In the words of Abraham Lincoln, democracy is government “of the people, by the people, and for the people.” By this definition, democracy is founded on the informed participation of its citizens. In order for democracy to function well, its citizens must be informed; informed of public policy, informed of the positions of various political leaders, and informed of the various sides of issues being publicly debated. This raises the question: How then, do the citizens of a democracy, become informed? In my view, this is one of the fundamental roles of the media in a democracy. From this perspective, journalism can be viewed as a pillar of democracy, for without an informed citizenry, democracy will surely falter, and perhaps even fall.

Journalists around the world often write about the governments in their nations, and those governments have policies towards journalists, which control what they can research and write, and what press organizations can publish. Many Western governments guarantee the freedom of the press, and do relatively little to restrict press rights and freedoms, while other nations severely restrict what journalists can research and/or publish. This clearly illustrates one of the critical distinctions between democracies and dictatorships.

This is why it is fundamental that in a democracy, there is a “free press.” The press must be free; free to criticize the government, free to publish views that are contrary to the positions of those in power, and free to inform the citizens in the democracy of the positions of those in power and those who wish to be. If the government controls the press, and journalists are not free to inquire about the activities of those in power – and publish the results of their inquiries – then we cannot have a true democracy.

Thus, it is critical that those who call themselves “journalists” understand their role in a democracy, and hold themselves up to the very highest standards of journalistic principles in their inquires and in their writing. These include such attributes as thoroughness. Good journalists do not take short cuts. They keep “digging” until they have all of the essential aspects of a story. This can prove difficult, especially considering the often conflicting pressures of tight timelines and the desire to be thorough. Accuracy is another fundamental principle of good journalism. A good journalist does not print hearsay; invalidated information, or quotes out of context in a way that the original meaning is deliberately misconstrued. Good journalists are also fair. They work hard at showing not only both sides of an issue, but at showing the multiple sides of complex issues. Unlike television news, which is limited by its need to provide visual images and short sound bites – the print media offers the opportunity of going more in depth and detail in its reporting of complex issues. High quality journalism also strives to be transparent. Sources are named where appropriate and possible, motives behind both the reporting of the story and those being reported on are made as clear as possible for the readers.

If qualities such as thoroughness, accuracy, fairness and transparency are the qualities of good journalism, then it follows that these are also the attributes that one would find in good journalists. For someone to report the events of the day to others, to act in a sense as an interpreter for their readers, is a significant responsibility, one not to be taken lightly. In addition to the qualities mentioned above, I would also add that I think good journalists need to have a great deal of stamina, energy, patience, and no small measure of courage in order to do their work well.

Shortly after I moved to Edmonton I rented an apartment in the west side of the city. One morning, while I was busy making breakfast, someone knocked softly on my door. I listened, but the knocking stopped. After a few minutes, the knocking started again, and then became a little bit louder. I went to the door. “Who…?” I tried to use one of the few words I knew in English. Nobody answered. Just as I turned back, there was a knock on the door again. It was strange. I opened the door… and instinctively stepped back and my heart started beating faster. There was a tall, skinny – even frighteningly skinny – dark woman standing in my doorway, covered all in black. Her unkempt, long grey hair was hanging all around her neck which made her even scarier. Her eyes were deep and cold. The worst thing about her was her smile. It was terrifying.

She started to talk in Persian before I could say anything.

“Do you speak Persian?”

“Not really. I can understand a little bit, but my Persian is better than my English at least!” I could hardly speak in her language. I kept smiling, hoping to make myself feel better, but still, I couldn’t shake off the fear.

“Can I come into your home?” she asked me. “I have not had anyone who understands my language in this place, and I heard you talking with your children in Turkish. That’s why I decided to come”

I felt better. I felt much more confident. Our situations were similar. I didn’t know very much English, neither did my husband or children. I had not had anybody to talk to up to that time.

“C’mon in!” I invited the woman without thinking. It seemed someone was deciding for me in my heart.

She entered to my house quickly and locked my door after herself. I was feeling uneasy from the stranger’s unexpected visit and peculiar actions. Her name was Safiya and she was my neighbour. Safiya was from Afghanistan and had moved to Canada a few years earlier with her fourteen year old son, Rahim.
Their life was a mystery. Safiya walked all day long in the long corridor of the apartment building and hid if she heard someone’s voice. She didn’t take care of her home or her son. She was mentally and emotionally ill and extremely quiet. Sometimes she came to my house, sat for hours on the only couch in my living room, and left without saying a word.

