With another Peabody Award in hand and a new job at CNN, Charlayne Hunter-Gault has become our eyes and ears on a continent where a billion people are creating what she calls the "new news."

B Y - C H A R L A Y N E - H U N T E R - G A U L T - (A B J '6 3)
P H O T O S - B Y - M A R K - A D A M S - (A B '9 9)

n June 13, 1997, I said goodbye to viewers who had followed my career at PBS for 20 years, and invited them to come with me to Africa. In my mind's eye, I saw them coming not with packed bags, but with open imaginations, ready to receive the Africa I had come to know over the years, as well as the Africa I was determined to get to know better as a correspondent for National Public Radio.

In rehearsal before my final telecast for the "NewsHour," I had re-read my lines to avoid any voice-cracking emotion that might arise from leaving friends I had worked with for so long. But I was transported to a different emotion by a farewell video the staff had prepared that ended with a tribute from Sidney Poitier, who said, as only Sidney Poitier could:

"And, for me, tell Mother Africa that primal memory is at work on her behalf in all of her children's children"—which said to me: Don't look back; you have a very special job to do.

Top of Page: Hunter-Gault interviews a resident of the Nyanga township of Cape Town, where political violence and murder had recently taken place.
	In South Africa alone, 11 official languages are spoken. Some, says Hunter-Gault, "include clicks and other sounds that are totally alien to the Western tongue and palate."

A FEW MONTHS LATER

I am on assignment for my new employer, NPR, covering the first extended tour of Africa by an American president. I am standing in front of President Clinton in a remote village in Uganda during his historic six-nation tour of the continent. He is speaking of his childhood dreams of Africa , a place of mystery and adventure. In that moment, thick with the heat of the African sun, I am transported back to Covington, Ga., and to my own childhood fantasies of the mid-1940s.

Crawling through the thick overhanging vines and leafy bushes in the lot behind my house in Covington, occasionally pricking my skinny brown arms on a thorn, I call myself "Nyoka, Queen of the Jungle" after a comic strip character of the same name. (I think she may have preceded my other inspiration, Brenda Starr, who would start me on the quest of a journalistic fantasy.) But in addition to Nyoka, my imagination is also fired by my weekly trek to what we call "The Show," the tiny, segregated, small-town movie theater that helps us move as far beyond the barriers of race as our imaginations can take us. Never mind that what we encounter there are stereotypes of a racist kind, where Tarzan as played by Buster Crabbe or Tarzan as played by Johnny Weismuller is always the Good Guy who is either killing black savages or saving them from themselves. Somehow—thanks to "primal memory" and positive images I am fed by my grandfather and father, who were ministers in the African Methodist Episcopal Church—my imagination isn't afflicted by the stereotypes.

"Africans, like African Americans, come in all colors. Or, as a young South African woman put it: 'In all flavors of licorice.'"

Two of Africa's great challenges, says Hunter-Gault, are dealing with poverty and nurturing fledgling democracies. Since 1990, the number of democracies in the 48 nations of sub-Sahara Africa alone has nearly quadrupled.

A FEW DAYS LATER

It is the last stop on the president's tour, which he has used to praise Africa and counter stereotypes. He is on Goree Island, a minuscule spot in the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Senegal—which, in fact, is not such a long journey from the East Coast of the U.S. It's a straight shot from New York City to Africa's west coast. By air, it's as close as London or Paris. But for millions of my ancestors, it was a journey without end. And unlike some of the stops on the president's trip, I had been to this one place before—thankfully in a more quiet, more solitary moment. Senegalese President Abdou Diouf is now showing President and Mrs. Clinton a two-story, red-clay house where black men, women, and children were sold into slavery. Here, women's breasts were measured, children's teeth were checked—and men who weighed under 140 pounds were fed to the sharks. Those who survived detention and examination were then forced into the holds of ships for the arduous and killing journey to the Americas.

