Is there anyone who has not, at least once, started upon a letter to the editor of the Mail & Guardian along these lines:
Dear Sir or Madam,
This morning I began reading the so-called lead story in the scurrilous apology for a rag which you deign to call a newspaper. Before I reached the third paragraph, a stabbing pain began issuing from my left ventricle. By the fifth paragraph, vicious cramps were mangling my bowels.
Sir, or Madam, I have no intention of finding out what outrages were perpetrated in your sixth paragraph. Kindly do me the favour of cancelling my subscription, immediately. Furthermore, should I at any point in the future so much as glance at a copy of your pestilential newspaper, feel free to shoot me.
Yours faithfully, etc
This newspaper has been banned. It has been closed down. It has been sued. There is not a single politician, terrorist, vice-chancellor, Bafana Bafana coach, deputy minister, oil tycoon, Aids denialist, judge president or poet whose bowels have not been severely mangled by this paper.
The second mystery is: Why is this newspaper still alive and publishing after 20 years? It has, after all, done nothing to earn this honour. Think of that splendid newspaper, ThisDay, which one could actually read over one’s Post Toasties without going all bilious. Think of Die Wereld or New Nation or Vrye Weekblad. Now I ask you: what has the Mail & Guardian done to deserve to survive 20 years?
In the interests of journalistic accuracy, with which I am at least fleetingly acquainted, I feel obliged to make an important admission. The 20th anniversary happened 164 days ago, in mid-June. Why has the Mail & Guardian chosen to celebrate 164 days late? Some leading theorists suggest the delay is intended to symbolise the paper’s home delivery service.
But there is a better explanation. Today is the 20th anniversary of the actual day when the tiny, but courageous staff of the early Weekly Mail, then 164 days old, noticed for the first time that they had pissed away every last cent in their tiny bank account.
Or, to put it slightly differently, today is the anniversary of the historic day that the tiny but courageous staff of the early Weekly Mail discovered that it was possible to run a newspaper, for years if necessary, without the burden of actual money.
Meanwhile, out in the real world of the 1980s, events had taken a slightly different turn. There was fear on every street corner, in every blazing township, behind every high garden wall. And each time police broke up another gathering, raided another school or detained another priest, kindly benefactors would appear at the door to put some money behind the one newspaper whose accounts of those dangerous times they were willing to trust.
The most important fact to note is that the Mail & Guardian is the last independently owned newspaper in the country. To stand alone for 20 years when your rivals are giant chains is an astonishing feat.
One of the paper’s proudest achievements was its training course, the first to coach young black journalists. Stiff entrance criteria were set for selection. Applicants were graded on their academic achievements, strength of character, emotional maturity and obedience. Those who scored strongly were rejected. Instead we hired only juvenile delinquents, sociopaths and skebangas. These were considered the people statistically most likely to return in one piece from assignments at the township barricades. Those who did come back wrote some of the most memorable stories in that era.
But already then, there were disturbing signs that our trainees would, upon leaving our care, drift aimlessly and fall in with bad company. Sadly, this is indeed what happened. One of them became the editor of the Sunday Times. Another, the only one to own a suit, became MD of Business Day. Another became head of news at SABC. It is to his credit that he is no longer responsible for SABC news. One of them became editor of … oh, the Mail & Guardian. It’s a part-time job when she’s not abroad.
The tradition of training young journalists continues to this day.
The other day I met with the editor of a daily paper in a city where, let’s say, the Mail & Guardian has never been a big seller. He said to me: “Do you still have connections with the Mail & Guardian?” I took a close look at the pictures on the wood-panelled wall behind him, particularly at the mysterious gap that probably once housed a portrait of HF Verwoerd, and took the line of least resistance. I said: “The Mail & Guardian? Oh, them. No, not for many years.”
“But you do read it?” he said. He was being suspiciously persistent. “Read it?” I said. “Heck no. What with Nova and Heat, who has the time?”
“That’s a real pity,” he said. “It’s the only paper in the country with the guts to tell the truth.”
Oh. So … there it is. Maybe I should start reading the paper. It’s an important first step to composing my letter of complaint to the editor.
An edited extract of the speech delivered by one of the founding editors of the Weekly Mail, Irwin Manoim, to mark the M&G’s 20th birthday