We had a great deal of difficulty talking, as we only knew a few words in Persian. I was feeling sorry for them. Rahim knew about his mother’s sickness and never placed any demands on her. He cooked for himself, and seemed fine with his own sandwich and boiled eggs. Rahim started to teach me some English, and I started to teach him how to make some easy recipes, how to organize their home and finances. After awhile Rahim and I were able to communicate in English and I was feeling comfortable talking to Safiya in her language. It felt like I had two new children besides my own two boys. Unconsciously, I started to pick some shorts or socks for Rahim while I was shopping for my children.

One day, I discovered the reason for the pain in Safiya’s heart. She was from rich family. She got married to the only son of a wealthy family. Her life was smooth and beautiful until the Taliban arrived in her city.

“Houses were burned, people were killed, all the women started to wear black; cities were empty, roads were empty, lives were empty, and hearts were empty, we were king and queen of the emptiness…” she said.

After a year she lost both her parents. Her sister got married and left the county with her new family. Safiya’s mother-in-law and father-in-law decided to stay and wait for “the good days” because they had lots of property and investments in the city.

Rahim was just a baby, and the family planned a huge birthday party to celebrate his third birthday. Many relatives came, and everyone had a wonderful time. However, after the birthday party, some of the guests were stopped by the Taliban as they made their way home. The Taliban questioned them. “Where are you going?” Where are you coming from?” What were you doing there?”

It was strictly forbidden by the Taliban to celebrate birthdays. Later that same night, after Safiya and her husband had gone to bed, the Taliban broke into their home. There, in the bed they shared so lovingly; there, in the bed where they had conceived their beloved Rahim; there in the bed, where only minutes earlier, they had kissed good night and said, “I love you” to each other, the Taliban beheaded her husband. Over her screams, over her protests, over her terror, the Taliban beheaded her husband.

After the Taliban left, she cradled her husband’s head in her arms, and cried tears that came from an agony she had not known was possible.

Terrible days were taking place for her and for her little boy. They moved to India and lived there for a few years. “There wasn’t war, but hunger, homelessness, being smashed like a stone on the road followed us all over India” she said.

Her stories were painful and there was nothing I could say to comfort her.

When I started to go to school and found a little job after learning some English, I didn’t have much time for them. Everyday, I only stopped by their door for few minutes on my way to work or school. On my days off we would spend some time together.

It was after midnight on a Friday night that there was banging on my door once again. The first thing that came to my mind was Safiya. I ran to the door, opened it and there she was. She was crying and shouting so loudly, and trying to hug me. I had to cover her mouth with my hand and carried her to her apartment. I didn’t want my family or other residents in the building to wake up.

“My chest is burning.” “I will die.” she was saying tearfully without stopping. When I opened her door, Rahim was sitting on the floor and crying.

“Rahim, what happened?” I asked him.

“Sorry for awaking you, I tried to stop her. But she is saying her chest is getting burned. She does this very often. Some nights we don’t sleep until morning.” the boy cried louder.

Tears filled my eyes too.

“You don’t worry; I will take care of your mom. Go and sleep honey. Tomorrow I will take her to the doctor” I said.

I kissed him good night and sent him off to sleep.

I sat in the living room with Safiya. She brought out some photo albums. I didn’t know that she had hundreds of pictures from her home and from her time in India. We chatted and looked at the pictures. Safiya was telling me stories while we looked at the pictures. There were pictures of dirty and half dressed children in the market place. All of them were smiling for the pictures. Rahim was there too, looking just like all of the other children, poor, half dressed, and smiling for the pictures.

Those smiling faces reminded me of the first time I saw Safiya. One of the pictures captured my attention. There was a very beautiful bride and a handsome groom in the picture. Both of them looked gorgeous in their wedding clothes. The bride’s skin was milky white, which contrasted with her long dark hair, which flowed like shiny waves around her shoulders. Sparkling eyes told the story of her happiness. Her hand was on the groom’s shoulder and the groom was holding her. She appeared to me to be a princess, a beautiful princess. Another picture was the same people with national Afghani clothes. With golden clothes and jewellery they were a piece of art work together.

I looked to Safiya with a question in my eyes: “Are all Afghani girls this beautiful?”

“Safiya” I asked, “Who is this?”

“Guess!” she smiled.

“Is she your sister who lives in the US?”

Safiya shook her head from side to side.

“Tell me, who is she?” I asked again impatiently.

“It’s me and Rahim’s dad…”

My eyes froze on the picture… I couldn’t believe my ears.
I thought of asking her, “Are you sure?” but I didn’t want to hurt her.

After few moments of looking at the picture, Safiya started to lovingly caress the image with a smile. She was no longer with me. She was in a dream world with her loving husband. I didn’t want to interrupt. I wanted her to enjoy that time.

Suddenly, Safiya pulled her eyes from the picture and looked to the darkness through her window. The smile disappeared. Terror covered her face. She put her fingers in her hair and started to scream. She was screaming as loud as she could.