It is 1993, and I am standing near the entrance to the long, dark, and narrow corridor that once led to the slave ships. A guide is telling the story of the large hole in the wall with the bars over it. He is saying that after the men, women, and children were unshackled from the dank underground cubicles where many of them were kept chained to the walls, they were led past this spot on their way to the ships. The more obstreperous ones were thrown into this crudely dug hole in the wall and barricaded in by iron bars, then made to wait there until the rest of the slaves had been loaded onto the ship. I am listening to this story almost absently because I am trying to get emotionally prepared for the Door of No Return. I know where it took my forefathers; I have no idea where it will take me. All I know is that it has brought many who have made this pilgrimage to their knees in rivers of tears. Suddenly, I hear the name, Nelson Mandela, and I am brought back to the guide's narrative. He is talking about Mandela's visit, not long after Mandela was released from his 27-year imprisonment in South Africa. He is saying that Mandela had listened intently to the story of the hole in the wall. When it was finished, the world's most famous prisoner didn't move for a few moments. Then he removed his suit jacket and knelt in front of the hole, then crawled into it and, without a word, sat silently inside for a long time, eventually emerging with tears in his eyes. I had interviewed Mandela shortly after his release from prison in 1991, and I had been touched by his almost majestic, but still humble bearing—and by his almost bewildering resilience. I had probed as much as time and talent allowed and had not been able to discover the substance of his core. In that moment, in front of this hole in the wall, though still bewildered, I felt I had gotten closer. By the time I reached the Door of No Return, my emotions were already spent. I wanted to cry, but I had no tears left.

DOOR OF NO RETURN

Eight years have passed. I am covering a solemn American president, leader of the free world, after he has heard this same story and seen the Door of No Return for himself. He is saying:

"We cannot push backward through the Door of No Return. We have lived our history."

Later, he says, "Long after the slave ships stopped sailing from this place to America, Goree Island still looks out onto the New World, connecting two continents and standing as a vivid reminder that for some ancestors, this journey to America was anything but a search for freedom" and that "those who survived the murderous middle passage found themselves, yes, American, but it would be a long time before their descendants enjoyed the full meaning of the word."

Recording the sounds of street life is essential to telling real-world stories of Africa for radio audiences half a world away.

The air had been full of anticipation over whether the president would offer an apology for slavery, but, in truth, most of that discussion emanated from the traveling White House press. Africans were far more enthralled with Clinton's physical presence on their soil, and they applauded his parting words from Goree Island: "A few hours from now, we will leave Africa and go home, back to the work of building our own country for a new century. But I return more convinced than when I came here that, despite daunting challenges, there is an African Renaissance."

Some of those traveling with the president—including California congresswoman Maxine Waters and the Omni-African-American Jesse Jackson—were satisfied with what the president had said and done. In my journalist mode, I accepted what he said as sound bites for my story and put how I felt as a great-grandchild of slavery on hold.

WHITE-KNUCKLERS IN WAR ZONES

Over the next few months, I delve deeper into Africa, in search of the renaissance Clinton referred to—and I'm struck by the sheer physical effort it takes to cover most places on the continent. It is almost impossible to get from one African country to another in any direct way. Long plane rides are a constant, as are airports with few creature comforts and lots of the unemployed, mostly trying to hustle anyone who doesn't appear to be a local.

I am learning a lot from Africans, including how to cope with the scorching heat. I often wear clothes of African fabric or design—because they are aesthetically pleasing, and because they are loosefitting and easy to wear when traveling great distances. And while my light complexion sometimes identifies me as being from Somewhere Else, it's also true that Africans, like African Americans, come in all colors. Or, as a young South African woman put it, "in all flavors of licorice."

There are other kinds of plane rides—the private charters or U.N. planes—which are sometimes the only way a reporter can get to a remote location. And some of the most egregious violations of human rights and some of the worst suffering take place in such locales. I need to cover these stories, but there are risks. On a recent trip to Angola I wanted to visit areas where there is a growing refugee crisis due to the renewed civil war. Colleagues referred me to Maria Flynn of the World Food Program. It was a tense time because two U.N. planes had recently been shot down in the areas I wanted to visit. But Flynn, a former Wall Streeet broker who wanted something more meaningful in life, assured me that U.N. planes flying into combat zones cruise at altitudes higher than ground-to-air missiles can reach. Her only caution: don't eat breakfast. When I pressed her, she explained that planes fly at 17,000 feet until they reach the government-held landing strip, then spiral down in as tight a circle as possible to avoid gunfire from surrounding hills, which are occupied by guerillas.

"It can be unsettling," says Flynn.

Before leaving Angola, I packed breakfast bars, an apple, and a bottle of water. (Most visitors know not to drink the water in remote areas, but few are aware that clean water can also be a problem in many African cities—including Johannesburg.) Contemplating the flight into refugee territory, I was uneasy. So I sat down and wrote a note, which I laid on top of the clothes in my suitcase. It was addressed to my husband, my two children, and my mother. It said, in part:

"If you are reading this note, it probably means something has happened to me. If that is the case, I know that you all will be sad. But I want you to be comforted by knowing that I was doing what I loved best in the world."

