Our latest reader contributor, Scott Shepard of Memphis, Tennessee, responds to the previous reader who once earned six figures as a newspaper editor but is now unemployed, cash poor, and living in her son’s converted garage. Here’s Scott:
Linda’s tale is very nearly the same as mine. After more than 25 years in the newspaper business, I was downsized in 2008. (The managing editor told me privately that I was the highest paid person in the editorial department, so canning me would save the most money.)
After months of fruitless searching for another job, I accepted an invitation from a friend and moved to Taiwan to be an English teacher. A grand adventure, but after more than six years I yearned to be home. (Most foreign English teachers are from South Africa, so as an American I always had more work than I could handle; everyone prefers an American or Canadian.)
If Linda is interested in being a foreign teacher, I’d be glad to give her some guidance. Otherwise, go through the help wanted ads and see what is most in demand, and train for a new occupation. I’ve enrolled at my local community college to learn PC Networking, a field in which I know I can find work.
I’ve been back from Taiwan for a year, doing whatever I can find, from food service to working in a warehouse. I took training to be a forklift driver, but I’m left-handed, and you really have to be right-handed to drive those things. I’ve picked up some freelance work, but not much. I started two businesses that both failed to take off.
When I started at my last newspaper in 1989, there were 13 reporters. Today, there are three. Those jobs are not coming back. The Internet has completely changed the publishing industry. Nobody wants to pay a writer when there are thousands of others who will do it for free—quality be damned.
And increasingly, the best pay for journalists on the web is writing sponsored content, the form of advertising meant to resemble editorial content (though it’s clearly labeled here at The Atlantic, in contrast to less scrupulous actors like the one Fallows highlighted last year). If you haven’t yet seen John Oliver’s detailed look at sponsored content back in 2014, you really should:
And Jacob Silverman recently wrote for The Baffler “Confessions of a sponsored content writer,” centered on his experiences writing for our site. Here Silverman gives some perspective on the economics of the media industry right now:
But my new Atlantic contact gave me the lowdown: the magazine was looking to expand its sponsored offerings, and it would pay obscenely well—up to $4 per word in some cases, a rate that can be found these days only at the glossiest of glossy mags. I had written a few pieces for The Atlantic’s website before, at the measly rate of $150 each.
It’s definitely tough out there, and not just for legacy newspapers like the ones Linda and Scott worked for. From Ken Doctor’s latest diagnosis in NiemanLab:
At BuzzFeed, a 32 percent miss in 2015 revenue and a halving of its 2016 revenue target, according to the Financial Times.
The list of cutbacks — at The Huffington Post, at Gawker, at Al Jazeera, at International Business Times, and at Salon among others — keeps growing. And each round poses new questions for a news business struggling to find a way forward in this millennium. After all, even if the old world of news faded (like its readers) into older age, at least we could point to the cohort of digital-native outlets with a bit of optimism.
I feared this day would come — the new digital news companies bumping into a wall.
If, like Linda and Scott, you’ve also hit a wall and want to share your experience, drop us an email.
Many law school grads can relate to Brandon’s predicament:
To me, nothing summed up my experience better than your colleague Gillian’s July 2015 article, “Millennials Who Are Thriving Financially Have One Thing in Common ... Rich Parents.” My luck, or lack thereof, went even further. Specifically, I began law school in 2006 when the legal market was still booming, but the wheels fell off in the middle of my second year. By then, even the most qualified of my peers at a top-50 law school struggled to secure any legal position.
I don’t blame my parents, pre-law advisors, or anyone for that. Sometimes, stuff happens. And even three years earlier, I would have been fine. But, now being required to use 25 percent of my monthly salary (after taxes) to pay back law school loans has made life increasingly difficult. Unlike my friends who either have no debt, who have financial support from parents, or both, I literally can’t afford to make a mistake or be the victim of bad luck.