“Safiya calm down… Please calm down” I said, but nothing seemed to stop her. I ran for water. I gave her some of the sleeping medication she used and hugged her very tight. Still, she cried long and heartbreakingly… I put her to her bed, sat on the floor right beside her bed, and brushed her grey hair with my hands until she fell asleep.

When I first got to know Safiya, I wasn’t happy with her. I was thinking “She is not the only person who saw hard days in Afghanistan. Why she doesn’t try to take care of her only child?”

Now I thought “How can she still live with this much pain, with these terrible scars on her heart?”

People don’t come to our lives without reason. There was a reason for her to knocking on my door. I looked at her. She was sleeping deeply. I got up soundlessly. When I reached the bedroom door, I turned back and looked at her one more before I left her room. She was sleeping peacefully. The first light of the morning star was peeking through her window: The light of a new day, full of blessing and hope.

The day my garden blossomed green,
It started snowing, like droplets of death
I was in my warm house but my heart was outside,
Crying and groaning under the snow…

The shiny days were beautiful and amazing
Were giving hope and birth to the greenery
I cared about my plants like my adorable baby…

Is killing someone’s hope amusing?
Is life merely pending…
Then parting happiness?

It was snowing horribly and I was helpless
I was freezing terribly in my warm house
My blood was freezing; my thoughts were freezing,
Tears were freezing on my face.

There was an endless sky – enjoying the purity,
There were countless tiny snowflakes playfully falling
Looking out from my tiny window, alone and insignificant,
As they were carelessly freezing my garden
As they were merrily destroying my life…!
I heard: My heart stopped weeping
Fell silent and wordlessly gave up.

I looked for something special for you
As precious as diamond, as beautiful as rose,
Something that stays forever alive,
And has significance for all of life’s seasons,
Something gives you joy all the times,
Something fits all of your reasons…

Today I am around you for all of your needs.
I am the sun of your days, to make your life brighter,
I am the moon of your nights, to secure your sweet slumber.

One day if you fly away from the mother’s nest
Like an eagle’s eyes looking to strive to the highest
Every morning I will wake up and hope only the best for you
Hope for faith, strength, and happiness for you.

There won’t be a mom to give you a warm jacket
And a tasty sandwich or a little piece of food
But there would be a mom, who thinks every moment,
Are you happy? Are you doing alright?

Don’t be afraid to have great goals in your life
There is nothing too big if you cut it pieces
I want to see you as a fabulous artist as you want,
Baby… Make mom feel proud and pleased.

Mothers always have worrying hearts
Let me know if you are fine, by the way you want
I want you know I am here for you while my heart beats,
I want you feel you have been always cared and needed.

My heart is accepting the truth with the tears now.
These words are only the shadows of my love.

We were at the river’s edge, sitting side by side
Telling stories and laughing,
I had some things to tell you, but felt afraid,
I thought, probably you would laugh at me then.

When it was my turn, I told the bedtime stories,
You didn’t know, they were my sweet dreams,
You listened and said "You are the best story teller"
But if I really tell you, you might not take me seriously,
I thought, probably you would laugh at me then

We had no secrets; our friendship was so pure,
You knew me as a simple girl from the village
But you couldn’t see my heart’s secret storms,
I didn’t want you to find me wild and to criticize me,
I thought, probably you would laugh at me then.

You didn’t know, I was feeling the pain of my nation,
I was thinking "God created me for a reason"
I was promising myself "I won’t live just because I was born"
If I said those things, you might not understand;
I thought, probably you would laugh at me then.

I found my true love only in the "Prince stories"
And I found true feelings rare in this world,
That’s why my world didn’t fit into that world,
If I opened my soul to you, you might find me extreme,
I thought, probably you would laugh at me then.

If I said: "I’ll get across the oceans,"
If I said: "I’ll write the books, already written in my mind"
If I said: "I won’t be afraid to chase my dreams,"
That was my future, but I suspected,
I thought, probably you would laugh at me then.

One day questions cried in your eyes,
Your eyes couldn’t believe what they were seeing,
You said "I thought we are the best of friends,
And our hearts were open to each-other”, and I said
"Yes, we are, but I was afraid"
I thought, probably you would laugh at me then.

Today I am saying the things I should’ve said beside the river,
You are hearing them now, as they’ve become real,
And I have some things to tell you today,
But I won’t... forgive me?! If you heard them,
I am thinking, certainly you would laugh at me now.

