Page 28 - Alumni Horae: Vol. 93, No. 2 Winter 2013

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who live by a moral code that differs from your own, or
by no moral code at all. No one enjoys being told that
what they are doing is reprehensible. St. Paul’s taught
me many lessons. But it is the moral lesson that has
guided me more surely than any other. This lesson has
served me in my profession, affording me passage to
stories on the edges of life, where you must have an
open mind, as well as solid moral footing, so that you
may stand firmly, if silently, against the excess that
threatens your understanding of the right way to treat
others and yourself.
Journalism is the domain of
fact, not of meaning. However,
if you can gain the confidence
of your subject, and if you are
patient and watchful, and if
you can withhold judgment,
while maintaining your own
moral position, then you will
be able to go beyond journal-
ism, to approach meaning. If
you can transmit meaning to
those in your audience who
have the aptitude to receive it,
then you will have performed
a great service.
I am reminded of Rodrigo.
He was the chief of a special
forces unit in Rio de Janeiro,
and I accompanied him and his
group on several missions into
the destitute parts of the city.
These were ultra-violent affairs
that never seemed to produce
a clear winner, just casualties. After the operations, Rodrigo
and his lieutenants would retire to a favorite restaurant,
a Portuguese place, where they would joke about the
young criminals whose lives had only just ended. This
was gallows humor, and I kept silent. I didn’t know what
it was like to fight these battles. Over the months, Rodrigo
and I became friendly. He was intelligent. He discussed
his job in philosophical metaphors. One afternoon, I was
rewarded for my forbearance. I met Rodrigo in his office.
He had just returned from a mission. He was alone. There
was no one to share jokes. He looked at me plainly and
told me that he had just killed a man. “It’s one more death
on my shoulders,” he said, staring at the floor. His office
fell silent. It was then that I understood the moral toll
exacted upon the man whom the state had designated as
its applicator of violence. Morality and our shifting, com-
plex understanding of it must be central to the story.
Otherwise, you have no story at all, only an anecdote.
It was not the School Prayer that gave me moral
guidance. It wasn’t a particular class or game. It was
something else, all of it together, the lesson in kindness,
that though we compete, we may still have empathy for
Many times I
have walked
beside myself
and thought,
“here we are
in another
strange place
with another
strange dude.”
I didn’t know what Kiril did for a living. He picked me
up in a new black Range Rover. His face had the hollow
shaping of someone who hasn’t slept in days. He lived in
a penthouse, newly renovated, with one room leading into
another, and then another. We walked in and took a seat
on a designer sofa, joining two beautiful young women.
Through a picture window, I watched snowflakes dust the
gilded domes of the cathedral in the plot next door.
Kiril handed me a folder. Inside was a report, and I began
to read it. The account was written in tabloid style, about
a powerful oligarch, a man whom
I had seen frequently on the nat-
ional TV news. The paper made
grave claims about the oligarch,
that he had participated in a
murder, that he was plotting to
overthrow the Russian govern-
ment. When I finished reading,
Kiril handed me a drink. “Let’s
publish this in America,” he said.
“In one of your magazines.” The
women leaned in, and the four
of us clinked our glasses.
I placed my drink on the glass
coffee table. I explained to Kiril
that I didn’t operate this way.
He smiled easily. He offered me
$10,000. It seemed pointless to
discuss ethics. Instead, politely
back-pedaling, I delineated the
logistical obstacles to his scheme.
There would be questions from
the editor, I said, a fact-checking
process, libel concerns. Kiril just
nodded. He added another $5,000. “We have a budget,” he
said. “We can do many of these projects together.”
He disclosed that he was a managing editor at a Russian
newspaper, one I knew to have a respected reputation.
Kiril said that during the recently concluded election
season, he had accepted bribes in exchange for coverage.
His backers were opponents of the oligarch in the report
I held in my hands, and they wanted it published in the
West, for that would lend credibility to its assertions.
Kiril gestured around his home. “I just bought this apart-
ment,” he said. “With cash. The car too.” He winked. “I’m
talking real money.”
Although you may make many deals, you sell yourself
only once. And there’s no buying it back. I didn’t take Kiril’s
offer. I didn’t judge him, either. As I waited for a cab in
the cold on the street beneath the warmly lit windows
of Kiril’s penthouse, I thought of St. Paul’s, and I was
reaffirmed in the decisions that had carried me to my
certainties. Don’t falter. Don’t judge.
Talking about morality is tricky. You can hardly do it
without moralizing, and moralizing is dangerous business.
It is most dangerous when you are mixing with people
Would I have the strength to stand