Sunday, November 23, 2008
Road Hazard
PHOTO: Peter covered the war in Bosnia. In this photo, he examines the wrecked APC in which he had been riding (1993).
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Camille Mackler: Baseball was our common language
My dad had two daughters and a very French wife. But he needed someone to discuss sports with. Unfortunately, we lived abroad for most of my childhood, mainly in countries where cricket was the most exciting sport. So my dad taught me first how to speak English, and then he taught me about sports. We lived in Hong Kong and we rooted for the New York Knicks. We moved to Brussels and I learned to love the Yankees.
The Yankees were somewhat of a conundrum for my father, having grown up in Brooklyn with the Dodgers his entire boyhood. But then, what child doesn't root for at least one team that will drive their father nuts? In the end, perhaps in one of his greatest acts of love to me, my father converted, and the Yankees became our team. Our reference point. Our go-to source for analogy and metaphor. The last time I saw my dad, we were together at Yankee stadium on our yearly excursion to the subway series. We rooted together valiantly, but unsuccessfully, for the Yanks to beat the Mets.
Of all the sports, baseball was our favorite. I don’t know why, but maybe it is because it combines our love for history and anecdotes, and because it is the one sport, more than any other, that will give an underdog a chance. Whenever our teams weren’t playing, we always rooted for the underdogs together. Even in 2005, after the Yankees inexplicably went on strike half-way through the American League Championship Series and the hated Red Sox won their first World Series in eighty-six years, my father called me to tell me that there was a very small part of him that was happy for Red Sox fans. Secretly, there was a very small part of me that agreed. And then he told me that if I ever quoted him on that, he would deny it.
I loved the stories my father told me about growing up in Brooklyn in the 50s and 60s, playing stick ball on the street. He told me how his older brother Steve took him aside one day, after a particularly miserable attempt to connect stick to ball, and taught him the secret: Just count in your head “and-one-and-two-and-swing.” He told me about how my grandfather would take him to watch batting practice at Ebbets Field and one day pointed out a particularly scrawny black kid who couldn’t seem to hit the ground with his bat when he tried. That kid, my grandfather announced, would turn into one of the greatest hitters of his time. That kid’s name was Hank Aaron. After my grandfather died, my father and I took refuge at the Museum of Natural History, which had on exhibit at the time part of the collection from the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. We found solace in wandering through the rooms, looking at Joe DiMaggio’s first glove, seats from the Polo Grounds, dirt from Candlestick Park.
When we moved to the States, my dad introduced me to American football. And yes, I say American football, because the tenacious French person in me will not agree to a game that actually involves a foot and a ball being renamed soccer for America's convenience. We added the NY Giants to our roster of conversation topics. Last February, I came down to DC to watch our Giants compete in the Superbowl for the first time in eight years. I hadn't done that since college, but then again, neither had the Giants. Whether we won or lost, one thing was clear, my father was the only person I wanted to be with when it happened. We commiserated, cheered, and lamented through the first 3 quarters together. We kneeled side by side on the floor in front of the TV, knuckles white, during the last drive of the game, not breathing until David Tyree caught that last pass over his head and Plaxico Buress scored the final touch down. We jumped up and down like maniacs when the game was over, screaming, cheering, hugging, and probably convincing my mom we both needed to be committed without delay. That would have been fine, as long as we had neighboring padded cells. He bought the DVD that memorialized the Giants 2007-2008 season, and watched it when he’d had a bad day.
My dad often told me I should become a sports writer. He loved reading the round ups of the local teams’ efforts that I would send to his email box whenever he was off in some remote corner of the world, covering, or more often than not anticipating, the next big story. I was proud to think he enjoyed my writing. But mostly, I was happy that we had this world that we could share, just the two of us. Just one more facet of our priceless bond.
-- Camille Mackler
The Yankees were somewhat of a conundrum for my father, having grown up in Brooklyn with the Dodgers his entire boyhood. But then, what child doesn't root for at least one team that will drive their father nuts? In the end, perhaps in one of his greatest acts of love to me, my father converted, and the Yankees became our team. Our reference point. Our go-to source for analogy and metaphor. The last time I saw my dad, we were together at Yankee stadium on our yearly excursion to the subway series. We rooted together valiantly, but unsuccessfully, for the Yanks to beat the Mets.
Of all the sports, baseball was our favorite. I don’t know why, but maybe it is because it combines our love for history and anecdotes, and because it is the one sport, more than any other, that will give an underdog a chance. Whenever our teams weren’t playing, we always rooted for the underdogs together. Even in 2005, after the Yankees inexplicably went on strike half-way through the American League Championship Series and the hated Red Sox won their first World Series in eighty-six years, my father called me to tell me that there was a very small part of him that was happy for Red Sox fans. Secretly, there was a very small part of me that agreed. And then he told me that if I ever quoted him on that, he would deny it.
I loved the stories my father told me about growing up in Brooklyn in the 50s and 60s, playing stick ball on the street. He told me how his older brother Steve took him aside one day, after a particularly miserable attempt to connect stick to ball, and taught him the secret: Just count in your head “and-one-and-two-and-swing.” He told me about how my grandfather would take him to watch batting practice at Ebbets Field and one day pointed out a particularly scrawny black kid who couldn’t seem to hit the ground with his bat when he tried. That kid, my grandfather announced, would turn into one of the greatest hitters of his time. That kid’s name was Hank Aaron. After my grandfather died, my father and I took refuge at the Museum of Natural History, which had on exhibit at the time part of the collection from the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. We found solace in wandering through the rooms, looking at Joe DiMaggio’s first glove, seats from the Polo Grounds, dirt from Candlestick Park.
When we moved to the States, my dad introduced me to American football. And yes, I say American football, because the tenacious French person in me will not agree to a game that actually involves a foot and a ball being renamed soccer for America's convenience. We added the NY Giants to our roster of conversation topics. Last February, I came down to DC to watch our Giants compete in the Superbowl for the first time in eight years. I hadn't done that since college, but then again, neither had the Giants. Whether we won or lost, one thing was clear, my father was the only person I wanted to be with when it happened. We commiserated, cheered, and lamented through the first 3 quarters together. We kneeled side by side on the floor in front of the TV, knuckles white, during the last drive of the game, not breathing until David Tyree caught that last pass over his head and Plaxico Buress scored the final touch down. We jumped up and down like maniacs when the game was over, screaming, cheering, hugging, and probably convincing my mom we both needed to be committed without delay. That would have been fine, as long as we had neighboring padded cells. He bought the DVD that memorialized the Giants 2007-2008 season, and watched it when he’d had a bad day.
My dad often told me I should become a sports writer. He loved reading the round ups of the local teams’ efforts that I would send to his email box whenever he was off in some remote corner of the world, covering, or more often than not anticipating, the next big story. I was proud to think he enjoyed my writing. But mostly, I was happy that we had this world that we could share, just the two of us. Just one more facet of our priceless bond.
-- Camille Mackler
Monday, July 14, 2008
James Brown: Deepest sympathies
I wanted to pass on our deepest sympathies to everyone at AFP – I was greatly saddened to hear of Peter’s death.
I remember meeting Peter for the first time in 2006 when we first thinking of launching ForesightNews in the States.
To be honest I wondered what his reaction would be to some upstart Englishman who dared to even think of starting up a news-events service for journalists – and, if I am honest, it was with great trepidation that I waited to meet him !
Like every time I subsequently met him, he never seemed to be doing less than 20 things at once, whether editing, monitoring the wires, questioning passing colleagues and having at least 2 telephone lines perpetually “blinking” at him.
In the midst of this stream of all equally urgent business, he was incredibly generous with his time and showed such great faith in what we wanted to achieve.
It was only over the next couple of years that I found out by chance that he had from time-to-time passed our name to other agencies in DC suggesting they contact us – typically he never told me he had done this for us, but as someone let slip a couple of months ago, he had said wanted to support us in anyway he could.
Peter continually demanded we “raise the bar”, always said we could do better and better and his wise words and advice were always hugely appreciated.
Peter was a “giant” and I wanted to convey in a small way our huge debt to him for all his support and the great kindness he showed to us.
-- JAMES BROWN
Key Accounts Director
ForesightNews
I remember meeting Peter for the first time in 2006 when we first thinking of launching ForesightNews in the States.
To be honest I wondered what his reaction would be to some upstart Englishman who dared to even think of starting up a news-events service for journalists – and, if I am honest, it was with great trepidation that I waited to meet him !
Like every time I subsequently met him, he never seemed to be doing less than 20 things at once, whether editing, monitoring the wires, questioning passing colleagues and having at least 2 telephone lines perpetually “blinking” at him.
In the midst of this stream of all equally urgent business, he was incredibly generous with his time and showed such great faith in what we wanted to achieve.
It was only over the next couple of years that I found out by chance that he had from time-to-time passed our name to other agencies in DC suggesting they contact us – typically he never told me he had done this for us, but as someone let slip a couple of months ago, he had said wanted to support us in anyway he could.
Peter continually demanded we “raise the bar”, always said we could do better and better and his wise words and advice were always hugely appreciated.
Peter was a “giant” and I wanted to convey in a small way our huge debt to him for all his support and the great kindness he showed to us.
-- JAMES BROWN
Key Accounts Director
ForesightNews
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Bogonko Bosire: 'Bosire, do you want coffee or should I show you how we transmit?
I first and last saw Peter on the morning of January 9, 2005, when he accompanied Colin Powell to Nairobi for the signing of the Sudan Peace Agreement. I met him in the lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel.
