as least not
in writing. I told Angola's
ambassador, the spokesman's
boss, See you tonight and he
nodded. So I went, even though
the spokesman stood in the
corner glaring, or really
gaping, as if it was unheard
of hutzpa to show up to
something I had been invited
in writing to.
I remained on the
outside raging, as the rain
pelted down on the balcony
outside the Delegates' South
Dining Room. It was an
existential battle to remain
present. And to write stories,
whatever the restrictions. I
uploaded from the lobby, and
tweeted from the subway. I was
a 21st century blogger.
Journalists first: what a
joke. Only I wasn't laughing.
***
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