I thankfully will be able to take advantage of a public service loan forgiveness program through the federal government and be finished with my loans after five more years (I’ve been part of it for five so far). But I can’t imagine having to spend 25 years paying back loans and then have to pay taxes on the amount forgiven.
It’s a tough path to be on, and it has definitely contributed to me not saving or starting a family. But like I said, there's no one really to blame for that. Stuff just happens.
Our next reader has a whopping $200,000 of law school debt. This line especially stood out: “I’ve been shamed by people at my current work, including my boss, because I’ve admitted to being poor when I look, and my family looks, rich.” Here’s his full story, involving protein powder and a pooch in pain:
I’m 28, white male, an attorney in New Jersey, graduated law school in 2013 and was unemployed / working for free until the beginning of 2015. I went to a great law school but focused on a career in immigration that I ended up being unable to get a job in due to a lack of Spanish proficiency, and it was really strange and stressful to have most of my classmates going into jobs that started over six figures while I had to move back into my parent’s basement and slowly destroy my savings while looking for work.
I ended up taking what would have been a dream job at an immigration nonprofit, but I wasn’t paid to do it. My parents supported me, but they insisted I live in a much more expensive apartment than I wanted to and then didn’t help as much as they said they would, so I ended up going into thousands of dollars in credit card debt to pay for rent and groceries. I’m ok now, but only because I got a good job at the end of 2014 and spent the past 15 months paying off cards, bills, and many other debts.
I’m lucky enough that I was able to rely on my parents to help me keep “working,” even if unpaid, because without that job I almost certainly would have ended up long term unemployed—but even that luck didn’t feel great. I ended up buying protein powder, flour, and peanut butter to make high calorie/protein cookies to last me when I ran out of money for food; I couldn’t pay for repairs for my car and put all the gas on a credit card; and I had to delay a surgery for my dog for a year which left her in a lot of pain and distress.
I was also depressed during much of this time, and my long-term girlfriend, whom I was planning on proposing to, dumped me, saying she couldn’t deal with it any more. I went to a therapist, who was very helpful with the depression but also ended up being out of network for my insurance, so I had to go into more debt to pay for the treatments.
I’m out of it now, but my food buying patterns were frankly broken for most of 2015 as a result, and I’ve been shamed by people at my current work, including my boss, because I’ve admitted to being poor when I look and my family looks rich. I’m almost out of my credit card debt and was able to pay for my dog’s surgery but I don’t know how long it’ll take for me to be normal about money and groceries/food/normal daily life things. I also have no expectations of ever being able to afford to buy a home—ever—and I’m lucky because I don’t want kids; I have no idea how I could ever financially plan for a child’s expenses.
I have over $200,000 of law school debt, which thankfully I'm on an income-based plan for and will be able to deal with, so the odd thing is it's my smaller debts/bills that have been the real issue for me. The best advice I have for people going through what I went through, or worse, is to try to keep organized and normal. Mental health is just as hard to deal with as physical health, and if I had recognized that and been more put together I think I wouldn’t have the lasting effects that I have now in my approach to daily life.
Your readers—and Neal Gabler—need to know about Debtors Anonymous. It’s a 12-step program for people whose lives have become unmanageable over issues of money. It helped me out of a near-suicidal depression several years ago when I was so flattened by debt that death seemed the only way out of the pain. It gave me a community in which I could speak honestly about my money issues, along with genuine tools for maintaining a “sobriety” on money issues and a Pressure Relief group with which I met to keep me focused.
Now, I write down every expense, balance my checkbook weekly, save at least 10% from every check (on a freelance income) and have a “prudent reserve” for emergencies. Five years ago, I would have been flattened by the emergency payments that Gabler cited. Now, I could meet either one, or both, with perhaps a grimace but with a check that would not bounce.
Yes, I still have debt, but it’s secured and manageable. DA is where anyone who wants to get sane about money can go to share and learn, without any judgment—only love, understanding and support. To find a meeting (and there are phone and online meetings for those outside of areas with local groups), go to: www.DebtorsAnonymous.org.
