Why I can’t practice journalism anymore

Today I write with the profund feeling, the individual knowledge that we are hurt. It is easier to write aside myself and talk about the world, it is easy because I made that a job, a way to navigate the world and avoid – in a way – to recognize what holds me back.

Today I write publicly, directly on that facebook page, because want to affirm my desire to highlight as I can grey areas of feminisms, sexualities, arts and politics as I see them in the form of a network of earthly phenomenons.

I order to do that, to practice and ethical and free journalism ( as I tried to my hardest ) one must think straight. I order for me to do that while respecting the ethics I’ve set myself as guidelines years ago is very difficult. I wanted to offer texts from my own perspective as a queer feminist. Of cours, my feminism changed over the years, I did – and the gold of my work was that it was explicited and situated at the point I was at at the time of the writing and/or report time. All of that, the free work, the seriousness in my practice and the people I met for interviews, all of those choices were made with readers in mind.

You, are the readers. Your eye, the time you take to read is precious and I never take it for granted. But I’m must be honnest:. I can’t keep on going, because I have no more energy. The past two years, the world has seen itself drown, we’ve seen ourselves be hurt by ideas, actions and life, more generally, we have changed, we can see ourselves more clearly now, even if we don’t like what we see.

I’ve always thought that the role of journalists was to tell what can be observed and ask what can only be whispered, usually. That work in the dark that writers do asks of us a good amount of intellectual honnesty and personal introspection. Only a clear vision of ourselves can make us choose the right angle, only with ethical tools you can offer good journalism. Nowadays, most journalists are not.

So here is my point : as a person, living in the same world as you, in a somehow different bubble and other reality, I was hurt too much to write as if I had not.

As a journalist, I met areas of women’s realities and human’s living conditions that made me want to work harder always, never not stopping thinking in terms of justice and information. This was for peace and for everyone’s life that I wanted to practice journalism. Lately, life happened to me too hard and I suddenly became my own subject for my own journalism. I was a victim of the patriarchy myself, raped and used as object of violence and tool for ideologies. That’s when I started writing differently. Litterare came and litteraly saved me.

Simply, I cannot write journalism anymore. I am uncapable of it. The words don’t come, the structure lacks, my motivation died as the same time as my innocence.

I had to make a decision and It was not easy. I choose to shut down my biggest journalism project yet so I could breathe again. Different events occured that helped the decision come to fruition but it was hard to do.
It is still hard to accept that I have to let go such a big part of myself in order to repair myself fully. I will stay close to my practice and keep enjoying the best parts of it. My journalism was also an excuse, a beautiful one, to get close to human beings, a magnifying glass to write what needs to be told, whether it is catastrophic or if it is good news.

From now on, my journalism will appear in all my texts, as a method, organically sourcing my words and helping me to organize my thoughts. I will write litterature and poetry in many forms, my fiction will be filled by reality and dreams, my essays composed from a thorough process of research and development, because after all, what are essays if not tentatives?

To finish this text I will plant a seed and send out a wish : for my journalism to come back softly, when it’s time and then, if I want to, I’ll practice again, in different ways, in new directions, in hopeful bloomings.
I thank each of you that supported and read me through the years. I am not gone, just resting.

Alizée Pichot

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