After I introduced myself, Peter asked me: "Bosire, do you want coffee or should I show you how we transmit?" I opted for the latter, even though he gave me a choice
We chatted for about 20 minutes during which he praised the Nairobi bureau for leading the competition in the coverage of the Sudan peace talks. He encouraged me to keep this lead and"nature" will take its course.
"My journalism is driven by a sense of duty not ambition ... There is no mountain that the human spirit, guided by some higher spirit , cannot attain," he said to me before hurrying off to the van taking State Department correspondents to the national stadium for the signing ceremony.
His quote stuck in my mind. Who cannot admire a man with such bountiful humanity and professional goodwill and energy? I saw him again at the stadium and he kindly introduced me to some of his State Department colleagues. Before we parted ways, he asked me to give his regards to Matthew Lee, who had started only hours before as the deputy in AFP's Nairobi bureau. That evening, Matt -- whom Peter has replaced as the AFP correspondent at the State Department -- asked me if I had met Peter.
"That guy is a phenomenal ... I wish you could have worked with him," Matt said. I always wondered what he meant -- until I read the tributes to Peter in this blog. I now have the answer.
And so, my tribute to this man I met only once will be to try to emulate him.
Bogonko Bosire, Nairobi Bureau
AFP, East Africa and Indian Ocean
After I introduced myself, Peter asked me: "Bosire, do you want coffee or should I show you how we transmit?" I opted for the latter, even though he gave me a choice
We chatted for about 20 minutes during which he praised the Nairobi bureau for leading the competition in the coverage of the Sudan peace talks. He encouraged me to keep this lead and"nature" will take its course.
"My journalism is driven by a sense of duty not ambition ... There is no mountain that the human spirit, guided by some higher spirit , cannot attain," he said to me before hurrying off to the van taking State Department correspondents to the national stadium for the signing ceremony.
His quote stuck in my mind. Who cannot admire a man with such bountiful humanity and professional goodwill and energy? I saw him again at the stadium and he kindly introduced me to some of his State Department colleagues. Before we parted ways, he asked me to give his regards to Matthew Lee, who had started only hours before as the deputy in AFP's Nairobi bureau. That evening, Matt -- whom Peter has replaced as the AFP correspondent at the State Department -- asked me if I had met Peter.
"That guy is a phenomenal ... I wish you could have worked with him," Matt said. I always wondered what he meant -- until I read the tributes to Peter in this blog. I now have the answer.
And so, my tribute to this man I met only once will be to try to emulate him.
Bogonko Bosire, Nairobi Bureau
AFP, East Africa and Indian Ocean
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Nathaniel Harrison: Journalists of a certain age
My special memory of Peter has nothing directly to do with his extraordinary gifts as a journalist, leader and teacher, all of which have been justifiably acclaimed.
My story is set in the late 1990s in the Washington AFP bureau where at one point the resident journalists (as opposed to those of us posted from Paris headquarters) were threatening to strike over pay and other issues. It was informally assumed that if the local journalists downed tools those of us from Paris would step in and try to carry on. As a dues-paying member of the CGT I had no intention of breaking a strike.
But I nonetheless trembled a bit when Peter, who was management, stopped by my desk one day and asked me into his office. I feared the worst, sensing I would be asked about my strike plans. Would I have the guts, I wondered, to jeopardize my livelihood to support the strike? I needn't have worried.
"Nat," he said, "you're an American citizen and you have rights here. I just want you to know that you should do whatever your conscience dictates."
I could have kissed the guy. I left his office light of step, and a little ashamed for having thought Peter's position would be any different from what it was.
He and I are roughly of the same vintage. We came of age on the political left in the late 1960s in America, when "to be young was very heaven."
Some of the younger readers of this blog might not get the references here.
But Peter knew, and still knows, what I'm talking about.
-- Nathaniel Harrison
AFP, Paris
My story is set in the late 1990s in the Washington AFP bureau where at one point the resident journalists (as opposed to those of us posted from Paris headquarters) were threatening to strike over pay and other issues. It was informally assumed that if the local journalists downed tools those of us from Paris would step in and try to carry on. As a dues-paying member of the CGT I had no intention of breaking a strike.
But I nonetheless trembled a bit when Peter, who was management, stopped by my desk one day and asked me into his office. I feared the worst, sensing I would be asked about my strike plans. Would I have the guts, I wondered, to jeopardize my livelihood to support the strike? I needn't have worried.
"Nat," he said, "you're an American citizen and you have rights here. I just want you to know that you should do whatever your conscience dictates."
I could have kissed the guy. I left his office light of step, and a little ashamed for having thought Peter's position would be any different from what it was.
He and I are roughly of the same vintage. We came of age on the political left in the late 1960s in America, when "to be young was very heaven."
Some of the younger readers of this blog might not get the references here.
But Peter knew, and still knows, what I'm talking about.
-- Nathaniel Harrison
AFP, Paris
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Jay Root: My mentor, the newsroom tornado
Everything I ever learned about fast-paced, wire-service journalism flowed from the newsroom tornado known as Peter Mackler. I can see him now, standing over my shoulder, dictating an entire story from lede to final graph, quotes included. He was a mentor and a friend. He was an anchor in ever turbulent sea of 21st century journalism. I’ve never known anybody more cut out for a career in daily journalism than Peter Mackler. Nobody did it better.
When I left AFP Washington in 1996 to become Austin bureau chief of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Peter could see the gleam in my eyes when I mouthed the words of my new job title.
“Bureau chief,’’ I said, as if the magic would be obvious to him or anyone else.
Peter cracked that infectious smile.
“You’ll enjoy the bureau chief title for about three days,’’ he said. “Then you’ll realize it means you’re the one who has to reload the fax machine when it runs out of paper.’’
That, and everything else he ever predicted, came true in short order.
He was always a great inspiration to me and I will miss him dearly. I hope that one day I can muster up half the talent Peter had.
My thoughts and prayers are with his family.
-- Jay Root
Austin Bureau Chief, Fort Worth Star-Telegram
When I left AFP Washington in 1996 to become Austin bureau chief of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Peter could see the gleam in my eyes when I mouthed the words of my new job title.
“Bureau chief,’’ I said, as if the magic would be obvious to him or anyone else.
Peter cracked that infectious smile.
“You’ll enjoy the bureau chief title for about three days,’’ he said. “Then you’ll realize it means you’re the one who has to reload the fax machine when it runs out of paper.’’
That, and everything else he ever predicted, came true in short order.
He was always a great inspiration to me and I will miss him dearly. I hope that one day I can muster up half the talent Peter had.
My thoughts and prayers are with his family.
-- Jay Root
Austin Bureau Chief, Fort Worth Star-Telegram
Luke Hunt: Tough love and cans of beer
The glint in Peter Mackler's eye when he had his hands on a story destined for the front pages of the world's newspapers was as marvelous as it was memorable.
His bearded smile had all the cheek and gusto of a man in his prime, as he struggled to contain himself, for just a few minutes, long enough to hammer out the words faster than the competition.
In Iraq during the 2003 invasion, he was in his element pretty much every day.
For an outsider the race to cover firefights, massacres and the everyday bloodshed of Iraq might sound macabre.
But what stood out amid the mayhem, absurdities and the sheer nastiness of conflict was Peter's moral fibre. It was refreshing.
Nobody had to get hurt for us to have a story. That included the Iraqi civilians, the insurgents, invading soldiers and no more importantly, AFP staff. Not every journalist who works in war zone is like that and Peter was tireless at ensuring our security was as good as it could be and that the senstivities of locals was always respected.
He even gave me an afternoon off once, after a 12-year-old opened fire with an AK-47 as our car stopped at a T-intersection. The kid's inability to handle the recoil meant bullets were landing everywhere except on target; us.
Pete's response was what he called "Tough Love" which meant take the rest of the day off, have a few cold beers and don't miss the morning editorial meeting. That was good enough most of us.
War stories were a dime a dozen and this was where Tough Love was not without foresight.
After the invasion was complete Peter took the lead and shifted the focus of coverage from shoot 'em up war stories to economics, he knew America's future in Iraq -- success or failure -- would largely hinge on rebuilding the country's infrastructure.
At the time many people wanted more flashy bang bang yarns. Others like Peter wanted to tell the sobre truth and that included stories about education, health and transport. How people lived mattered.
Peter Mackler was a brave, stubborn and proud man who preferred to rate his peers by the what they did in the field. I liked that. And he died where he had passionately lived, on the job.
He will always be remembered as a reporter's reporter, an honorable man and to many of us, a friend.
-- Luke Hunt
Hong Kong
His bearded smile had all the cheek and gusto of a man in his prime, as he struggled to contain himself, for just a few minutes, long enough to hammer out the words faster than the competition.
In Iraq during the 2003 invasion, he was in his element pretty much every day.
For an outsider the race to cover firefights, massacres and the everyday bloodshed of Iraq might sound macabre.
But what stood out amid the mayhem, absurdities and the sheer nastiness of conflict was Peter's moral fibre. It was refreshing.
Nobody had to get hurt for us to have a story. That included the Iraqi civilians, the insurgents, invading soldiers and no more importantly, AFP staff. Not every journalist who works in war zone is like that and Peter was tireless at ensuring our security was as good as it could be and that the senstivities of locals was always respected.
He even gave me an afternoon off once, after a 12-year-old opened fire with an AK-47 as our car stopped at a T-intersection. The kid's inability to handle the recoil meant bullets were landing everywhere except on target; us.
Pete's response was what he called "Tough Love" which meant take the rest of the day off, have a few cold beers and don't miss the morning editorial meeting. That was good enough most of us.