(Short story)
It was late autumn, and a night time shower made it difficult for my brothers to work in the garden. My father was supervising them while cutting the green parts of the grape trees. He always had a talent for gardening. It was shortly after my parents were married that my father created this magnificent garden for our family. It was the most beautiful place in town. There were many kinds of fruit trees brought from different places. The fruits were lush, ripe, attractive and delicious. There were beautiful roses in the corners, the type that can live for many years. There were special fruit trees that were grown by my father. Some trees had different fruits on their branches and all of them had their own delicious taste. Every spring my mother would seed the flowers and vegetables; there was always something to do.
The grapes especially needed a lot of work in the spring and the late autumn. My father never let my brothers cut the grape tree’s branches in the autumn, he did it himself. I played beside him and asked lots of questions about everything: grapes, our garden, what is good and what is bad and many more questions. All of the other work my family did together with the exception of my little brother and I. We were too small to work in the garden, as my father would say to others.

One day it was a slightly frosty and my little brother didn’t want to come out. Instead, he decided to stay in and play around my mom who was making dinner for our family. But I was enjoying performing tasks for my brothers such as "bring water", "step on the branch", or "hold the cutter." Close to lunch time it began to get a little bit warm. My brothers made a plan to go out to play soccer if they finished their work early, so they started to work faster. They forgot about me. I grew bored. After awhile I ran to another corner of the garden where my dad was cutting the grape branches.
When my dad saw me he took one bunch of grapes that he’d found hidden in the dried leaves and gave it to me.
"Take them honey, but wash before you eat."
I took it but didn’t want to go and wash it.
I asked instead "Dad, why are you cutting the branches?"
"Because they will overgrow if I don’t cut them" he said without looking at me.
"But wouldn’t it give more grapes if you didn’t cut it?" I asked innocently.
"No," he continued in the same tone "Actually it won’t give many grapes at all if I don’t cut them."
"Then why" I said, slightly bewildered, "are you not cutting some more?"
My dad looked at me with a soft, understanding smile and pulled at one of the big branches, causing a clump of dried leaves to drop messily upon his clothes. He climbed down slowly from the ladder and brushed himself off.

"Dad," I said with an unusually wise expression "if you tell my brothers to do this stuff your leaves won’t hurt."
My father smiled and said "Yes, it seems it is time to teach them how to cut the grapes."
At that moment, something gleamed in his eyes. He held his cutter firmly in his hands and started to teach me how to cut the grape branches. I showed him where to cut next because I wanted to demonstrate how fast I had learned from him. My father watched me patiently and explained to me if I was making a mistake. Later, I found out that was the last time my dad cut the grape branches. He became very sick in the winter and passed away in the summer. It was the biggest sorrow of our lives. Many years washed away along with my mother’s tears: tears of mourning from the depth of her heart.
After my dad’s death, my brothers continued his work in the garden. The garden was the only place where my mother could enjoy her time. My father could not, but the garden witnessed all of our weddings, all of the parties for the newborn children, and many happy days. But somehow, the grape vines did not bear as much fruit as they did in the years that my father tended them. There was something my brothers didn’t learn properly from my dad. Many years passed and my brothers tried to change their methods of cutting the branches, but nothing seemed to help.
My mother was always saying "The garden is the symbol of our family and we should keep the grapes healthy."
When I got married, I started to create one small garden for my family. In a few years it became a beautiful little garden. There were a few grape trees that I looked at with special attention. One autumn, I took down the grape trees from their special holder and looked for the point on the branch where I should begin cutting. Something, a very bright memory, came to my mind and I remembered my father’s words about how to cut the branches.
I remembered when he took the longest branch and told me " When you cut the branch, you have to understand which part of the branch will give us food in the next year and which part you should cut. If a part is still a little bit green, you should cut it because it will steal the strength of the tree in the next year and your grape tree can not give much food. If you cut a little bit more than enough, again you can not have food because that is the part which gives food for the next year."
I had followed my father’’s teaching, and after some time I found my grape vines began to bear fruit in the same abundant way as my dad’s. I shared "the secret of my dad" with my brothers.
After 20 years, our garden is still as beautiful as when my father was alive, and it is growing as our family’s symbol. It is as whole and happy as are my brothers, sister and I and it will continue to grow as our families grow. Two beautiful gardens left behind by my father: the growing green garden, and the growing great family.

Two snakes built a nest in one of the corners of my house,
I was sad, but thought God gave it to me for a reason.
Somebody said "Don’t kill one, the snakes will retaliate,
Her mate will kill your spouse extremely soon."

Long nights I couldn’t sleep, secured my sweetheart,
One night the snake sank her teeth into my chest.
I was sleeping deep…
Forgotten about the snake…
Will never awake…
Does the snake ever think…?
My mate might kill her mate?
Does the snake think a woman hasn’t anyone to take revenge?

It was my fault; destroying life is the snakes’ custom,
Does anyone sleep without worry while snakes live in same place?
Does someone care about a mate,
Ever build a nest in a stranger’s home?
Please, do not kill the snake’s mate, my heartbroken friend.