As is standard in this arena, I will not use my name but sign off as:
I just want to say that what Mr. Gabler wrote in his article on the 49 percent of Americans who cannot afford a $400 emergency was shocking, enlightening, and extremely brave. I was appalled to read such horrible slams directed at him the comment section and I think they just validate his point that many people are in complete denial that many people are, or could be, at risk for “financial impotence.” Thank you for the insightful article and I will continue to read everything Mr. Gabler writes.
I’m actually in the middle of reading his 500-page tome An Empire of Their Own: How the Jews Invented Hollywood, an award-winning work I can’t recommend enough. It tells the inspiring story of the handful of Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe that built Hollywood in defiance of the exclusionary WASP establishment of New York City led by Thomas Edison and his monopolistic pals in the film industry. In a crazy coincidence, I started reading the book back in February, prompted by all the Oscar buzz and controversy over the Academy’s diversity, before I even heard that Gabler was writing an essay for us—his first, and hopefully not his last, for The Atlantic.
But back to our reader series, the following confessional from Linda Lee, an unemployed journalist, is just as brave as Gabler’s. And her agonizing story hits close to home for members of the media such as myself:
No matter how unhappy you are, never quit a job. I did, when I was being paid more than $100,000 a year as a newspaper editor, had a rent stabilized, one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side, and owned a small—400-square-foot small—cottage in Columbia County, near Hudson, on two acres of land, nearly paid off.
I felt unappreciated. I felt stymied. I was in a rut. I’d been there for 17 years. The newspaper was not letting me grow. And I wanted to do something of my own.
All this was in 2004. Remember 2004, those days of economic optimism? Someone in Miami offered me even more money, and a three-year contract, to start a new magazine. So I jumped from a stable company and a cheap apartment in New York to an unstable company, and the house of my dreams—with a 30-year conventional mortgage—in Miami, the Wild West of high expectations and deceptive values.
Times were good. I eventually gave up my rent-controlled apartment, because my Miami house was accruing value, and I figured I could always sell it and use the profit to go somewhere else. The mortgage crisis hit Miami starting in 2007, long before other places, because Miami real estate was so out of control. People “bought” three or four pre-construction condos—“bought” in the sense of making a down payment—and then flipped them on completion, making $100,000 on a ten percent, $30,000 investment. And then they did it again.
I told my literary agent in New York that I wanted to write a book called “Tiny Bubbles,” about the crashing real estate market in Miami, Phoenix, Las Vegas and Orange County, California. I’d seen the whole thing first hand, from cocktail parties flowing with champagne and gorgeous girls in strapless dresses to announce the start of sales on some new building that existed only in computer renderings. I’d seen the grand openings of million-dollar “sales centers,” tarted up by designers like Philippe Starck with high-end amenities, to show people exactly what their apartment would look like—except for that clause way down in the small type saying that the developer could substitute different appliances and materials of “similar” quality.
The sales centers were Potemkin villages, not even on or close to the building site. They offered a false front on three double-wide pre-fab structures, all arranged to offer grand living spaces, fake views of the water, rain-forest shower heads, stainless steel appliances, Italian cabinetry, marble floors and, my favorite amenity, the second kitchen, in the master suite, so buyers would not have to walk to the kitchen.
Then there were the gushing announcements of buildings being sold out, the press releases, the media coverage, the pretentious names—Apogee, Aria, Icon, the Mansions at Aqualina. My favorite excess: the hot air balloon that would take potential buyers up to the height of the condo they were considering, so they could see the view.
My agent told me that no one wanted to read a book like that, that it was depressing, and that, besides, real estate in New York was just fine. This was, remember, 2007.