War stories were a dime a dozen and this was where Tough Love was not without foresight.
After the invasion was complete Peter took the lead and shifted the focus of coverage from shoot 'em up war stories to economics, he knew America's future in Iraq -- success or failure -- would largely hinge on rebuilding the country's infrastructure.
At the time many people wanted more flashy bang bang yarns. Others like Peter wanted to tell the sobre truth and that included stories about education, health and transport. How people lived mattered.
Peter Mackler was a brave, stubborn and proud man who preferred to rate his peers by the what they did in the field. I liked that. And he died where he had passionately lived, on the job.
He will always be remembered as a reporter's reporter, an honorable man and to many of us, a friend.
-- Luke Hunt
Hong Kong
Monday, June 30, 2008
Dolores Brown: Becoming a part of "la famille"
The first time I met Peter was on Graham's and my honeymoon, in December, in Paris. He met us at a brasserie with those lovely big mirrors not far from AFP during a quick break at work.
The day was cold and gray, and we drew together around our coffees. I could see the personal interest he took in Graham, and by extension, his choice of a bride. There was a little bit of grilling... It was like becoming a part of "la famille" of AFP, although I didn't realize it fully back then. Peter and Catherine were remarkable friends during Graham's illness, and after.
They were constant presences in our home; Catherine holding Graham's hand while he watched old movies during the afternoon, Peter launching a support group from AFP to help Graham through his illness. Richard will speak for himself about his relationship with Peter, but it's a testament to Peter's loyalty and love that he played the kind of role he did in Rich's life.
Peter's the one person I knew who walked the walk. I'll always remember him, driving those long distances around DC, from work to home and sometimes to Rich's Little League practices. He was a force, always encouraging us, always believing in us, always seeing the best in us.
-- Dolores Brown
The day was cold and gray, and we drew together around our coffees. I could see the personal interest he took in Graham, and by extension, his choice of a bride. There was a little bit of grilling... It was like becoming a part of "la famille" of AFP, although I didn't realize it fully back then. Peter and Catherine were remarkable friends during Graham's illness, and after.
They were constant presences in our home; Catherine holding Graham's hand while he watched old movies during the afternoon, Peter launching a support group from AFP to help Graham through his illness. Richard will speak for himself about his relationship with Peter, but it's a testament to Peter's loyalty and love that he played the kind of role he did in Rich's life.
Peter's the one person I knew who walked the walk. I'll always remember him, driving those long distances around DC, from work to home and sometimes to Rich's Little League practices. He was a force, always encouraging us, always believing in us, always seeing the best in us.
-- Dolores Brown
Prashanth Parameswaran: A great story-teller
I only met Peter twice – both times my dad had him and his wife Catherine over at our residence for dinner. But vivid thoughts of the man are still etched in the attic of my memory.
Peter had an extraordinary knack for bringing quotidian events and workaday people to life. Whenever I forage through books on Mao's China, I can't help but chuckle at the comical anecdote he related about how a Singapore Foreign Minister visited a sickly Mao in the early 1970s. Mao could barely utter a word, but his translator would transform his incoherent babbling into flowery pronouncements about the glorious People's Republic.
When my biodiversity-conscious friends harp on about bloody squirrel carcasses on the road, I bring up the most important lesson Peter says he learnt at driver's education class: when you see a squirrel, its better to run over it than to risk a screeching brake and a possible collision. Why? – its lifespan was 2 to 4 years! And the colorful stories about his voyages with Secretary Rice and Colin Powell added a crucial human dimension to these oft-quoted high ranking bureaucrats.
To me, Peter was a man who had a memorable story for every moment. To a potential journalist and college opinion columnist sickened by routine deadlines, old keyboards and countless hecklers, Peter redefined for me what being a good journalist meant. Yes, crisp intros and exemplary leadership did have something to do with it. But at the end of the day, the difference between an academic whose apartment smelt of rich, mahogany books and a journalist was the latter's enviable ability to bring things to life. It was a welcome relief and much-needed complement to a college hell-bent on preaching theories about the world that at times seemed far from realities on the ground.
I had always cherished those dinner conversations as brief escapes from the dim world of academia. So what I will miss is neither Peter's impeccable copy skills nor his mythologized leadership abilities. I will miss most his verve, flair and infectious sense of humor, ingredients that injected life into the moribund for an aspiring journalist.
-- Prashanth Parameswaran
Foreign Affairs (East Asia)/Peace&Conflict Studies (Southeast Asia)
University of Virginia
Peter had an extraordinary knack for bringing quotidian events and workaday people to life. Whenever I forage through books on Mao's China, I can't help but chuckle at the comical anecdote he related about how a Singapore Foreign Minister visited a sickly Mao in the early 1970s. Mao could barely utter a word, but his translator would transform his incoherent babbling into flowery pronouncements about the glorious People's Republic.
When my biodiversity-conscious friends harp on about bloody squirrel carcasses on the road, I bring up the most important lesson Peter says he learnt at driver's education class: when you see a squirrel, its better to run over it than to risk a screeching brake and a possible collision. Why? – its lifespan was 2 to 4 years! And the colorful stories about his voyages with Secretary Rice and Colin Powell added a crucial human dimension to these oft-quoted high ranking bureaucrats.
To me, Peter was a man who had a memorable story for every moment. To a potential journalist and college opinion columnist sickened by routine deadlines, old keyboards and countless hecklers, Peter redefined for me what being a good journalist meant. Yes, crisp intros and exemplary leadership did have something to do with it. But at the end of the day, the difference between an academic whose apartment smelt of rich, mahogany books and a journalist was the latter's enviable ability to bring things to life. It was a welcome relief and much-needed complement to a college hell-bent on preaching theories about the world that at times seemed far from realities on the ground.
I had always cherished those dinner conversations as brief escapes from the dim world of academia. So what I will miss is neither Peter's impeccable copy skills nor his mythologized leadership abilities. I will miss most his verve, flair and infectious sense of humor, ingredients that injected life into the moribund for an aspiring journalist.
-- Prashanth Parameswaran
Foreign Affairs (East Asia)/Peace&Conflict Studies (Southeast Asia)
University of Virginia
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Elizabeth Hammond: Proud to call Peter friend
It’s just too hard to imagine the world without Peter Mackler in it. I was 29 years old when I went to work for Peter at AFP’s Asia Desk in Hong Kong 25 years ago. I had journalism experience but wasn’t so strong in French-to-English translations. Peter never let any weakness or excuses get in the way of constructive criticism. “Hammond,” he would shout out across everyone in the news room high up in the New Mercury House, “why did you bury the lead in the second paragraph on the Vietnam story?” We all learned quickly that he didn’t intend to blast us personally; it was just his way of instructing the whole room at once. Every morning he would read through all the dispatches of the previous 24 hours and any story that was less than perfect in his view was noted for us publicly. But he also had a “Kudos” board where he posted stories that he thought were well done. He was the best mentor I ever had.
Peter’s dedication was amazing. His idea of entertaining his young daughters on a Saturday was to bring them to the office, or at least he felt the obligation to check up on things briefly on the weekends and had them tag along. On one of those occasions, little 3-year-old Lauren was following her dad around the office, saw an interesting button at eye-level on the big computer in the back of the office, and single-handedly shut down all the news coming into and out of the Asia desk. Another time, a typhoon made a middle-of-the-night, direct hit on Hong Kong that disrupted everything, including all public transportation. I was due at work the next morning and was two hours later than my assigned time arriving, having had to hitchhike with few private vehicles on the roads. Peter had spent the night in the office, and was the sole person there, busily editing dispatches when I arrived. “Where is everybody? You’re late,” he said, as he handed me a pile to edit.
We had some major stories in those years: the shooting down of the Korean jetliner, the assassination of Indira Gandhi, the abrupt departure of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos, the settling of terms for Britain’s handover of Hong Kong to China. Those were breaking stories with news coming fast and furious from many bureaus. Peter’s intensity upgraded to a controlled frenzy as he simultaneously directed coverage by the bureaus over the phone and hovered over us as we cobbled the stories together. When we had time, someone would run upstairs to check the Reuter’s wire that happened to be on another floor, so we could see what time they had posted their stories compared to ours. If we had it first, the smile on Peter’s face could light up the room.
My husband, Jim, and I got to know Peter and Catherine socially in Hong Kong, partly due to our both having young children who played together. Over the years, we moved to Brussels and they moved to Paris, and we moved to South Carolina and they moved to Washington, D.C. We stayed in touch, visited back and forth, and vacationed together in a 400-year-old stone farm house in the Dordogne, a semi-tropical beach resort at Kiawah along South Carolina’s coast, and a Blue Ridge mountain retreat in Virginia. Our children, who had competed with Peter to see who could throw rocks the farthest under the Pont du Gard, grew into interesting young adults – a lawyer, a playwright, an artist, a musician. Peter, on those vacations, would combine relaxing with periodic bouts of working on his special, personal projects – helping underpriviledged youth gain life skills through journalism was one for which he was particularly proud.
Peter was a good friend, even from long distances. When my husband had cancer and we traveled to Johns Hopkins University Hospital in Baltimore for his surgery, Peter drove from Washington on a work day to spend the hours with me while Jim was in surgery, and he and Catherine returned again in the days afterward while Jim was recovering. While Peter and I were attempting to ask the hospital receptionist where we could find a cafeteria, she visibly blanched while looking at Peter and stumbled over her words. While I stood there wondering what was wrong, Peter immediately recognized the problem and raced to her rescue saying, “No, I’m not Chuck Norris. I know I look like him, but I’m not him.”
