With the string of embarrassments dogging the South African press of late, there is at least some consolation in the knowledge that professional indiscretions are not endemic to South African hacks.
Indeed, every instance of alleged misconduct by South African journalists seems to have its correlate in the United States – a Jayson Blair for every Darrell Bristow-Bovey; for every Cynthia Vongai a Stephen Glass; for every Simon Nare— well, virtually every instance. Take, for another example, the commotion surrounding the short-lived but explosive pairing of axed Sunday Times reporter Ranjeni Munusamy with suspended City Press editor Vusi Mona.
Leaving aside any clandestine spin-doctoring – at least as it pertains to the Mpumalanga government – let’s focus on Mona’s decision in September to run the now-notorious story labelling Scorpions-boss Bulelani Ngcuka an apartheid spy.
At issue was not whether Munusamy erred in passing the story to City Press after it was spiked by her editor, Mathatha Tsedu. That’s something the Sunday Times should, and did, sort out internally. The real concern is that a senior reporter was willing to rely on malicious allegations from sources who clearly had an interest in smearing Ngcuka, and that a respected editor was so eager to publish them. The issue, in short, was whether Munusamy and Mona naïvely, or, worse, consciously, allowed themselves to be manipulated.
A reporter acting on the word of sources has ‘a special obligation to ensure that his source is not using him for grinding political axes— you want to indicate if you think the source comes from a place with a vested interest and hint at what that place is.”
So said legendary Watergate reporter Carl Bernstein in an interview last month with Editor & Publisher Magazine. He might easily have been talking about City Press. As it happens, however, he was referring to the recent disclosure of an undercover CIA agent’s identity by syndicated columnist Robert Novak.
Novak’s report, based on a leak from two undisclosed White House officials, is at the centre of a scandal that has already revealed serious rifts within the Bush administration, and is ballooning into one of the biggest political crises the president has faced since taking office.
It is now widely suspected that White House officials exposed Plame’s identity as a means of punishing her husband, Joseph Wilson, for criticising the administration’s use of intelligence to justify the war in Iraq.
Last year, Wilson, formerly a senior diplomat in Iraq and ambassador to São Tomé and Principe and Gabon, was appointed to look into claims that Iraq had attempted to buy uranium from Niger. He found the claims to be false, and reported as much to the White House and the CIA. Then, in July, after George W. Bush asserted in his state-of-the-nation address that Saddam Hussein had indeed tried to procure uranium in Africa, Wilson publicly reproved the president, accusing the administration of twisting evidence to make the case for war in Iraq.
Eight days later, Novak’s column quoted ‘two senior administration officials” as saying that Wilson’s trip to Niger had occurred at the suggestion of his wife, a CIA agent.
Many have questioned the probity of Novak’s decision to disclose the identity and occupation of Wilson’s wife. It was clearly in the interests of the White House to associate Wilson with the CIA, which has a reputation among hawkish factions here for consistently underestimating the strength of America’s enemies. More malevolently, the ‘outing” of Plame ended her career as an undercover operative, and possibly endangered her own life and those of other agents in her network – a grim warning to others like Wilson who might be tempted to embarrass the administration in the future.
The Department of Justice is now carrying out a commission of inquiry to identify Novak’s sources. Under a 1982 act, exposing the identity of an undercover intelligence operative is a federal offence, punishable by up to 10 years in prison. It is possible, though unlikely, that Novak will be asked to name his sources under subpoena.
But Novak, it has since emerged, was not the only journalist to have been approached by the leakers. On September 28, the Washington Post quoted it’s own unnamed White House source as saying that ‘before Novak’s column ran, two top White House officials called at least six Washington journalists and disclosed the identity and occupation of Wilson’s wife.”
The six presumably opted not to run with the story on grounds that exposing Plame was not in the public interest – the same principle that governed Mathatha Tsedu’s decision to spike Munusamy’s story. Now that Plame is in the open, there would seem to be nothing preventing these journalists from providing further information on what they were told – nothing, that is, except their own fear of subpoena.
As most journalists will sooner face contempt-of-court charges than divulge the identity of an anonymous source, it is doubtful that any of the six will come forward any time soon. And given the dismal track record of White House leak investigations, it is equally doubtful that the Department of Justice probe will succeed in identifying the guilty parties.
Here then, is another parallel between the Plame affair and the Ngcuka affair: both have culminated in commissions of inquiry whose sole effect has been to draw public attention away from the core issues.
Just as the commission into the Plame leak is unlikely to cast any light on whether America’s leaders deceived the nation into waging an unjustified war, so too is the Hefer Commission into Ngcuka’s past unlikely to bring South Africans any closer to knowing whether our own leaders benefited improperly from a multi-billion dollar arms deal.
In consequence, a number of high-placed government officials, both in America and South Africa, are probably patting themselves on the back for a spin job well done. We in the media should not let them get away with all the kudos. After all, they could not have done it without us.
Tim Spira is The Media’s correspondent in New York.