By 2008, Miami real estate had crashed and burned. And so had my magazine, because my advertisers were those same luxury condos and the appliance companies and furniture stores that sold things to people who were going to buy luxury condos. I lost my house to a short-sale that disappeared every cent I had put into it, my cash down payment, my thousands of dollars of improvements. And I exhausted all of my other cushions, my 401K, half of my pension, taking early Social Security, just to survive and find a new job.
That was nine years ago. There were no jobs in Miami, but I also could not find a job in New York. Newspaper, you know. And I couldn’t afford to live in New York anyhow. Nor can I get a job in any of the places I’ve tried: Washington, DC, Leesburg, VA, several places in New Jersey, Hudson, NY, Minot, ND, Pleasantville, NY, Philadelphia or Emmaus, PA or Harrisburg, PA. I am overqualified, and over-age—even though I would happily work for someone younger. Or anyone.
Recently, I’ve been interviewed for a Civil Service job that would pay me $40,000 a year. At the interview I asked straight out if I would be disqualified either because I’d previously made more money or because of my age. I was told that in civil service positions, that does not matter. But it’s been six weeks since the interview, and I’m still waiting.
Meanwhile, I am in a moment of financial dread. My bank account is almost empty and I’m waiting for a wire transfer of $2,000 from Paris, for a revision of a guidebook I wrote about Miami. The money was supposed to arrive at the end of March. It’s now April 20, and no money, despite countless emails to Paris.
I have payments of $308, $225, $200 and $54 (for two credit cards, a car payment and car insurance) due in the next five days. I have enough food for myself, and enough dog food, but the cat is beginning to eye his feeder suspiciously. I can’t afford to drink. Right now I have $12, which I’m holding onto for an emergency.
This is not what I expected my life to be like: I am living in a converted garage of a house I share with my son and daughter-in-law, a two-room living space with a half bath and no kitchen.
Most of my friends say, “You’ll figure something out. You always do.” But I haven’t and this time it’s possible I won’t.
One of the worst periods of my life was when I first returned to the U.S. after living abroad for several years. During the two-year period that followed, I spent more time unemployed than employed. Even worse, after I found a job after seven months of looking, I was laid off after a few months because it was a poor fit.
Being so financially insecure was devastating. Even though I had the benefit of staying with my parents, I spiraled into depression. I cried constantly. I was in my 30s, college-educated, and had never spent more than a month without a job. I called suicide hotlines, only to have them turn me away because I wasn’t going to kill myself right then and there. Didn’t it matter that I thought about it all the time? That I was a useless person who didn’t deserve to live because I couldn’t find a job?
My parents were actually pretty great. My mom always told me and tells me now, “Your generation suffers.”
Eventually, I did find a permanent job again in 2013. At that time, my savings account was bleak, and I was living off my credit cards.
But ever since my employment stabilized, I’ve been obsessively saving. Personal finance is my hobby. Even in expensive San Francisco, I live very frugally, and I love it. I changed my 401K deduction so that I would max it out. I got my tax refund and threw it into my Roth IRA, because guess what?—I’m maxing that out too.
This year, I’m aiming for a grand total of $100K in my savings account. I’m $23K short right now, but I’m confident I can reach my goal.
But even with that big round number, I don’t feel safe. I’m scared that one day, I’ll find myself facing the demon of depression again because of financial insecurity. So I’m doing everything I can to keep the demon away while I can.
Speaking of extreme savings, this email from Brian Surratt is really helpful:
Neal Gabler’s article was a bracing spotlight on the problem of middle-class financial insecurity. His candid account of his own financial history was a brave and important act. I hope it serves as a catalyst to change the financial habits of Americans for the better.
His story presents an opportunity to highlight the exact opposite of financial illiteracy: the small but growing financial independence, or FI, movement. (The movement is also known as financial independence/retire early (FIRE) or early retirement extreme (ERE).) It’s best known proponent is Mr. Money Mustache, who has been widely profiled in magazines such as The New Yorker. The movement appears to be growing. For example, the Reddit FI forum has been steadily growing in popularity and there seem to be new FI bloggers every day.
