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In writing this column, I have often taken the most embarrassing members of the profession to task: the shameless sycophants, the suck-ups who seek out those in positions of wealth and power and do their dirty work; the log-rollers. They are almost too numerous to count, and they seem to grow more entrenched every year.
But there are also real heroes in the world of journalism, and some of them can be found in the most unlikely places. One of them was my young friend Alisher Saipov, who was murdered today in the ancient Silk Road city of Osh. He had just turned 26 when he died. The single word that best described Saipov was fearless.
An ethnic Uzbek residing in Kyrgyzstan, Saipov had staked out a critical beat—the Ferghana Valley. This is the historical heartland of Central Asia, its most densely populated strip, divided between three nations. Like most of the population of the Ferghana, Saipov was an ethnic Uzbek. He was very concerned about the conditions in Uzbekistan, now governed by a brutal Stalinist dictatorship and among the most corrupt nations in the world. In May 2005 there was a popular uprising in Andijan—just across the frontier from Osh—which was violently put down by the Uzbek dictatorship. Hundreds of Uzbeks were mowed down by gunfire, and their bodies quickly disposed of in shallow graves. The Uzbek Government worked feverishly to cut the country off from the world and to prevent word getting out about the massacre.
A number of brave journalists and human rights workers got the story of the massacre out, and documented it with photographs. But few if any played quite so effective and powerful a role as Saipov. He was the key Central Asia reporter for Voice of America, Radio Free Europe, Radio Liberty and other broadcasters, and he founded his own journal focused on political and economic developments in Uzbekistan. In his reporting, Saipov put his life on the line, repeatedly. And in the following years, he was the journalist to whom everyone turned for information about what was happening. I turned to Alisher often to understand what was happening, and there is no one whose opinion I ever found more reliable. He always succeeded in drawing out the details, the incessant power plays that mark Uzbekistan’s politics, the acts of repression and petty corruption. He was a bright spotlight on the Uzbek leadership, he was unflappable and incorruptible.
Last night Saipov was shot by an assailant using a gun with a silencer, just as he left his office in Osh. It was clearly an act of political assassination, and suspicions will immediately fall on one party, already known to use assassination as a tool to eliminate its enemies. Shortly before his killing, Saipov received repeated death threats and came under heavy attack on Uzbek state television. It was clear that he was being targeted. Saipov ignored these threats and plowed ahead with his work. His courage knew no limits, but an assassin’s bullet has put an end to his career. His death is a great loss for Central Asia and for the journalists’ profession.
More from Scott Horton:
Six Questions — October 18, 2014, 8:00 pm
Nathaniel Raymond on CIA interrogation techniques.
Mark Denbeaux on the NCIS cover-up of three “suicides” at Guantánamo Bay Detention Camp
From the June 2014 issue
For the past three years my dosimeter had sat silently on a narrow shelf just inside the door of a house in Tokyo, upticking its final digit every twenty-four hours by one or two, the increase never failing — for radiation is the ruthless companion of time. Wherever we are, radiation finds and damages us, at best imperceptibly. During those three years, my American neighbors had lost sight of the accident at Fukushima. In March 2011, a tsunami had killed hundreds, or thousands; yes, they remembered that. Several also recollected the earthquake that caused it, but as for the hydrogen explosion and containment breach at Nuclear Plant No. 1, that must have been fixed by now — for its effluents no longer shone forth from our national news. Meanwhile, my dosimeter increased its figure, one or two digits per day, more or less as it would have in San Francisco — well, a trifle more, actually. And in Tokyo, as in San Francisco, people went about their business, except on Friday nights, when the stretch between the Kasumigaseki and Kokkai-Gijido-mae subway stations — half a dozen blocks of sidewalk, which commenced at an antinuclear tent that had already been on this spot for more than 900 days and ended at the prime minister’s lair — became a dim and feeble carnival of pamphleteers and Fukushima refugees peddling handicrafts.
One Friday evening, the refugees’ half of the sidewalk was demarcated by police barriers, and a line of officers slouched at ease in the street, some with yellow bullhorns hanging from their necks. At the very end of the street, where the National Diet glowed white and strange behind other buildings, a policeman set up a microphone, then deployed a small video camera in the direction of the muscular young people in drums against fascists jackets who now, at six-thirty sharp, began chanting: “We don’t need nuclear energy! Stop nuclear power plants! Stop them, stop them, stop them! No restart! No restart!” The police assumed a stiffer stance; the drumming and chanting were almost uncomfortably loud. Commuters hurried past along the open space between the police and the protesters, staring straight ahead, covering their ears. Finally, a fellow in a shabby sweater appeared, and murmured along with the chants as he rounded the corner. He was the only one who seemed to sympathize; few others reacted at all.
Number of U.S. congressional districts in which trade with China has produced more jobs than it has cost:
Young bilingual children who learned one language first are likelier than monolingual children and bilingual children who learned languages simultaneously to say that a dog adopted by owls will hoot.
An Oklahoma legislative committee voted to defund Advanced Placement U.S. History courses, accusing the curriculum of portraying the United States as “a nation of oppressors and exploiters.”
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“He could be one of a million beach-bound, black-socked Florida retirees, not the man who, by some odd happenstance of life, possesses the brain of Albert Einstein — literally cut it out of the dead scientist's head.”