Part Two

The trauma training for journalists that we're here in the West Bank city of Ramallah to run is pitched as an introduction to some basic principles of theory, combined with techniques of active listening and open exchange.

"It's the first time we've done something like this, and we really want to understand if it's possible to do this within this culture," explains Monir Zaarour of the International Federation of Journalists, which is sponsoring the training. "Most of the pressure Palestinian journalists are under may be physical, but if they can learn to open up and talk even once to a colleague in a way they haven't before, that would be a success."

Former Reuters and BBC correspondent Mark Brayne, who is leading the workshop, is now an experienced psychotherapist, and after some initial hesitation, the group of reporters begins to open up.

"Journalists are just a mass of neglected people," says Nael Mousa, managing editor of the Al-Hayat newspaper, based in Ramallah. "They stand alone, no one helps them. The professional pressure is enormous."

Quite apart from not being able to move freely in and out of Israel, Mousa says reporters are also vulnerable to intimidation and threats from the Israeli army as well as any number of Palestinian militant groups who might not like what they read, watch or listen to.

His colleague, Mulki Suleman, an Al-Hayat reporter with several decades' experience in the region, pulls no punches. "Our ability to reach sources is compromised, so you can't do your job and you become even more depressed," he observes, adding that many journalists feel their disempowerment has lost them the respect of even their children.

On one level, the formation of the Palestinian National Authority in 1994 following the signing of the Oslo accords was good for the media here. There are now 1,000 local journalists in the West Bank and Gaza, and at least 40 local television and radio stations, on top of the established newspapers like Al-Hayat.

But a thriving media sector has done little to mitigate the implacable pressures of daily life.

A whole host of non-governmental organisations have run mental health projects in Gaza and the West Bank, with varying degrees of competence. It's both exciting and nerve-wracking that no one has offered any kind of psychological support to journalists here before.

According to Dr Fathi Flefel, head of the Mental Health Department of the Palestine Red Crescent Society, psychological trauma work with Palestinians - including the media - needs to step way beyond psychiatric case studies.

Dreadful mistakes have been made applying psychiatric diagnoses to non-western cultures. For starters, westerners tend to perceive trauma as an individual affliction, whereas distress is frequently experienced as a group event elsewhere.

"Some statistics talk about more than a 70 percent rate of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) here, but I'm not sure that's a good way of presenting the situation. If that were really true, no one could manage," says Fathi, who is helping us lead the training.

But as he points out, the five years since construction of the wall began have witnessed a marked disintegration within Palestinian society, particularly in family life. "First there is a lot of anger and an increase in anti-social behaviour, levels of drug-use have risen, and there is also a loss of hope and confidence in the future."

For journalists - and Palestinians are by no means unique here - open discussion of emotional fracture does not come easily, particularly when weighed against the imperatives of self-preservation within a tough-minded and unsentimental working atmosphere.

It's a fine line we tread. Physical responses to trauma - sweat, adrenalin, dry mouth - are universal preparations for fight or flight. What we make of those responses, however, can vary widely.

But as the discussion unfolds, it becomes clear to me that there's much more in our responses that unites us than divides us. Following initial hesitation, the participants begin to discuss the tribulations they face. Many have seen children killed or injured and colleagues shot; for some, only very recently. One is still haunted by a Black September bomb attack that nearly killed him 30 years ago.

And then come quiet acknowledgements of the emotional reactions: anger, isolation, resentment, helplessness and despair. They are all there, and we all recognise them.

"Everybody is hearing us, but no one is listening to us," says one journalist.

The discussion turns to coping strategies: mutual support, self care, honest discussion, not perhaps the usual substance of journalistic discourse. But for managing editor Nael Moussa, a recognition emerges that a profound need is being met.

"When I was telling my story, it was like taking something off the shelf. And when I took it down, it didn't affect me so much," he says with a gentle smile.

No one can tell Nael and his colleagues that their job is going to get any easier. No one can promise them the killing will stop. There's little on the Middle Eastern horizon to suggest it will.

But what we learn together is that the one thing we can promise is to listen to each other. It's not particularly sophisticated or technical, but it works.

To read part one of Mark's blog on the challenges faced by journalists in the West Bank, click here.

For more information on journalism and trauma, visit the Dart Center website.

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