The central tenet of FI is to strive for a very, very high savings rate, essentially saving between 30 and 70% of income. This both encourages household frugality while increasing savings to a point where it is no longer necessary to work as a paid employee well before traditional retirement age.
The FI culture has much to offer those who are financially insecure. First of all, the time to become financially literate is now. It is never too late. As Megan McArdle has pointed out, if you are an older worker with insufficient savings, FI is a great way to ensure you save something for retirement.
Second, even if you simply don’t have enough income to achieve a 50% savings rate, by adopting some of the principles of FI, you may achieve at least a reasonable (say, 20%) savings rate.
Third, the broad range of incomes of FI adherents shows it is possible for the majority of Americans to save some amount. After all, whatever one’s income level, other households are getting by on less. It will require a change in lifestyle, but the FI movement shows that it is possible.
Over the past year, for the first time in my life, I’ve been saving, and saving aggressively—35 percent of my paycheck. Fifty percent is an appealing goal, especially after reading Gabler’s piece the other night and now absorbing all the emails coming in from readers who fell on really hard times. Having a significant savings account for the first time in my life is an extreme boon psychologically. (Still paying off those undergraduate loans, though, 12 years out.) If you happen to be part of the Financial Independence movement and want to offer any specific advice or tips to our readers, drop us an email.
A ton of reader emails have already come in responding to Becca’s callout for “true money stories.” The first one comes from a reader who prefers to stay anonymous. Her story of financial struggle is set in the mid-’90s, when the U.S. was having an economic boom:
In October, we had a very cheap wedding and put a down payment on a house instead of going on a honeymoon. We were in our mid-20s and both had college degrees. My husband had two part-time jobs. I had a full-time job with health insurance and a part-time job for Christmas money. What could go wrong?
In November, my company went under, leaving me with the 15-hour-a-week bookstore job. Luckily they took me on full-time for the holiday season.
In December, one of my husband’s part-time jobs went on hiatus for three weeks. The refrigerator quit. We turned the furnace down to 56, blocked the vents, and unplugged everything in all but our bedroom, the kitchen, and the basement (which luckily had a full bathroom). I returned for cash all the wedding gifts we hadn’t used. There were no Christmas gifts that year, of course. My dad sold some stock and gave us $400 so we could buy a cheap fridge. I cried.
Our food for the next year was from the damaged rack, and we ate quick-sale meat and dairy. We racked up $7,000 in credit card debt, trying to keep ourselves above water.
We’ve now been married 21 years, have two kids, and two more degrees. But I still shop from the damaged food section.
This next reader discloses how “my worst moments of financial insecurity, as a young husband, both involved food”:
The first happened at a grocery store in 1976. My bride and I were shopping for groceries, in the days before we had credit cards, and we realized that we didn’t have enough cash to pay for the pitifully few groceries we had put in the cart. Deciding what to put back was a combination of embarrassment and a feeling of impotence (of the “not man enough” variety).
The second was worse. Mary was cooking pasta and trying to drain it without a strainer. The lid slipped and the pasta went into the sink, some down the drain. She broke into tears because she had to fish our dinner out of the sink. We had nothing else to eat, and no money to eat out.
I was in graduate school at the time, on a fellowship that almost paid our rent. She had a BFA to teach, but jobs were nonexistent. We both had good prospects for the future, but a feeling of “we won’t survive to get there.”
I have friends whose fertility I know more about than their finances. Money—what we make, how we spend it, how much we owe—is perhaps the most personal information of all. And we’d like to ask you to share that information with The Atlantic and your fellow readers.
For me, the few times I have had open conversations about money with anyone besides my spouse, I have benefitted immensely.I have sorted out spending priorities, thought more deeply about charitable giving, and received crucial career advice. More than anything, it was just good to talk about it: Money is something that many (most?) of us think about all the time. Talking about it with friends normalized that fact, and made financial worries something we shared. I’m lucky that I’ve had even these few conversations—many people navigate their financial lives more or less entirely alone.
