The Editor

By Devi Asmarani   |  Sun, 11/30/2008 10:31 AM  |  Bookmark

Back in my younger days my Father liked to call me his photocopy -- in the most positive, proudest way -- of course.

He said this often while mussing my hair while Mother waxed lyrical to my uncles and aunts, his colleagues or their tennis buddies about my latest accomplishments, which -- in a good year -- included contesting the TV show Bright and Accurate, playing the piano in the Upcoming Young Talents Show or shaking hands with the President as a Chosen Boy Scout.

I wasn't really sure what he meant by "photocopy". As I grew up, it was clear I was not going to cut an athletic figure as he had. I liked to talk and meet new people -- mostly grownups -- while he was always the quiet one of the couple. But from stories my Mother told me, he was a pretty accomplished young man too, sailing through life as a straight A student, a guitar-strumming, badminton-playing, born leader, with an eye fixed on something greater for his life.

My brother, of course, could see through all this. He called me a sissy, and would gang up with his posse of mean and overgrown boys to shove me at the schoolyard, steal the latest addition to my comic collection, and, still -- have me do his math homework at night. It didn't help that he always got in trouble in school and at home, and often had to bear the brunt of Father's palm-leaf broom whipping, and sometimes a few hours of solitary confinement in our reputedly haunted storage room.

He is slightly older, but we were in the same grade because my parents made me skip two grades when they were convinced that I could pass the equivalence test -- which I did.

But that was a long time ago. My brother has since become a criminal lawyer of the white-collar kind, defending alleged corruptors (or people of the white collar profession who resort to violence, whether business related or driven by passion).

He drives a Jaguar, has been linked to a TV starlet despite his marriage and two children, and is often quoted in the newspaper saying "justice will eventually be upheld" when his client loses in the district court (a typically prophetic remark, considering the ruling will almost certainly be overturned in the higher court).

He is no photocopy of my Father, but I'm sure he makes him happier than I do.

Father has not spoken to me for years. It progressed in stages. First it was after I decided to leave graduate school to become a journalist. In the beginning, our conversation was reduced to the bare essence, later he would use my Mother as a proxy to communicate something to me. But we could still be in the same room.

When I later joined a foreign news agency, the ice melted briefly. He could not help but being proud that his son's byline graced the pages of newspapers overseas. He'd ask me about current events and we'd have polite and restrained discussions on politics. I think I even heard him referring to me again as a photocopy of him to an old family friend.

But that was 10 years ago, back when I could still convince them that I was too busy to think of marriage or to have a girlfriend. A few years later they found out the real truth. Now I keep our encounters to a minimum, visiting my parents a few times a year for occasions such as Idul Fitri or my Mother's birthday. During such times he would mysteriously disappear into his bedroom, "not feeling well", Mother would say.

But I don't let this kind of thing bother me. My job allows me to evade personal drama and ignore other aspects of my life, such as an aging and frosty Father, or the fact that I have not had a serious relationship with another man for years since my last breakup.

I have since moved to a national newspaper again, where I am now in charge of editing prime news. This means I spend at least 10 hours a day in the newsroom, dealing with a string of mini crises from late newsbreaks, unmet deadlines and temperamental reporters -- not to mention the discoveries of typos and inaccuracies in post-mortem meetings the next day.

So when Mother rang me in the middle of the day, right before the afternoon editorial meeting, I hardly knew what to expect. "You've heard about the story?" she said in a tone of urgency that allows people to eschew phone formalities.

"Which one?" I was a little annoyed by her typical presumption that I know everything that happens in the world just because I am a journalist.

"The bank closure -- your Father," she said.

I remember seeing a text message from one of the reporters earlier and thinking that this was going to be the winner of the day -- the front-page lead. I completely forgot that Father was commissioner in the bank.

"Oh right," I said, "It's not a closure, Mother, it was taken over by the government because of liquidity crisis."

"It's your Father I'm talking about," she said. "He said he and the other executives have been blacklisted by immigration."

"It's just a standard procedure, they won't do anything to him. If anyone, it's the owners they'll go after," I said.

"Your poor Father -- this has really broken his heart," her voice quivered. "What's next? Will he be jailed? Goodness, the shame on our family."

"Mother, first of all, relax! It won't be as bad as it seems now, and tell Father to stay calm too."

"Oh God, it will be in your paper tomorrow. Everyone in this country will read it," she said. "Can't you do something about it?"

Then it occurred to me why she called.

"What in my paper? Of course not, it's news and it's big. It will be published no matter what."

"Oh dear God Almighty, this is karma for your Father for being so heartless to you."

"Stop saying that, Mother! That is nonsense, it has nothing to do with me," I said.

Then, growing exasperated with her whimpers, I offered her something that I knew could have a bigger impact than it sounded: "Look, let me look into this and I will keep you posted later, OK?"

I entered the meeting room just when it was starting. The first news item in the sked was about the bank closure.

Its suggested line read: "The government yesterday took control of troubled First Union Bank, the first to have fallen victim to the deepening financial crisis. It also imposed a travel ban on its top executives."

I assumed it would be two or three paragraphs before the story would detail the names of these executives, including my Father. I cleared my throat and heard my own voice talking instinctively before I even knew what I was going to say.

"Look, it seems to me this story is much bigger than this one bank alone," I said.

"The least we could do is provide service to our readers by telling them about the state of our banking system," I continued, glancing at the business editor with whom I often clashed in opinion.

"Well," the business editor said, "The central bank governor did say that overall the domestic banking system is pretty sound, and that people should not worry about their banks because of the depositors guarantee."

"But that's what they're supposed to say, isn't it? This is the news, the first bank taken over, 10 years after the last financial crisis," she continued.

"I agree with you on that," I said again, trying not to sound too impassioned.

"But its direct impact won't be that great because it is a pretty small bank, and yet it might encourage a bank run across the country all over again."

"Besides, didn't we decide that we should always strive to provide the big picture to our readers?" I looked at the chief editor and thought I saw him nodding in agreement.

There was a bit of back and forth between me, the business editor and the other editors. But in the end, we decided on what's best for the readers and the country.

That night I edited the report headlined "Banks still sound: BI Governor", and added the subheading "Bank takeover to protect depositors".

The bank takeover bit came in the second paragraph, but the travel ban appeared much later in the story. And for the names of those banned, I only included three names (the owner, the president and one of the directors), thus sparing my father's name from the front page of the country's most widely circulated daily.

I also removed a quote by a parliamentarian calling for investigation into any suspicion of mismanagement or abuse, on account that the story was already long enough.

I took a cigarette break before finishing the story, and called my Mother from the cell phone telling her I had softened the report and not to worry. She said thank God and told me to pay a visit to my Father. I told her maybe, and actually contemplated this before deciding against it. Then I called my brother, who happened to be at their house, talking to Father. He told me he was on top of things.

"I've talked to my people in the police and the attorney general's office," he said.

"They said the government will not likely make a move until there is a big political push."

"For the next year the focus will be on getting the bank back on track and then finding new investors. They don't want to complicate that whole process. Plus, so far there has not been any indication of unlawfulness, this is an inevitable impact of the global crisis," he said.

"So I told Father not to worry, I've got it covered." His voice sounded eerily excited; I often wonder how two siblings can be as different as we are.

He offered for me to talk to Father but I declined, saying I had to get back to work. Instead, I lit up another cigarette.

I'm sure there will be time when we both are ready to talk again. For now, I needed to focus on the task at hand.

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