Arrivederci, Mark
It’s March 2011, and protests are erupting across North Africa and the Middle East. One of the countries is Bahrain; a small Arab monarchy nestled between Saudi Arabia and Qatar in the Persian Gulf.
I was working on the coverage of the Arab Spring with my colleague, Jess Hill. Together, we secured interviews for the ABC’s radio current affairs programs AM, The World Today and PM.
On March 16, Mark walked into the newsroom with white headphones plugged into his ears. He had his walking stick in one hand and an iPhone in the other.
A photographer who was at a protest in Bahrain’s capital, Manama, was on the phone.
Mohammed had come under attack when Saudi troops entered Bahrain to quash dissent, and we had to move fast to interview him without risking his safety.
Mark didn’t need to be briefed on the situation in Bahrain. He was the most professional, widely read, Twitter-addicted and knowledgeable person at the ABC. He knew the latest information even before he stepped through the door.
Mark had this ability to walk into interviews without any written questions. It wasn’t because he didn’t prepare. It was because he was a 24/7 student of news and current affairs. He read and absorbed everything. As a producer, you could throw him into any interview, on any topic, sometimes without notice, and it would always be quality.
Mark just walked straight into the studio for that interview with the Bahrani photographer.
“There’s going to be a massacre. There’s going to be truly a massacre. Believe me, it’s going to be a massacre,” the photographer repeated.
Mark continued to ask questions, even when gunshots could be heard down the phone line.
“They fired at me, that’s another shot, that’s another shot right now. That’s another one can you hear it?”
Mark calmly responded, “Yes I can hear it.” He continued with the interview.
In the middle of the assault, he managed to safely control the interview, and the photographer’s anxiety. He extracted clear, precise, accurate details and descriptions — what, when, where, why, who, how. Mark Colvin’s interviews were always a masterclass in journalism.
Everyone was a witness to Mark’s professionalism, talent, wit and knowledge. Not everyone was a witness to his humanity.
I had only been working in journalism for 12-months at the time of that interview. I, an ethnic woman from the western suburbs, was working for Australia’s leading evening current affairs programs. Now, I was also dealing with life and death on the phone.
I admittedly struggled. The pressure became too much and I broke down. We were 30-minutes from airtime.
“Pull up a chair,” Mark said. Most presenters wouldn’t care about tears so close to airtime, but Mark wasn’t most presenters. He made time for his colleagues. He put people before a story. He understood trauma and he did everything he could to help his colleagues deal with it.
He sat down, listened and talked me through what I was thinking, feeling and how to handle the emotions of the job. Mark then got up, walked into the studio with two minutes to spare, and went on air.
Everyone can hear the professionalism and the award-winning content on all the radio current affairs programs. Many don’t see the humanity behind them.
The radio current affairs department is a family and Mark was one of our fathers.
He constantly kept his hand on my shoulder, as he did with so many other reporters at the ABC, and he guided all of us through our careers.
It wasn’t just peer support.
Mark gave writing advice, too: “Double-space. Write short sentences. Re-read every sentence, read it aloud to hear what it sounds like, and then focus and think hard about each word. Remember Orwell’s six rules every time. (“Bustling” broke rule 1).”
He would focus on grammar. “It’s important,” he would tell me. “It can change the meaning of a sentence.” I know he laughed the day before he died when PM’s executive producer, Edmond Roy, told Mark how I thought of him when my poor Italian grammar changed the meaning of a sentence. I told a friend that I wanted to eat HIS cannolo instead of *A* cannolo.
Mark didn’t want praise for his advice, either: “You don’t need to thank me — or to imagine I want credit. I like writing and thinking about writing, and teaching people to improve their writing is just a way of paying it forward.”
He fiercely backed staff in the face of detractors: “Sail on, like a liner in the night, with all your lights blazing and a band playing on deck, while they bob in your wake.”
Mark could sometimes be terrifying when he wasn’t happy with your story or didn’t agree with something that you did. It was never in malice. It was because he cared about the craft of journalism and wanted reporters to reach their potential.
I am honoured and grateful to have been able to learn from the best in the business. He will be missed, not only for his professionalism, but also his humanity.
Journalism lost a great man. Mark paid a high price to keep the world informed. We will charge ahead in your honour.
Thank you, Mark.
RIP x