Neal Gabler, the author of our new cover story, has for a long time been in that camp. “To struggle financially is a source of shame, a daily humiliation—even a form of social suicide,”Gabler writes. “Silence is the only protection.” But this isolation did him little good. He floats through his financial troubles without the stories of friends—without their mistakes to learn from, their smart decisions to imitate, their counsel to guide him.
There’s a lot to be gained from these stories, and we’d like to hear them. Write to us with yours at email@example.com. Tell us about the things you did right and the things you did wrong; tell us the disadvantages you faced, the advantages you had, and those you wished you’d had; tell us if, like Gabler, you emptied your retirement accounts to fund tuition or a wedding; tell us your money stories. Over the next few weeks, we’ll post them here in Notes. Please let us know if you'd like to use your full name, first name, or remain completely anonymous.
What the Amazon founder and CEO wants for his empire and himself, and what that means for the rest of us.
Where in the pantheon of American commercial titans does Jeffrey Bezos belong? Andrew Carnegie’s hearths forged the steel that became the skeleton of the railroad and the city. John D. Rockefeller refined 90 percent of American oil, which supplied the pre-electric nation with light. Bill Gates created a program that was considered a prerequisite for turning on a computer.
At 55, Bezos has never dominated a major market as thoroughly as any of these forebears, and while he is presently the richest man on the planet, he has less wealth than Gates did at his zenith. Yet Rockefeller largely contented himself with oil wells, pump stations, and railcars; Gates’s fortune depended on an operating system. The scope of the empire the founder and CEO of Amazon has built is wider. Indeed, it is without precedent in the long history of American capitalism.
As WeWork crashes and Uber bleeds cash, the consumer-tech gold rush may be coming to an end.
Several weeks ago, I met up with a friend in New York who suggested we grab a bite at a Scottish bar in the West Village. He had booked the table through something called Seated, a restaurant app that pays users who make reservations on the platform. We ordered two cocktails each, along with some food. And in exchange for the hard labor of drinking whiskey, the app awarded us $30 in credits redeemable at a variety of retailers.
I am never offended by freebies. But this arrangement seemed almost obscenely generous. To throw cash at people every time they walk into a restaurant does not sound like a business. It sounds like a plot to lose money as fast as possible—or to provide New Yorkers, who are constantly dining out, with a kind of minimum basic income.
Our unpredictable and overburdened schedules are taking a dire toll on American society.
Just under a century ago, the Soviet Union embarked on one of the strangest attempts to reshape the common calendar that has ever been undertaken. As Joseph Stalin raced to turn an agricultural backwater into an industrialized nation, his government downsized the week from seven to five days. Saturday and Sunday were abolished.
In place of the weekend, a new system of respite was introduced in 1929. The government divided workers into five groups, and assigned each to a different day off. On any given day, four-fifths of the proletariat would show up to their factories and work while the other fifth rested. Each laborer received a colored slip of paper—yellow, orange, red, purple, or green—that signified his or her group. The staggered schedule was known as nepreryvka, or the “continuous workweek,” since production never stopped.
As the impeachment inquiry intensifies, some associates of the president predict that his already erratic behavior is going to get worse.
The country is entering a new and precarious phase, in which the central question about President Donald Trump is not whether he is coming unstrung, but rather just how unstrung he is going to get.
The boiling mind of Trump has spawned a cottage industry for cognitive experts who have questioned whether he is, well, all there. But as the impeachment inquiry barrels ahead on Capitol Hill, several associates of the president, including former White House aides, worry that his behavior is likely to get worse. Angered by the proceedings, unencumbered by aides willing to question his judgment, and more and more isolated in the West Wing, Trump is apt to lash out more at enemies imagined and real, these people told me. Conduct that has long been unsettling figures to deteriorate as Trump comes under mounting stress. What unfolded Wednesday inside the West Wing’s walls might be only a foretaste of what House Speaker Nancy Pelosi described that day, after a meeting with Trump, as a presidential “meltdown.”