I was privileged to be able to work for Peter and learn from and be inspired by him. I’m honored to have had him as a friend for these many years. Peter is a good guy who has left this world too soon. We will miss him dearly.
-- Elizabeth Hammond
Columbia, South Carolina
USA
(AFP story sign-off - EGH)
Peter’s dedication was amazing. His idea of entertaining his young daughters on a Saturday was to bring them to the office, or at least he felt the obligation to check up on things briefly on the weekends and had them tag along. On one of those occasions, little 3-year-old Lauren was following her dad around the office, saw an interesting button at eye-level on the big computer in the back of the office, and single-handedly shut down all the news coming into and out of the Asia desk. Another time, a typhoon made a middle-of-the-night, direct hit on Hong Kong that disrupted everything, including all public transportation. I was due at work the next morning and was two hours later than my assigned time arriving, having had to hitchhike with few private vehicles on the roads. Peter had spent the night in the office, and was the sole person there, busily editing dispatches when I arrived. “Where is everybody? You’re late,” he said, as he handed me a pile to edit.
We had some major stories in those years: the shooting down of the Korean jetliner, the assassination of Indira Gandhi, the abrupt departure of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos, the settling of terms for Britain’s handover of Hong Kong to China. Those were breaking stories with news coming fast and furious from many bureaus. Peter’s intensity upgraded to a controlled frenzy as he simultaneously directed coverage by the bureaus over the phone and hovered over us as we cobbled the stories together. When we had time, someone would run upstairs to check the Reuter’s wire that happened to be on another floor, so we could see what time they had posted their stories compared to ours. If we had it first, the smile on Peter’s face could light up the room.
My husband, Jim, and I got to know Peter and Catherine socially in Hong Kong, partly due to our both having young children who played together. Over the years, we moved to Brussels and they moved to Paris, and we moved to South Carolina and they moved to Washington, D.C. We stayed in touch, visited back and forth, and vacationed together in a 400-year-old stone farm house in the Dordogne, a semi-tropical beach resort at Kiawah along South Carolina’s coast, and a Blue Ridge mountain retreat in Virginia. Our children, who had competed with Peter to see who could throw rocks the farthest under the Pont du Gard, grew into interesting young adults – a lawyer, a playwright, an artist, a musician. Peter, on those vacations, would combine relaxing with periodic bouts of working on his special, personal projects – helping underpriviledged youth gain life skills through journalism was one for which he was particularly proud.
Peter was a good friend, even from long distances. When my husband had cancer and we traveled to Johns Hopkins University Hospital in Baltimore for his surgery, Peter drove from Washington on a work day to spend the hours with me while Jim was in surgery, and he and Catherine returned again in the days afterward while Jim was recovering. While Peter and I were attempting to ask the hospital receptionist where we could find a cafeteria, she visibly blanched while looking at Peter and stumbled over her words. While I stood there wondering what was wrong, Peter immediately recognized the problem and raced to her rescue saying, “No, I’m not Chuck Norris. I know I look like him, but I’m not him.”
I was privileged to be able to work for Peter and learn from and be inspired by him. I’m honored to have had him as a friend for these many years. Peter is a good guy who has left this world too soon. We will miss him dearly.
-- Elizabeth Hammond
Columbia, South Carolina
USA
(AFP story sign-off - EGH)
Charles Whelan: A hard-driven professional
I was walking through Safeway supermarket in Bethesda in late March 2002. My wife had just been diagnosed with a serious illness and I was completely at a loss.
My cellphone suddenly rang. It was Peter, calling from Paris."Now this is what you have to do," he said. "First, ring this number in New York. She's a friend and she's the top cancer councellor in the country. After that ...."
Who else but Peter Mackler would respond so quickly and with so much thought and generosity to a colleague's woes. Many people helped me over the next couple of years as Youngju's health failed but I still get a lump in my throat when I think of Peter's voice on the end of that phone call.
I last saw him in Busan, South Korea in winter 2005. He was working at the State Department and had been traveling the world on no food and sleep with with Condy Rice, ending up in Busan for an Asian summit. He looked as tired as can be but still he sat down and hung on in the AFP media centre office for a couple of hours while we finished up the day's file, just so that he could join us for a couple of hours of beers and fellowship.He was a hard-driven professional and loved the cut and thrust of the game. But what distinguished him mostwas his deep well of humanity. The world is a poorer place.
--Charles Whelan
My cellphone suddenly rang. It was Peter, calling from Paris."Now this is what you have to do," he said. "First, ring this number in New York. She's a friend and she's the top cancer councellor in the country. After that ...."
Who else but Peter Mackler would respond so quickly and with so much thought and generosity to a colleague's woes. Many people helped me over the next couple of years as Youngju's health failed but I still get a lump in my throat when I think of Peter's voice on the end of that phone call.
I last saw him in Busan, South Korea in winter 2005. He was working at the State Department and had been traveling the world on no food and sleep with with Condy Rice, ending up in Busan for an Asian summit. He looked as tired as can be but still he sat down and hung on in the AFP media centre office for a couple of hours while we finished up the day's file, just so that he could join us for a couple of hours of beers and fellowship.He was a hard-driven professional and loved the cut and thrust of the game. But what distinguished him mostwas his deep well of humanity. The world is a poorer place.
--Charles Whelan
Rob Woollard: Answer before the question
The only man I've ever met who could give you an answer before you'd even asked the question, I often ended conversations with Peter shaking my head in disbelief, exasperation or admiration -- and quite often a combination of the three. His relentless drive and sheer hunger for news reminded me of why I wanted to be a journalist in the first place.
A whole generation of AFP journalists can thank Peter for helping to build a service which has flourished, allowing many to build rich and varied careers that leave us thinking we are some of the luckiest hacks ever to have picked up a notebook and pen. I know I do.
More than anything else, though, it is his innate decency that I will remember: his having the unfailing habit of always thinking first and foremost of the other person ("Is everything okay? Are you sure? Do you need some time off?"), of living his life to an unwavering set of principles. I never felt that I couldn't talk to him if I had a problem, professional or personal, important or trivial. He would take the time to listen and offer sensible advice as required.Anyone who worked with Peter had disagreements with him from time to time.
For Peter, I suspect, frank exchanges of opinion were a sign of a healthy newsroom -- evidence of the sort of vigorous free-thinking that he encouraged and applauded.I always knew that I could speak openly to him without fear of recrimination, that even if we we disagreed on something, it would be forgotten by the end of the day. That is a very rare, and very human, quality.Hemingway once wrote that the world is a fine place and worth fighting for. Peter made a lot of us feel like that on a daily basis. God bless him.
--Rob Woollard
AFP Los Angeles
A whole generation of AFP journalists can thank Peter for helping to build a service which has flourished, allowing many to build rich and varied careers that leave us thinking we are some of the luckiest hacks ever to have picked up a notebook and pen. I know I do.
More than anything else, though, it is his innate decency that I will remember: his having the unfailing habit of always thinking first and foremost of the other person ("Is everything okay? Are you sure? Do you need some time off?"), of living his life to an unwavering set of principles. I never felt that I couldn't talk to him if I had a problem, professional or personal, important or trivial. He would take the time to listen and offer sensible advice as required.Anyone who worked with Peter had disagreements with him from time to time.
For Peter, I suspect, frank exchanges of opinion were a sign of a healthy newsroom -- evidence of the sort of vigorous free-thinking that he encouraged and applauded.I always knew that I could speak openly to him without fear of recrimination, that even if we we disagreed on something, it would be forgotten by the end of the day. That is a very rare, and very human, quality.Hemingway once wrote that the world is a fine place and worth fighting for. Peter made a lot of us feel like that on a daily basis. God bless him.
--Rob Woollard
AFP Los Angeles
David Millikin: Words fail
This is my third attempt at writing a small remembrance of Peter.
Unlike my more eloquent colleagues, words fail me utterly in trying to describe how important Peter was to me over the 25 years we shared at AFP.
Like so many others, I was one of Peter's hires -- onto the Hong Kong desk in 1983 -- and he remained a trusted mentor and reliable confidant through all the ups and downs of the next two decades, whether we were working in the same bureau or region, or living continents apart.
Others have described perfectly Peter's limitless energy, his wonderful wry humor and his amazing contributions to AFP. For me, more importantly, he was simply the kindest, most trustworthy person I've known and I'm going to miss him terribly.
--David Millikin
Unlike my more eloquent colleagues, words fail me utterly in trying to describe how important Peter was to me over the 25 years we shared at AFP.
Like so many others, I was one of Peter's hires -- onto the Hong Kong desk in 1983 -- and he remained a trusted mentor and reliable confidant through all the ups and downs of the next two decades, whether we were working in the same bureau or region, or living continents apart.
Others have described perfectly Peter's limitless energy, his wonderful wry humor and his amazing contributions to AFP. For me, more importantly, he was simply the kindest, most trustworthy person I've known and I'm going to miss him terribly.
--David Millikin
Phil Chetwynd: Impossibly big-hearted Peter
Over the past two years I usually spoke to Peter every couple of months. The trigger for the conversation was often a banal organisational matter or petty difference between AFP Washington and Hong Kong which could be resolved in a minute, but the talk always roamed wildly over a dizzying array of subjects taking in most of the global issues of the day, often touching on the US elections and always ending around half an hour later with Peter asking about the welfare of your family. He did it every time, and every time I would put the phone down with a broad smile across my face.