In the air, I took courage from Maria and the other journalists in the tiny prop plane. As I watched the mountainous landscape below me, ever alert for an incoming missile so that I could call out a warning to the captain, Mark Carter, the strapping, ruddy-faced Newsweek photographer, seemed so relaxed. He even fell asleep at one point. But he woke up when the plane started into its spiral. Suddenly, the plane banked sharply, its left wing almost searing leaves off the tops of trees. Then it flipped back parallel to the ground—and landed with a thud. "Some flying, eh?" said Mark.

Later, I retrieved the note, but I didn't destroy it. I had a feeling I might need it again. For despite the call for an African Renaissance, white-hot wars and simmering conflicts still bedevil the continent. If I am taking millions of people on these assignments with me via their radios or TV screens, it's important for them to smell the cordite, feel the fear and experience the suffering. It is equally important for them to be informed about the origins of all of that, to have a lens through which to view the carnage. No conflict in Africa springs full-blown from nothing. That's part of the intellectual challenge. Going down that path can be as daunting, if not more so, than the physical challenges. But I have to go there, and when I do, I make use of indigenous sources, and let African voices speak for Africa. It is one of the lessons I learned early on in my career.

It is 1972 and I am trying to get an interview with a member of the Black Panther Party, following a press conference in Harlem, where I am working as a bureau chief for the New York Times. When he learns that I work for the Times, he refuses. When I ask why, he says, "You work downtown for The Man, and The Man don't never have nothing good to say about black people." He is surly and snide, but I persist. "But you don't know me or my work," I say. And he says, "But I know The Man ain't gonna let you print the truth." And I say, "I don't agree with that. What will it take to convince you to let me interview you?" And he says, "You got to 'come in right.' So I say, "Let's make a deal. You let me interview you and then read the story in the paper tomorrow. If I don't 'come in right,' then you have the right never to talk to me ever again. Deal?" The young Panther ponders the offer, then says, "Deal, but I'm warning you." I don't ask what he means by "come in right." I have covered Harlem long enough to know that its people, who are constantly misrepresented in the press, don't want puff pieces. They respect the truth and want the truth to be told about them. I assume that "come in right" means honest, fair reporting. The next time I see this young brother on the street, he's read the story—and he's all smiles. "Right on, Sistah," he says, giving me the clenched-fist Black Power salute. I reply: "Power to the people."

BEING BLACK, FEMALE AN ASSET

One criticism I encounter from Africans is that Americans present themselves as all-knowing, when, in fact, their perspectives are influenced by the oft- distorted views of Africa in textbooks and the media. In an attempt to "come in right," I've tried to check my own views at the door of the continent, realizing that I, too, am a product of Western education and perspectives. Being an African American, I have been propelled to go beyond traditional sources, having experienced first-hand the sins of omission of those sources. I believe that being an African American and a woman has been an asset, despite the fact that African societies are still dominated by men—and older, more tradition-bound ones at that. For me, it has been a matter of understanding the culture, as I and African women work in our own ways to change those things that deprive us of our rights.

When I came to live in South Africa, I wanted to add my name to my hus- band's bank account. When I told the bank officer, a woman, how I wanted my name printed on the checks, she told me that was not possible. "This is Africa, you know," she said. "This may be Africa," I replied, "but my money is also in that account, and I want my name on it." I referred her to the new South African constitution, which bars any kind of discrimination, including gender. When the checks arrived, my name was on them.

But, on the whole, I find African men and women eager to receive you, particularly when convinced that you come with an open, receptive mind. In South Africa, as in other parts of Africa—among the emerging new political elite, in particular—there is a love-hate ambivalence about America, if not Americans. They watch our awful sitcoms and soap operas and admire the creature comforts of the characters. They see themselves on CNN and like it that they're there, if not always how they're portrayed. They want America to share its resources, in the form of aid for some and trade for others, but they want a say in how it's done—and generally want that aid without conditions.

Africans love it when we attempt to speak any of their languages. But it's a real challenge. South Africa has 11 official languages, some of which include clicks and other sounds that are totally alien to the Western tongue and palate. Africans are pleasantly surprised to see me wearing braids, although one Nigerian asked me how I was able to find other white people like myself to braid my hair. When I informed him I was an African American, he was incredulous.

NEW JOB, SAME BEREAVED TURF

Over the past year, my NPR broadcasts from Africa have earned me the second Peabody Award of my career. But as I stand on a stage in March at the African Journalist of the Year awards ceremony, I am about to be introduced as the new Johannesburg bureau chief for Cable News Network. I'll be working for my old UGA classmate, CNN president Tom Johnson (ABJ '63), and several top CNN officials have come from Atlanta and London for the introduction. I had been working feverishly all day on my last three stories for NPR, and as I stand here on this stage my mind's eye replays all that I've seen in the last year and a half.

