Lebanon
The Beirut press corps gather to remember the murdered journalist Jim Foley. People stand for a minute’s silence, drink in hand. Below the balcony, the nightly Beirut traffic jam sends the sound of car horns floating upward. Before killing him, the so-called Islamic State emailed his family: ‘The scum of your society… are held prisoner by us, THEY DARED TO ENTER THE LION’S DEN AND WHERE [sic] EATEN!’ I always thought of the hardy band of foreign freelancers, of which Jim was a part, as the best of us. They venture into Syria without the cushion of a big news organisation behind them, often not knowing if they’ll even be able to sell anything. They do it purely for the love of being on the story. The Foley family, the image of grace in contrast to the jihadis, respond to the tragedy by setting up two charities in Jim’s name, one supporting freelancers.
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