Any lingering frustrations were simply blown away by Peter's impossibly big-hearted personality. Typically, one of the last emails he sent to me was to congratulate me on a promotion. The four weeks I spent with Peter in New York in the aftermath of 9/11 were a revelation. I had never seen anybody organise, inspire and drive a team to such heights. He was often totally unreasonable, but he was always brilliant. Story ideas simply flowed out of him, and when his well of inspiration ran dry he managed to coax new ideas out of you which he promptly wrote up on the infamous whiteboard he loved to use for coverage. The results were stunning -- without a doubt he inspired, cajoled or pushed us to produce immeasurably better work. And when it all became too much he was always on hand with a kind word, a suggestion of a day off or an anecdote. Once again, the frustrations melted away and you were left smiling.
I remember one day I had been reporting around Ground Zero and had jumped into a taxi driven by a newly-arrived Indian immigrant hoping to quickly return to the office to file. As I worked on my notes I paid no attention to where we were going and I soon realised were going the wrong way across the Brooklyn Bridge. With a security alert in place on the other side, I was blocked for hours unable to file my story and gripped by mounting panic as I imagined Peter's growing anger. When I finally ran into the office on the edge of tears and told my account Peter roared with laughter. "I love it, a typical New York story." He then immediately took me out to his favourite sandwich bar to show me another side of his beloved city.Peter's death has deprived us of a wonderful human being. We will not forget him.
-- Phil Chetwynd
AFP Asia Editor
Any lingering frustrations were simply blown away by Peter's impossibly big-hearted personality. Typically, one of the last emails he sent to me was to congratulate me on a promotion. The four weeks I spent with Peter in New York in the aftermath of 9/11 were a revelation. I had never seen anybody organise, inspire and drive a team to such heights. He was often totally unreasonable, but he was always brilliant. Story ideas simply flowed out of him, and when his well of inspiration ran dry he managed to coax new ideas out of you which he promptly wrote up on the infamous whiteboard he loved to use for coverage. The results were stunning -- without a doubt he inspired, cajoled or pushed us to produce immeasurably better work. And when it all became too much he was always on hand with a kind word, a suggestion of a day off or an anecdote. Once again, the frustrations melted away and you were left smiling.
I remember one day I had been reporting around Ground Zero and had jumped into a taxi driven by a newly-arrived Indian immigrant hoping to quickly return to the office to file. As I worked on my notes I paid no attention to where we were going and I soon realised were going the wrong way across the Brooklyn Bridge. With a security alert in place on the other side, I was blocked for hours unable to file my story and gripped by mounting panic as I imagined Peter's growing anger. When I finally ran into the office on the edge of tears and told my account Peter roared with laughter. "I love it, a typical New York story." He then immediately took me out to his favourite sandwich bar to show me another side of his beloved city.Peter's death has deprived us of a wonderful human being. We will not forget him.
-- Phil Chetwynd
AFP Asia Editor
Jean-Louis Doublet: We never made it to Nathan's on Coney Island
Peter as a jounalist was top-notch but it's his qualities as a man that I am going to miss most.
His quest always to get the most accurate information on the wires as fast possible was sometimes exhausting but as so many here have said, he was pretty much always right in his calls. He had a wonderful sense of self-deprecation and always enjoyed to tell the story about when he called Joan of Arc "the little flea" in the copy. As a young journalist with the English desk in Paris, he had to translate the French word "pucelle" and rather than looking in the dictionnary, he went for what seemed to him the most obvious.
It is may be the only story he ever wrote that had to be corrected and he from then on used it as a "never assume anything" example to his colleagues. I am thinking today of our colleague Graham Brown, to whom he showed tremendous support and love in time of illness. So Long Peter, sorry we'll never make it to Nathan's in Coney Island.
--Jean-Louis Doublet
AFP Paris
His quest always to get the most accurate information on the wires as fast possible was sometimes exhausting but as so many here have said, he was pretty much always right in his calls. He had a wonderful sense of self-deprecation and always enjoyed to tell the story about when he called Joan of Arc "the little flea" in the copy. As a young journalist with the English desk in Paris, he had to translate the French word "pucelle" and rather than looking in the dictionnary, he went for what seemed to him the most obvious.
It is may be the only story he ever wrote that had to be corrected and he from then on used it as a "never assume anything" example to his colleagues. I am thinking today of our colleague Graham Brown, to whom he showed tremendous support and love in time of illness. So Long Peter, sorry we'll never make it to Nathan's in Coney Island.
--Jean-Louis Doublet
AFP Paris
Corinne Suissa: My daughter's honorary godfather
It is with great sadness that I have learned of Peter's passing. I have been very fortunate to have known him during the 15+ years I have spent at AFP Washington. Peter has been praised as a great journalist, dedicated to his work and to AFP, but to me he is simply my daughter's "honorary godfather", as he liked to call himself.
Contrary to what my doctor thought, Leah decided to make her entrance earlier than planned. I was in the office and when I realized what was happening, I decided to say goodbye to everyone while waiting for a colleague to take a cab with me to the hospital. When I told Peter I was not just starting my maternity leave but actually going to the hospital to have my baby, he insisted to take me himself. Before I could say anything, he grabbed his briefcase and rushed downstairs to get his car. Once at the hospital, Peter wouldn't leave me and waited patiently until my husband arrived. He might have been my boss, but to him, it was the most natural thing to do.Peter left the Washington office for a while, and when he returned, his first question was "how's my honorary goddaughter?"
And for me, that was Peter, one of the most compassionate, caring human beings I know. For a while, Peter sat in front of me and I was moved every time when, no matter how busy he was, he always took time to answer his wife's or his daughters' calls. He was very proud of his girls' accomplishments and I valued his advice on raising a strong-willed daughter!
So when everyone else shares their "war" stories about Peter, for me, it was a baby story. My thoughts are with his family.
--Corinne Suissa
Contrary to what my doctor thought, Leah decided to make her entrance earlier than planned. I was in the office and when I realized what was happening, I decided to say goodbye to everyone while waiting for a colleague to take a cab with me to the hospital. When I told Peter I was not just starting my maternity leave but actually going to the hospital to have my baby, he insisted to take me himself. Before I could say anything, he grabbed his briefcase and rushed downstairs to get his car. Once at the hospital, Peter wouldn't leave me and waited patiently until my husband arrived. He might have been my boss, but to him, it was the most natural thing to do.Peter left the Washington office for a while, and when he returned, his first question was "how's my honorary goddaughter?"
And for me, that was Peter, one of the most compassionate, caring human beings I know. For a while, Peter sat in front of me and I was moved every time when, no matter how busy he was, he always took time to answer his wife's or his daughters' calls. He was very proud of his girls' accomplishments and I valued his advice on raising a strong-willed daughter!
So when everyone else shares their "war" stories about Peter, for me, it was a baby story. My thoughts are with his family.
--Corinne Suissa
Karin Zeitvogel: Disbelief
On the afternoon of Friday, June 20, AFP lost one of the biggest hearts in the agency: Peter Mackler suffered a massive heart attack and died in hospital, his wife by his side.
The week wasn't supposed to end this way. Summer wasn't supposed to begin this way.
When Christophe Vogt called us all together the first time, it was about 4 pm. Peter had suffered a 'malaise' and been taken to hospital, Christophe said when we had all gathered round outside Peter's office. I only picked up snippets of the rest of what he told us afterwards, my mind struggling to understand how the colleague, the boss, the friend who the day before had tried to ease my fears over my own medical problems and with whom I had swapped a joke hours earlier could have been plunged so suddenly into suffering.
When, just a few hours later, Christophe called us all back to the place where we gather every morning at 8:30 for our editorial meeting -- the editorial meeting that we all silently loathe, but which we couldn't do without -- I knew the news was not going to be good. Because you wouldn't call a second meeting so soon after the first, just to say, "He's OK, chaps."
Peter had died in hospital. That was all I heard. People huddled in small groups, gazed blankly at spots on the drab carpet and tried to understand. I walked over to my desk and lifted the phone and called a close friend -- someone I had met thanks to Peter, who had suggested I cover a particular event. I babbled something about my boss having died suddenly and not to expect me to be my normal self for awhile. A night, the weekend, an entire week, who could tell.
The conversation seemed senseless, but I had to make that phone call. And it was only long after I had hung up that I realized why. Peter's sudden death made me realize how fragile life was, how important it was to live each day to the full and happily, and how we should never put off telling those we love that we love them.
I phoned back and told my friend I loved him.
When I got home, I had to break the news to my son, Luca. Luca loved Peter. Each time I brought Luca into the office, whether by plan, when I couldn't find a babysitter, or accident, when the babysitter cancelled at the last minute, Peter would welcome him, call him into his office, jokingly ask him what story he was working on as Luca played computer games.
Tears spilled down Luca's cheeks when he heard the news. Peter could never be replaced, he said with the wisdom of his 10 years. Was there any way he could be brought back, Luca asked. What would AFP do with Peter's desk? How could we walk past his office and look in at the emptiness.
Kids ask these questions, and we adults have trouble replying.
Another night, he (my son) was in bed, and I went up to turn off the lights. He said, "I'm just finishing my prayers." So I let him get on with it. After a brief silence, he said," I'm praying for Peter." So again, I let him get on with it. And eventually, I asked, "What are you praying for Peter?" and he said, "That he's an angel."
I think I had done a story that very day about how Americans believe fervently in the power of prayer. And Peter nicknamed me Bernadette when I was covering the pope's visit and living, eating (well, ok, I had more than rice communion wafers) and breathing Catholicism and papal pomp. I'm sure he is an angel, even if he's cracking some great jokes with George Carlin.
Peter had a big heart, a sharp wit, and a zest for life. He was dedicated to his family, to his profession, to the art and ethics of journalism, and he shared his love and energy with everyone he met.
