BEHIND THE NEWS | Ray Hartle calling it a day

On September 30, I retired from the Daily Dispatch.

I came into the Dispatch group of companies in 1984 when I was interviewed and appointed by Fred Croney, an assistant Dispatch editor, to work on the Komani Representative under MD Charles Beningfield.

Journalism is about telling people’s stories in ways that cause audiences to pause and take note.

Sometimes it’s simply about being present — to obviate a claim that “we never knew”.

In Komani, I covered anything from National Party electioneering and Transkei economic decentralisation, to United Democratic Front and Azapo activism, cake-and-tea socials to raunchy Saturday jives.

The latter included a sublime “weekend special” of sorts spent huddling in a kombi with the amazing Brenda Fassie.

A low point was being chewed out by crotchety consulting editor Ted Holliday for submitting an allegedly biased story on the Rev Alan Boesak’s launch of the UDF in the town.

I had a proper, albeit brief, stint in the Dispatch newsroom in Caxton Street in 1986.

My enthusiasm was quickly rewarded with a page one lead story on the missing holidaymaker Brenda Thornley, who was presumed to have shot herself with her husband’s gun.

My journalism improved through awesome mentorships under senior journalists, news editors, photographers, subeditors, all of whom were in a class of their own.

I followed the work of reporters and writers globally, understanding how they approached subjects — people and issues — how they crafted difficult questions, articulated responses, paid attention to the meanings of words, how those words sounded on paper, in one’s head, when read aloud.

I especially held in high regard the Dispatch’s Glyn Williams.

He never doubted the paper’s collective news instincts, had a strong sense of fairness, an integrity without par, and always retained a humanity.

Later, with The Herald, I covered how the insurrection against apartheid rule played out through the court system, including reporting on hearings the state wanted to keep quiet.

I quit the industry after the 1994 democratic elections for other corporate jobs, my efforts to progress through the newsroom frustrated by a very thick glass ceiling.

I returned to the Dispatch in 2011 when we settled in East London in this season of our life.

A heart transplant in 2016 curtailed to some extent my ability to be as effective a journalist as I would have wanted to be.

But the passion for this work has never left.

These days, journalism is a constant revolving door, with many reporters marking time until the next organ of state recruits a spokesperson.

In an age of fake news, trust in “the media” is a precious, rare commodity.

In my own work, I tried wherever I could to prepare meticulously for a story. And still do.

Having the courage to “ask the bloody question”, as one American interviewer admonished, still matters to me also.

And then, always striving to write the “murg” — marrow — out of a story, giving a reader my best effort.

On my first day in Komani in 1984, a rather gruff Holliday took me down to the magistrate’s court to reignite the paper’s court coverage.

A boorish interpreter tried to move me to the back of the court, probably the “non-white” section.

But I secured a seat in criminal court A, close to the prosecutor, Belinda Fick.

That closeness has endured for 37 years.

Unlike a former colleague who, when he turned 40, and every day after that, gleefully announced the number of working days he had left until his retirement, I never believed in the idea of retirement, even if formal working roles must change.

I always figured my enduring interest in writing would keep me busy for a while longer.

My current writing projects include completing a PhD with Rhodes University which examines patient-centred healthcare in SA.

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