In Search of a Better Story:
An Awkward Tribute to Sander Thoenes

JR notes: I've had this essay inside my head for a couple of years and it finally found its way to paper. This essay does not intend to provide a definitive treatment of Sander's life, but I have linked to some of that information in this essay. There is also an official memorial site for Sander.

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I lost track of Sander Thoenes long before he died. After living with Sander at Hampshire College, I thought I had a pretty good sense of his life trajectory; I didn't really expect him to deviate from it in a dramatic way. But like many things back then, I turned out to be wrong.

Living with people is not always the best way to form a lasting bond. Some friendships deepen when you become roommates; some go off the deep end. Sander and I never really had a friendship to ruin. What we had was an amicable acquaintanceship, a truce between two people so radically different we spent half our time circling each other's idiosyncrasies. I was a hard luck kid from Oklahoma, prying open the doors of academia in a state of rage over what I felt I had been denied. Sander was a multi-lingual Dutch aristocrat. Perhaps he was not born with a silver spoon, but to me, he reeked of privilege. He had this maddening way of detaching himself from arguments, watching with anthropological amusement as the rest of us debated identity politics with a passion driven largely by our own insecurities.

When Sander did have something to contribute, it was not usually a reflection on his own experience, but an attempt to forge understandings amongst a group more interested in open conflict than compromise. Even then, he was cultivating the fair-minded objectivity of the journalist he would one day become. His ability to push my buttons was almost uncanny, and I always had plenty to say to Sander, who would tolerate my tirades by uttering a series of impatient-sounding, atonal grunts. His was an indifference I could not afford and I resented him for it. But I suspect that Sander was absorbing (and feeling) a lot more than he let on. And I've come to understand that an effort to see the big picture is hardly indifference. While I felt judged by his demeanor, the real judgment was not coming from Sander, but from myself. If he saw through the layer of ideology I had spread over my personal problems, he had the courtesy to keep his comments to himself. Sometimes I wanted to slap some injustice into Sander, but the more I think back on him, the more I like him. He was preparing for work on a much bigger canvas.

It's fascinating to watch people grow older - some settle into character flaws until they rut, others transcend their shortcomings. In college, we were all on a relatively level field of accomplishment. Ten years down the line, the choices we've made (or not made) have embodied. For better, and too often for worse, our lives have started to take on the shape of our character. But the funny thing is, when we look in the mirror, we usually see the same old face. It takes a jolt from someone else to notice the difference.

The day after Sander's death, a fellow classmate emailed his obituary. I saw Sander's life alongside my own, and I was ashamed.

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As it turns out, Sander's unfolding career in international journalism was part of a well-thought plan. His pursuit of journalism was not post-college improvisation, but the realization of a dream he had hatched in his youth and shared with his closest friends. That I did not know this, despite living with him for a year, is not a flattering thing to admit.

Obviously, Sander had no need for my approval on the matter, and after graduating, he went about the process of becoming a world-class reporter. Sander did a stint in Russia with the Moscow Times before eventually finding a niche as a Financial Times reporter in Central Asia. Sander spoke fluent Bahasa, Indonesia's national language, which made him the perfect reporter for a major story unfolding in East Timor. When Sander arrived in East Timor in 1997, the rupiah was collapsing, threatening the regime of President Suharto, who had been in power for the last thirty years. It was a politically volatile situation.

The Financial Times staff had no intention of putting Sander in harm's way, but as they later noted, "a good journalist cannot form a view of the story from the CNN screen in the safety of their hotel room." Indeed, Sander would have taken that kind of journalism as a personal affront, so his task was to find a way to manage the risks but nail the story. In 1999, Sander won international awards for his work in Indonesia from newspapers in Australia and the Netherlands. He was also honored by the U.S. foreign correspondents association.

Sander pressed on. In 1999, the big development was the U.N. peacekeeping force that had moved into Indonesia to neutralize the brutal violence of pro-Indonesian militias. This peacekeeping effort was the subject of Sander's reports when he hailed a motorcycle taxi in Dili, the capital of East Timor, on a fateful day in September of 1999.

Sander never came back from that ride, and on September 23, 1999, it was confirmed that he had been stopped and then shot by six gunmen in Indonesian military uniforms. Sander's death was front page news in newspapers around the world. Kofi Annan, the Secretary-General of the U.N., hailed Sander as "an outstanding young journalist" who "faced danger from those who wished to hide the truth of the existence of their crimes. It is largely thanks to the courage and determination of men and women like him that these horrors and their perpetrators are brought to the attention of the world conscience."

I had the chance to attend Sander's memorial service at Hamsphire and spend time with some of his closest friends. I also found myself on the periphery of yet another controversy with Hampshire College. Many of Sander's friends were profoundly disappointed with how Hampshire handled Sander's death in its subsequent coverage and tributes. That is a sad story for another time; Sander would not have wanted us to belabor the point. He would have urged us to get over ourselves and chase the big story instead.

After the service, Sander's friends left town, leaving me 20 minutes from Hampshire College and 20,000 miles from the person I used to be. But who had I become?

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Later that year, Rachel and I built this web site. While I do not foist this site on business colleagues, I do not hide it either. If you Google me, you find it all. You find the professional web sites I'm associated with, and you find my profanity-laced diatribes against the excesses of corporate America - some of them about the same companies that pay my client's bills and thus some of my own. Yep, plenty of contradictions here, but I'm sick of pretending I'm above them when clearly I am not. Mocking the corporate world is my freedom of speech in action; making a living from that same world is a humbling reminder that I am a subjective participant in that which I criticize.

Are there risks in putting these contrasting agendas onto the Internet? Sure. Could it hit me in the pocketbook someday? More than likely. But is it a greater risk than Sander took, getting on that motorbike because the only story truly worth writing was the one in the line of fire?

With each piece I post to this site, I'm revving up my own engine. But are there things I'm willing to die for? Self-esteem gurus seem to think the biggest obstacle is fear. But I think we tone down our boldest selves because we damn well sense the implications. The things we unleash within ourselves have destinies well beyond our control. All the years I held back, I held back not because I thought I would fail, but because I knew that failure was the least of the demons I would have to face.

I know this web site isn't exactly giving CNN or Fox or even Salon much of a scare. But I do know that I'm committed to financing my own independent voice, honing my craft until something I say resonates. Sometimes this means working on an essay at 3am when I'm already delirious. Sometimes this means posting work that isn't as good as I want it to be, waking up to a pile of business problems, and doing it all over again. Yes, this is the farthest thing from the life I expected at 35. But as much as it hurts to admit that, it would be a lot more despicable to bury whatever this is and settle into the creature comforts of responsible adulthood - things that have never proved all that difficult for me to obtain, with the unfortunate exception of true love.

The real trick is to find a way to use the success to finance the work that undermines the shallowness of the success that supports it. Strangely enough, I feel more peaceful in the struggle to balance these conflicting agendas than I've ever felt embracing one at the expense of the other. Of course, I dream of a day when I am able to "unite the opposites" and create the kind of success where the more truthful the work, the more responsive the marketplace. But that kind of success is hard to come by, and there will always come a time where the truth exacts a cost. When I arrive at that crossroads, will I push ahead as Sander did? Or will I look into the darkness and hesitate?

I don't know if I will ever find a way to reconcile my creative work with my economic obligations. Sander seemed to have an answer in terms of a career path as an international journalist. My occupational riddles aren't the same as his, and the answers aren't coming easily. But the commitment I've made is still because of him, and I'm just one of many Sander's life has affected. His is a daunting standard, but far worthier than many I have aspired to.

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