When he came under fire from union groups in France for a company he had founded to help train journalists, you could see the hurt on his face. Tongues wagged, people bitched, Peter grabbed the bull by the horns and put out a statement explaining exactly where he stood and what was going on. He wasn't dipping into any coffers to fatten his wallet. There was no conflict of interest with AFP.
I know there are people out there who can't get a handle on altruism, but there are others, like Peter, who can and do and who work selflessly for a cause they believe in. When this was all blowing up, I dropped Peter a brief message to say I stood behind him, and if there was anything I could do -- start a petition to silence his attackers, maybe? -- I would.
He came over to my desk, tucked away in a corner, and thanked me.
When I returned to Washington from coverning the papal visit, spouting psalms and humming hymns, he said I would have to go through retoxification.
He was full of little anecdotes about life that he would build and build and build on, to finally reach a punchline that would have everyone who was listening fall about in laughter.
Yes, we would bitch in the bureau about the morning meetings or when Peter would assign us a story we didn't really want to do, but you could bitch to Peter's face, and he would bitch back at you, and in the end -- you would do the story. And do it the way he had asked you to.
And when you did it, he would be the first to heap praise on you.
I am thankful for having worked with Peter and even more thankful that the last conversation we had ended in laughter. Peter has taken his wit, his warmth and his huge heart up to a corner in heaven reserved for those who did much to advance humanity during their time on earth. His time was too short; he had so much left to give.
I'll miss you, Peter. Luca misses you. I know the entire bureau misses you. Even friends of mine who have never met you, miss you. We are all privileged to have been touched by you during your time on earth.
When I'm struggling to find that killer lead, I'll look up from my corner at AFP to your corner in heaven for inspiration, and I know you'll deliver. We'll keep the stories alive for you, Peter, but more importantly, we'll keep your story and legacy alive.
-- Karin Zeitvogel
The week wasn't supposed to end this way. Summer wasn't supposed to begin this way.
When Christophe Vogt called us all together the first time, it was about 4 pm. Peter had suffered a 'malaise' and been taken to hospital, Christophe said when we had all gathered round outside Peter's office. I only picked up snippets of the rest of what he told us afterwards, my mind struggling to understand how the colleague, the boss, the friend who the day before had tried to ease my fears over my own medical problems and with whom I had swapped a joke hours earlier could have been plunged so suddenly into suffering.
When, just a few hours later, Christophe called us all back to the place where we gather every morning at 8:30 for our editorial meeting -- the editorial meeting that we all silently loathe, but which we couldn't do without -- I knew the news was not going to be good. Because you wouldn't call a second meeting so soon after the first, just to say, "He's OK, chaps."
Peter had died in hospital. That was all I heard. People huddled in small groups, gazed blankly at spots on the drab carpet and tried to understand. I walked over to my desk and lifted the phone and called a close friend -- someone I had met thanks to Peter, who had suggested I cover a particular event. I babbled something about my boss having died suddenly and not to expect me to be my normal self for awhile. A night, the weekend, an entire week, who could tell.
The conversation seemed senseless, but I had to make that phone call. And it was only long after I had hung up that I realized why. Peter's sudden death made me realize how fragile life was, how important it was to live each day to the full and happily, and how we should never put off telling those we love that we love them.
I phoned back and told my friend I loved him.
When I got home, I had to break the news to my son, Luca. Luca loved Peter. Each time I brought Luca into the office, whether by plan, when I couldn't find a babysitter, or accident, when the babysitter cancelled at the last minute, Peter would welcome him, call him into his office, jokingly ask him what story he was working on as Luca played computer games.
Tears spilled down Luca's cheeks when he heard the news. Peter could never be replaced, he said with the wisdom of his 10 years. Was there any way he could be brought back, Luca asked. What would AFP do with Peter's desk? How could we walk past his office and look in at the emptiness.
Kids ask these questions, and we adults have trouble replying.
Another night, he (my son) was in bed, and I went up to turn off the lights. He said, "I'm just finishing my prayers." So I let him get on with it. After a brief silence, he said," I'm praying for Peter." So again, I let him get on with it. And eventually, I asked, "What are you praying for Peter?" and he said, "That he's an angel."
I think I had done a story that very day about how Americans believe fervently in the power of prayer. And Peter nicknamed me Bernadette when I was covering the pope's visit and living, eating (well, ok, I had more than rice communion wafers) and breathing Catholicism and papal pomp. I'm sure he is an angel, even if he's cracking some great jokes with George Carlin.
Peter had a big heart, a sharp wit, and a zest for life. He was dedicated to his family, to his profession, to the art and ethics of journalism, and he shared his love and energy with everyone he met.
When he came under fire from union groups in France for a company he had founded to help train journalists, you could see the hurt on his face. Tongues wagged, people bitched, Peter grabbed the bull by the horns and put out a statement explaining exactly where he stood and what was going on. He wasn't dipping into any coffers to fatten his wallet. There was no conflict of interest with AFP.
I know there are people out there who can't get a handle on altruism, but there are others, like Peter, who can and do and who work selflessly for a cause they believe in. When this was all blowing up, I dropped Peter a brief message to say I stood behind him, and if there was anything I could do -- start a petition to silence his attackers, maybe? -- I would.
He came over to my desk, tucked away in a corner, and thanked me.
When I returned to Washington from coverning the papal visit, spouting psalms and humming hymns, he said I would have to go through retoxification.
He was full of little anecdotes about life that he would build and build and build on, to finally reach a punchline that would have everyone who was listening fall about in laughter.
Yes, we would bitch in the bureau about the morning meetings or when Peter would assign us a story we didn't really want to do, but you could bitch to Peter's face, and he would bitch back at you, and in the end -- you would do the story. And do it the way he had asked you to.
And when you did it, he would be the first to heap praise on you.
I am thankful for having worked with Peter and even more thankful that the last conversation we had ended in laughter. Peter has taken his wit, his warmth and his huge heart up to a corner in heaven reserved for those who did much to advance humanity during their time on earth. His time was too short; he had so much left to give.
I'll miss you, Peter. Luca misses you. I know the entire bureau misses you. Even friends of mine who have never met you, miss you. We are all privileged to have been touched by you during your time on earth.
When I'm struggling to find that killer lead, I'll look up from my corner at AFP to your corner in heaven for inspiration, and I know you'll deliver. We'll keep the stories alive for you, Peter, but more importantly, we'll keep your story and legacy alive.
-- Karin Zeitvogel
Friday, June 27, 2008
Joshua Kaufman: Peter, my friend
I have been AFP’s attorney in the United States for over 20 years.One of the first people that I met at AFP was Peter.
I believe he was off on some assignment, in some remote corner of the world and I need an affidavit and he managed to provide it to me. Somehow, in the middle of the night, in some remote place, he found finding a notary and fax machine. He was always so reliable and resourceful.
But what I enjoyed most was just the time we spent talking about politics, family, life, movies, whatever, in between our lawyerly conversations. Peter was always witty, erudite and insightful. I also enjoyed working with him on his Duke Ellington High School project, which gave him such pleasure. I will sorely miss Peter, my client, but most of all, my friend.
-- Joshua Kaufman
Matt Lee: A decade of friendship
For the past decade, Peter Mackler, his underdog work ethic, enormous energy, fierce competitiveness and intense dedication to friends and family have been near constants in my life. Through all that time, even after I left AFP, I have felt his presence.Peter hired me on the Washington desk in 1998. He was then key to my move to the State Department, a job he had created. He replaced me there six years later when I left for Kenya. A year and a half ago, he asked me to come back to DC for the current presidential campaign.
Peter was a task-master, to be sure, but a consummate professional brimming with enthusiasm, optimism and encouragement. His leadership was instrumental in advancing my reporting career and that of many others. When I was a manager, I looked to Peter’s example to inspire.He was always on top of the story, quick with the sharp angle and necessary context.
And he loved to be first. When I arrived in Kenya, my new home, Peter was already there. I got off the plane on that January night in 2006 and there was a message waiting for me. It was from Peter. He had landed several hours earlier with Colin Powell. “Come join us for a drink,” he said. And thus, before seeing my new office and co-workers, finding my lost luggage or even settling into my hotel, I reported for duty, answering his summons to the bar at the Nairobi Intercontinental. Maybe you know the one, the big grey building just off Uhuru Highway near Jomo Kenyatta’s tomb. Peter certainly did: he gave me directions.“Welcome to Nairobi,” he said when I walked through the door.
That was the thing. He seemed at home everywhere. You could run into him in Paris, Delhi, Singapore, Sydney, Cairo or Kuwait City and not think twice about it. I remember seeing him once in Jerusalem and wondering where in the world he couldn’t be found.
Peter’s sudden passing has robbed us of a great mentor, friend and colleague but his legacy will remain.
Godspeed…
-- Matt Lee
Peter was a task-master, to be sure, but a consummate professional brimming with enthusiasm, optimism and encouragement. His leadership was instrumental in advancing my reporting career and that of many others. When I was a manager, I looked to Peter’s example to inspire.He was always on top of the story, quick with the sharp angle and necessary context.
And he loved to be first. When I arrived in Kenya, my new home, Peter was already there. I got off the plane on that January night in 2006 and there was a message waiting for me. It was from Peter. He had landed several hours earlier with Colin Powell. “Come join us for a drink,” he said. And thus, before seeing my new office and co-workers, finding my lost luggage or even settling into my hotel, I reported for duty, answering his summons to the bar at the Nairobi Intercontinental. Maybe you know the one, the big grey building just off Uhuru Highway near Jomo Kenyatta’s tomb. Peter certainly did: he gave me directions.“Welcome to Nairobi,” he said when I walked through the door.