Donald Trump’s narcissism makes it impossible for him to carry out the duties of the presidency in the way the Constitution requires.
On a third-down play last season, the Washington Redskins quarterback Alex Smith stood in shotgun formation, five yards behind the line of scrimmage. As he called his signals, a Houston Texans cornerback, Kareem Jackson, suddenly sprinted forward from a position four yards behind the defensive line.
The literary critic thought the culture that sustained him was in the process of being sacrificed on the altar of social justice.
For more than three decades Harold Bloom, Cassandra-like, warned America that the literary culture that sustained him and other lovers of the word was in the process of being sacrificed on the altar of social justice. “We are,” he said, “destroying all intellectual and aesthetic standards in the humanities and social sciences.” We eviscerate literary works to uncover the presence of exclusionary and discriminatory impulses and gestures; we feast on their contributions to social justice or their failures to contribute to social justice, and then discard the carcass. There is nothing more to be done with them, and surely no reason to reread them.
Rereading for Bloom, who died last weekend, was the hallmark of the aesthetic experience. Something that has, in Bloom’s words, aesthetic dignity is not disposable. It is not instrumental in relation to some other value. It is its own value, and it is not, Bloom wrote, “for hire.” Aesthetic dignity is not to be subordinated to some cause, however noble. It does not offer itself up for “rapid ingestion.” It does not exist to give the reader pleasure. Instead it gives the “high unpleasure or more difficult pleasure that a lesser text”—one in the service of an ideology—“will not provide.”
White House and Justice Department attorneys work for the government and the public—but are acting in Trump’s personal interest instead.
Legal ethicists no doubt cringed earlier this year when Attorney General William Barr preempted Special Counsel Robert Mueller’s report by announcing that “no collusion” had occurred between President Donald Trump’s campaign and Russia. That was not what Mueller had actually said. Instead, the special counsel emphasized that “collusion” is not a legal concept and therefore made no finding on that point. As the top prosecutor in the nation, Barr had an ethical obligation to describe the law and the facts accurately to the American people.
But Barr’s misrepresentation was only the first of several legal abominations from federal-government attorneys—whose duty is to the American public and the agencies that act on the public’s behalf—behaving instead like Trump’s personal lawyers. This is no small ethical lapse.
Winning images from the annual photo competition produced by the Natural History Museum in London
The Wildlife Photographer of the Year competition, founded in 1965, is an annual international showcase of the best in nature photography. This year, the contest attracted more than 48,000 entries from 100 countries. Wildlife Photographer of the Year is developed and produced by the Natural History Museum, London. The owners and sponsors have once again been kind enough to share the following 15 winning images from this year’s competition. The museum’s website has images from previous years and more information about the current contest and exhibition. Captions are provided by the photographers and WPY organizers, and are lightly edited for style.
The Iranian approach to proxy warfare offers a surprising lesson.
In July 2006 in south Beirut, Qassem Soleimani was facing death. In a rare interview published earlier this month, the shadowy commander of Iran’s Qods Force, the elite paramilitary arm of the Iranian regime’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, revealed for the first time that he was in Lebanon during the 33-day war between Israel and Hezbollah to direct Iran’s support to its decades-long Shia proxy-turned-ally in Lebanon. Soleimani recounted a harrowing (aren’t they all) escape from swarming Israeli drones, targeting him and Hezbollah’s leader, Hassan Nasrallah. As the Israeli campaign intensified, Soleimani shuttled between Lebanon and Iran to relay battlefield updates to Tehran and rally support to the group. Asked if anyone in Tehran questioned Iran’s commitment to Hezbollah at the risk of a direct war with Israel, particularly if the commander of the vaunted Qods Force was killed, Soleimani said “No one hesitated,” starting with the supreme leader.