I've met children in Rwanda whose mothers and fathers were murdered in the state-sponsored genocide of 1994, which forced them into the role of head of household, some as young as 11. There are 85,000 such households in Rwanda with more than 300,000 children living in them, according to UNICEF. I met some of them, including a 15-year-old with five younger brothers who described herself as "a widow, an orphan." For me, the story lay not so much in the tragedy of this young girl's life as in the heart beating inside her aching breast. A heart that revealed its strength when she was offered a few dollars by journalists who heard her story. She listened in silence as they told her the money was hers to do with as she pleased. She took it, then disappeared inside the mud-and-twaddle hut where she and her brothers lived. She aroused the youngest, who was about four and desperately ill with malaria, as evidenced by his distended stomach. She bathed him, then carried him to a road where she hitched a ride to a clinic miles away.

I met survivors of South Africa's brutal apartheid regime, who, though maimed by its agents, can still forgive them for what they did. Ida Redebe is one of them. I found her sitting on a chair in her small bark house in the hills of a KwaZulu township. Her discomfort was visible as she extended her left leg, still swollen nine years after she was shot and left for dead during a funeral vigil in a neighbor's house. Eleven others died in a scene described by a policeman as so thick with blood that it covered their shoes and soaked their socks as they walked through the house conducting their investigation. Brian Mitchell, the white police captain who ordered the slaughter, served five and a half years in prison before being granted amnesty by South Africa's Truth Commission. After coming forward to tell the truth about what happened—a pre-condition of amnesty—Mitchell visited the KwaZulu community and asked for forgiveness. Not everyone forgave him, but despite the pain she felt even that day, Ida Radede told me: "I forgive Brian Mitchell with all my heart."

Not every victim of apartheid is as forgiving, but even so South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission process has offered a new model for Africa. It may be imperfect, but countries in a fragile stage of evolution from authoritarian rule to democracy are looking for lessons in how to give democracy roots.

Nigerians are contemplating South Africa's model as they move from years of brutal military dictatorship that robbed the country of its vast oil riches. An elected president was scheduled to be installed on May 29. Many voices are demanding that one of the new president's first acts be to investigate where all of the country's money went. Some say the emerging democracy is too fragile for that, others argue it is the only way to restore Nigeria's strength. This debate is typical of what I call the "new news" that's coming out of Africa. This new news fills the void left by the Cold War paradigm of Good Guys versus Bad Guys—and looks at all the men and women in between.

SETTING THE STAGE FOR ADVENTURE

Since my Queen Nyoka-Brenda Starr phase, I have always wanted to be where the action was. As Georgia's globe-trotting journalist Mildred Seydell once put it:. "I'd rather set the stage for adventure than the table for dinner." Well, that's what drove me to pack my bags in 1997 and head to Africa.

I never envisioned it as a sentimental journey back to my roots, wherever they may be on this vast continent. From Morocco to Cairo, from Senegal to Somalia, from Sierra Leone to South Africa—Africa is three times the size of the U.S. It is a continent from which all of humanity's ancestors evolved. Close to a billion people live here today. And it's pulsating with change. Since 1990, the number of democracies in the 48 nations of sub-Saharan Africa alone has nearly quadrupled. Some of those democracracies are staggering. But what was America's Civil War about? Or the 1960s in America? Or Clinton's admision in Senegal that the work of democracy in America "is not finished"?

Left: Hunter-Gault first interviewed Nelson Mandela in 1991. She remembers being "touched by his almost majestic, but still humble bearing—and by his almost bewildering resilience." Right: Desmond Tutu's successor, Archbishop Ngubane, discusses a recent peace pact.

For the past 30-odd years, I have witnessed the progression of America's unfinished business—and chronicled a good deal of it. But I'm grateful that my purview has for some time now extended to the rest of the world. I have seen first-hand the process that is called "globalization." And I have seen the need to try to fashion ways of reporting it so listeners and viewers would be able to recognize its significance, as well as new neighbors with whom they increasingly share a common destiny. As I've traveled the world, it has seemed to me that nowhere is the opportunity greater and the changes more challenging than on the African continent—where, as Washington Post writer Blaine Harden put it, "the great experiment in modernity that continues to rattle Africa goes on inside individuals, as they sort out new connections with their families, their tribes, and their countries."

As a child growing up in Covington, Ga., I never dreamed I would be living in Africa, nor did I ever fantasize about it during my earlier years of reporting. But with each new foray to the continent, my appetite for staying has grown stronger. And it continues to grow the longer I am here.

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