That was the thing. He seemed at home everywhere. You could run into him in Paris, Delhi, Singapore, Sydney, Cairo or Kuwait City and not think twice about it. I remember seeing him once in Jerusalem and wondering where in the world he couldn’t be found.
Peter’s sudden passing has robbed us of a great mentor, friend and colleague but his legacy will remain.
Godspeed…
-- Matt Lee
Thursday, June 26, 2008
James Rosen: Peter left mark with passion, humor
Peter Mackler was a beautiful human being.
He exuded -- at all times, even under the stress of world travel and tight deadlines -- wisdom, patience, tolerance, supreme understanding of the frailties and failings of his fellow human beings, a passion for teaching, and, above all, humor. We shared the unique perspective on the world that comes with having been born in Brooklyn and together enjoyed many exciting stories and hearty chuckles in our travels with Secretary of State Rice.
I can remember showing Peter the transcript of my first interview with Secretary Rice, on a bus departing Paris in February 2005, and his alerting this newcomer to the State Department beat to the newsworthiness of a particular exchange in the transcript about nuclear diplomacy with Iran; soon, all three wire services were carrying the story and Secretary Rice, pressed about the exchange by NBC News' Andrea Mitchell during out next stop, in Brussels, hastily retreated from her remarks.
Glenn Kessler also reported on this in his excellent biography of Secretary Rice. It was, perhaps, the secretary's first rookie mistake as the United States' top diplomat, and notice of it might never have been taken had it not been for Peter's kindly and discreet counsel.
I can remember another occasion where he privately commended me for standing up to a bully during a heated conversation in a hotel bar; that was when I learned for the first time about Peter's background in psychology.
And then there is my favorite Peter Mackler story. We were talking about our shared passion for the music of the Sixties, and eventually got around to Crosby Stills & Nash. "Oh, my God," he said, rolling his eyes. "They are the reason I left the West Coast!" "What are you talking about?" I asked. He recounted a long-ago experience -- during what was, we might say with some delicacy, both for Peter and many others an age of experimentation -- when he found himself in a Bay-area crash pad with a bunch of hippies and ardent Grateful Dead fans. At the time, he told me, he didn't know all that much about the Dead; and when the assembled turned to him and asked, in a way that kind of put him on the spot, which rock group was his favorite, he replied innocently: "Well, I like Crosby Stills & Nash." In unison, the hippies all groaned, with the same contempt that a later generation of rock snobs reserved for the likes of Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond. "What?" he asked, crestfallen and unable to understand the negative reaction his answer had engendered. But the damage had been done. The vibe in the room was bad and irreversible. It was such a shattering experience, Peter told me, heightened by the effects of certain ingredients in the mix at the moment, that he came to the realization that the West Coast hippie scene was not for him and he shortly thereafter made arrangements to return to New York. "Why didn't you just tell them, I replied, "that Jerry Garcia contributed the guitar licks on 'Teach Your Children'?" "Where were you when I needed you?" he shot back.
Thereafter, we seldom saw each other without working Crosby Stills & Nash into the conversation. I am so sorry for Peter's wife and daughters, whom I never met, but I know in time the joy they took in knowing and loving their husband and father will exceed the pain and grief visited upon them by losing him far too soon.
-- James Rosen
Fox News Washington Correspondent
He exuded -- at all times, even under the stress of world travel and tight deadlines -- wisdom, patience, tolerance, supreme understanding of the frailties and failings of his fellow human beings, a passion for teaching, and, above all, humor. We shared the unique perspective on the world that comes with having been born in Brooklyn and together enjoyed many exciting stories and hearty chuckles in our travels with Secretary of State Rice.
I can remember showing Peter the transcript of my first interview with Secretary Rice, on a bus departing Paris in February 2005, and his alerting this newcomer to the State Department beat to the newsworthiness of a particular exchange in the transcript about nuclear diplomacy with Iran; soon, all three wire services were carrying the story and Secretary Rice, pressed about the exchange by NBC News' Andrea Mitchell during out next stop, in Brussels, hastily retreated from her remarks.
Glenn Kessler also reported on this in his excellent biography of Secretary Rice. It was, perhaps, the secretary's first rookie mistake as the United States' top diplomat, and notice of it might never have been taken had it not been for Peter's kindly and discreet counsel.
I can remember another occasion where he privately commended me for standing up to a bully during a heated conversation in a hotel bar; that was when I learned for the first time about Peter's background in psychology.
And then there is my favorite Peter Mackler story. We were talking about our shared passion for the music of the Sixties, and eventually got around to Crosby Stills & Nash. "Oh, my God," he said, rolling his eyes. "They are the reason I left the West Coast!" "What are you talking about?" I asked. He recounted a long-ago experience -- during what was, we might say with some delicacy, both for Peter and many others an age of experimentation -- when he found himself in a Bay-area crash pad with a bunch of hippies and ardent Grateful Dead fans. At the time, he told me, he didn't know all that much about the Dead; and when the assembled turned to him and asked, in a way that kind of put him on the spot, which rock group was his favorite, he replied innocently: "Well, I like Crosby Stills & Nash." In unison, the hippies all groaned, with the same contempt that a later generation of rock snobs reserved for the likes of Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond. "What?" he asked, crestfallen and unable to understand the negative reaction his answer had engendered. But the damage had been done. The vibe in the room was bad and irreversible. It was such a shattering experience, Peter told me, heightened by the effects of certain ingredients in the mix at the moment, that he came to the realization that the West Coast hippie scene was not for him and he shortly thereafter made arrangements to return to New York. "Why didn't you just tell them, I replied, "that Jerry Garcia contributed the guitar licks on 'Teach Your Children'?" "Where were you when I needed you?" he shot back.
Thereafter, we seldom saw each other without working Crosby Stills & Nash into the conversation. I am so sorry for Peter's wife and daughters, whom I never met, but I know in time the joy they took in knowing and loving their husband and father will exceed the pain and grief visited upon them by losing him far too soon.
-- James Rosen
Fox News Washington Correspondent
Martin Bennitt: Wish I'd known him better
Before writing this I dug out from my archives a note, dated October 23, 1987, signed by Peter and thanking me for my efforts during a particularly tough couple of weeks. It was gratifying at the time, and pleasant to re-read – then I noticed he had also copied it to two people higher up the scale.
More than just a friendly note, but a small rung in the ladder of my career at AFP, and typical of Peter's relations with his colleagues.
I wish I had seen more of him, but paradoxically it was probably because of Peter that I didn't, as with his support I moved from Paris to other postings. But our paths frequently crossed, as Peter always seemed to be everywhere at once, not least during the Iraq war when I was in Nicosia and Peter was up at the sharp end. No one who was in the region at the time will forget it.
Two personal memories: we had not long been in our new home and were holding an open house. Few people felt like trekking out to the sticks from Paris, so the gathering was mainly local friends and neighbours. Then the door bell rang – Peter of course, bearing a suitable gift. Knowing no one else present did not faze him a bit: 'Hi, I'm Peter Mackler' – a bit startling to some of the stuffier French and Brits, but Peter had the facility of warming up the coldest company, wakening up the weariest editor, inspiring the most cynical hack.
The second memory was when he happened to be in Nicosia on a public holiday. We went out to look for a drink on a hot afternoon, but everywhere was closed. I was a bit embarrassed, but we just walked, and talked, and walked, and talked, and for me it was more refreshing than any drink we might have had.
Peter is irreplaceable, but he will live on in all our memories, while for his colleagues there will be only one question when things get tough: what would Peter have done?
-- Martin Bennitt
More than just a friendly note, but a small rung in the ladder of my career at AFP, and typical of Peter's relations with his colleagues.
I wish I had seen more of him, but paradoxically it was probably because of Peter that I didn't, as with his support I moved from Paris to other postings. But our paths frequently crossed, as Peter always seemed to be everywhere at once, not least during the Iraq war when I was in Nicosia and Peter was up at the sharp end. No one who was in the region at the time will forget it.
Two personal memories: we had not long been in our new home and were holding an open house. Few people felt like trekking out to the sticks from Paris, so the gathering was mainly local friends and neighbours. Then the door bell rang – Peter of course, bearing a suitable gift. Knowing no one else present did not faze him a bit: 'Hi, I'm Peter Mackler' – a bit startling to some of the stuffier French and Brits, but Peter had the facility of warming up the coldest company, wakening up the weariest editor, inspiring the most cynical hack.
The second memory was when he happened to be in Nicosia on a public holiday. We went out to look for a drink on a hot afternoon, but everywhere was closed. I was a bit embarrassed, but we just walked, and talked, and walked, and talked, and for me it was more refreshing than any drink we might have had.
Peter is irreplaceable, but he will live on in all our memories, while for his colleagues there will be only one question when things get tough: what would Peter have done?
-- Martin Bennitt
Clarens Renois: Peter made an impression in Haiti
Clarens Renois chief of AFP bureau in Port-au-Prince, Haiti I have met Peter twice. First at Port-au-Prince, Haïti, He came to give his support to AFP's new office. He found enough time to teach journalism and share his experience to young Haitians for one hour. It was so great from him. He was a generous man. But his short visit were a great opportunity for my son (Kevin) to meet him. He will never forget.The second time that I met Peter was in Washington he invited me to meet other colleagues. I have kept good souvenirs of this man, and I saw him as a model in journalism and I wished to follow his path. Here is a short word written by my son (Kevin) for Peter:
Loss of a great man
Peter and I became friends, when my father introduced him to me as his colleague at AFP.
