White Cross Doublecross

I stared at the TV in disbelief. Another journalist had died covering the war. I shook my head slowly. It was wrong that these young journalists were dying, so wrong. My anger seethed. Monopolistic, multimedia corporations were obviously more interested in selling papers and making money than in protecting lives. What were lives when sensation and shocking news--the lifeblood, the oil, of media machinery--were more important? Couldn't these arrogant media moguls get news some other way or even give up the news altogether? Then young people wouldn't have to go and wouldn't have to die. It was greed, pure greed, and I would stop it. I ran to my garage.

I started building white crosses to put on my lawn. It was so obvious...certainly no parent wanted their kid to be a wartime reporter. Sure some people thought that gathering the news was important, but they were wrong. These deaths were more significant...the sheer number more important still. What was it...30, 40, more?

Agitated, I worked throughout the night. If only people knew, could only understand, that these dead journalists were manipulated by those with ulterior motives. They died because of their naivete, doing the bidding of bad, or dare I say, evil, media leaders. As I hammered away, my mission gained clarity. Those poor kids. They'd been suckered into journalism by their limited lives and abilities, their poor educations. They couldn't really do anything else in life...couldn't be teachers, lawyers, doctors--nothing like that. Their parents were surely uneducated or at least uninformed, maybe helpless immigrants...but it wasn't their fault. I would speak for them.

The next day, I began pounding the crosses into the ground. Slowly my front yard became dotted with white. Some of the neighbors came out to complain. Suddenly news vans and trucks began arriving. Good, I thought, they'll record my memorial to their fallen heroes, and the real truth will finally be revealed. I waited as journalists noisily jockeyed for position. Then I heard a hopeful shout, "Is this a protest against the war?" I excitedly shouted back, "Yes, this is a memorial to our fallen journalists!" They looked at each other. "A memorial to what?" "To young journalists needlessly lost. They're dying for media corporate dollars, not for freedom of the press. It needs to stop! Please honor them by recording this field of crosses for the world to see." In the silence that followed, I heard my heart racing.

Next a single, abrupt guffaw emanated from the pack of journalists, and then many more. One of the Journalists shouted, "But we want to report on the war. It's our job. It's what we've been trained to do. Don't you believe in freedom of the press? A free nation needs a free press. We're keeping you free from tyranny, you idiot!" Stung, I pleaded, "No, no, we need to honor them! These crosses honor their memories?" Then an important journalist, a known celebrity, dismissively waved his hand over the area of the crosses and shook his finger in my face, "Hey, buddy, wake up! These were great journalists with lifetimes of good writing, vision, dedication, verve, who took chances just so you could get the news..get the Truth. Their families and colleagues revere and remember their work, their sacrifice, their whole lives. And so do I." Then he leaned in closer and growled, "These crosses aren't a memorial. This isn't the truth. It isn't even close. It's...a disgrace!"