With Peter, I had my first adult conversation at 12.
And I saw that he was different from most people.
He had interesting stories to tell.
I listened to them carefully.
Peter was a great man and I am very sorry for the loss of such a man's life.
He had experienced much and I am certain he's now in a better place.
My condolences to his wife and his daughters.
Peter will be greatly missed. (Kevin Renois)
-- Clarens Renois chief of AFP bureau, Port-au-Prince, Haiti
Loss of a great man
Peter and I became friends, when my father introduced him to me as his colleague at AFP.
With Peter, I had my first adult conversation at 12.
And I saw that he was different from most people.
He had interesting stories to tell.
I listened to them carefully.
Peter was a great man and I am very sorry for the loss of such a man's life.
He had experienced much and I am certain he's now in a better place.
My condolences to his wife and his daughters.
Peter will be greatly missed. (Kevin Renois)
-- Clarens Renois chief of AFP bureau, Port-au-Prince, Haiti
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
AFP: Award in honor of late AFP chief editor Peter Mackler
US-media-AFP-award
Award in honor of late AFP chief editor Peter Mackler
WASHINGTON, June 25, 2008 (AFP) - An award for journalists working in countries where press freedom is under attack is to be set up to honor Peter Mackler, the late AFP North America chief editor, his family said Wednesday.
Mackler, a 30-year veteran of Agence France-Presse who covered wars and elections and was key in transforming the agency's English language service, died of a sudden heart attack on Friday. He was 58.
The award will honor journalists who through their work have shown the highest ethical standards and defended freedom of information, according to Reporters Without Borders (RSF), the watchdog which will administer the award.
Mackler died after suffering a heart attack at work in Washington, where he had served as AFP's chief editor for North America since 2006.
A native of New York who spoke fluent French, Mackler joined AFP in the United States in September 1979 after starting his journalism career at rival agency UPI.
Over his nearly 30-year career at AFP, the indefatigable journalist played a key role in developing the multilingual agency's English service from Paris to the Middle East and Hong Kong.
As a reporter or editor, he wrote and oversaw stories that have defined recent history: from the Gulf War in 1991 to the September 11 terrorist attacks in New York and George W. Bush's presidency. He was also key in helping organize coverage for the 2003 US-led invasion of Iraq.
In the past year, he steered the Washington bureau's coverage of the marathon presidential nomination race with vigor in the face of intense competition from rival news agencies.
Donations can be sent to the Peter Mackler Fund at the US branch of Reporters Without Borders. Details are available via e-mail by writing to lucie.morillon@rsf.org.
Award in honor of late AFP chief editor Peter Mackler
WASHINGTON, June 25, 2008 (AFP) - An award for journalists working in countries where press freedom is under attack is to be set up to honor Peter Mackler, the late AFP North America chief editor, his family said Wednesday.
Mackler, a 30-year veteran of Agence France-Presse who covered wars and elections and was key in transforming the agency's English language service, died of a sudden heart attack on Friday. He was 58.
The award will honor journalists who through their work have shown the highest ethical standards and defended freedom of information, according to Reporters Without Borders (RSF), the watchdog which will administer the award.
Mackler died after suffering a heart attack at work in Washington, where he had served as AFP's chief editor for North America since 2006.
A native of New York who spoke fluent French, Mackler joined AFP in the United States in September 1979 after starting his journalism career at rival agency UPI.
Over his nearly 30-year career at AFP, the indefatigable journalist played a key role in developing the multilingual agency's English service from Paris to the Middle East and Hong Kong.
As a reporter or editor, he wrote and oversaw stories that have defined recent history: from the Gulf War in 1991 to the September 11 terrorist attacks in New York and George W. Bush's presidency. He was also key in helping organize coverage for the 2003 US-led invasion of Iraq.
In the past year, he steered the Washington bureau's coverage of the marathon presidential nomination race with vigor in the face of intense competition from rival news agencies.
Donations can be sent to the Peter Mackler Fund at the US branch of Reporters Without Borders. Details are available via e-mail by writing to lucie.morillon@rsf.org.
French Foreign Ministry Statement: Peter Mackler was a deeply committed journalist
Via Agence France-Presse, Paris deputy editor-in-chief David Williams
PARIS, June 25, 2008
A French foreign ministry spokeswoman paid tribute to Peter Mackler at the start of an online press briefing on Wednesday.
Here is the statement by Pascale Andreani, spokeswoman at the Quai d'Orsay:
"We were deeply shocked to hear about the sudden death of Mr. Peter Mackler, editor-in-chief for North America at the Agence France-Presse office in Washington."
"Peter Mackler will be remembered as a great professional, deeply committed to AFP and to Franco-American relations. This is how we will remember him. AFP and all of the French press have lost an irreplacable friend."
"We share in the grief of his wife, his daughters and his friends at AFP in Washington and Paris, to whom we extend our most sincere condolences."
(Original French language version)
PARIS, 25/06/2008
Voici déclaration faite ce jour sur le décès de Peter Mackler par la porte-parole du Quai d'Orsay, Pascale Andréani, au début de son briefing électronique.
DECES DE M. PETER MACKLER, REDACTEUR EN CHEF POUR L’AMERIQUE DU NORD AU BUREAU DE L'AFP A WASHINGTON
C'est avec une forte émotion que nous avons appris la disparition brutale de M. Peter Mackler, rédacteur en chef pour l’Amérique du nord au bureau de l'Agence France-Presse à Washington.
Peter Mackler laissera derrière lui la mémoire d'un grand professionnel, profondément attaché à l'AFP et aux relations franco-américaines. C'est le souvenir que nous en garderons. L'AFP et la presse française ont perdu un ami irremplaçable.
Nous partageons la douleur de sa femme, de ses filles et de ses amis du bureau de l'AFP à Washington et à Paris à qui nous transmettons nos très sincères condoléances.
PARIS, June 25, 2008
A French foreign ministry spokeswoman paid tribute to Peter Mackler at the start of an online press briefing on Wednesday.
Here is the statement by Pascale Andreani, spokeswoman at the Quai d'Orsay:
"We were deeply shocked to hear about the sudden death of Mr. Peter Mackler, editor-in-chief for North America at the Agence France-Presse office in Washington."
"Peter Mackler will be remembered as a great professional, deeply committed to AFP and to Franco-American relations. This is how we will remember him. AFP and all of the French press have lost an irreplacable friend."
"We share in the grief of his wife, his daughters and his friends at AFP in Washington and Paris, to whom we extend our most sincere condolences."
(Original French language version)
PARIS, 25/06/2008
Voici déclaration faite ce jour sur le décès de Peter Mackler par la porte-parole du Quai d'Orsay, Pascale Andréani, au début de son briefing électronique.
DECES DE M. PETER MACKLER, REDACTEUR EN CHEF POUR L’AMERIQUE DU NORD AU BUREAU DE L'AFP A WASHINGTON
C'est avec une forte émotion que nous avons appris la disparition brutale de M. Peter Mackler, rédacteur en chef pour l’Amérique du nord au bureau de l'Agence France-Presse à Washington.
Peter Mackler laissera derrière lui la mémoire d'un grand professionnel, profondément attaché à l'AFP et aux relations franco-américaines. C'est le souvenir que nous en garderons. L'AFP et la presse française ont perdu un ami irremplaçable.
Nous partageons la douleur de sa femme, de ses filles et de ses amis du bureau de l'AFP à Washington et à Paris à qui nous transmettons nos très sincères condoléances.
James Hammond: Never too busy for friends
I have to put in a word for my experience with Peter as I post all these other wonderful memories.
In 1999, I was in the hospital at Johns Hopkins University medical center for cancer treatment. Peter took the time to drive up to Baltimore from Washington on a work day to sit with my wife Elizabeth for several hours while I was in the operating room. He had been there the night before to take us to dinner. (We went to a lovely steak house, but I could only eat clear broth!) Later he and Catherine returned to visit us in Baltimore.
Elizabeth worked for Peter in Hong Kong, our children were regular playmates and friends, and we have known them for 25 years, keeping in touch no matter where we were on the planet. I cannot believe that I will never get another phone call from Peter to inquire about some event in our lives, or just to say hello. I will miss him.
-- James T. Hammond
In 1999, I was in the hospital at Johns Hopkins University medical center for cancer treatment. Peter took the time to drive up to Baltimore from Washington on a work day to sit with my wife Elizabeth for several hours while I was in the operating room. He had been there the night before to take us to dinner. (We went to a lovely steak house, but I could only eat clear broth!) Later he and Catherine returned to visit us in Baltimore.
Elizabeth worked for Peter in Hong Kong, our children were regular playmates and friends, and we have known them for 25 years, keeping in touch no matter where we were on the planet. I cannot believe that I will never get another phone call from Peter to inquire about some event in our lives, or just to say hello. I will miss him.
-- James T. Hammond
Nancy Shields: Testament to a special man
I finally braved reading this blog tonight. It's hard to write a tribute when the screen blurs over from tears.
Bravo to James for creating such a precious legacy for Peter's daughters, a testament to a special man. That's what I want to write about -- the guy outside of work, who was more than a fabulous journalist. I met Peter my first weeks at AFP in 1980. I was briefly intimidated until I saw that heart of gold shine through and a quick repartee arose tapping an old US rivalry -- our home states, New York vs. New Jersey, the guy from Brooklyn and the Jersey girl. When news was slow Peter got fidgety.
"You are such a New Yorker! Calm down," I once teased. He stood still, thrust out his arm and shot back with what became a standing joke: "Alright Jersey girl, look at this hand, steady as steel." And he was. He was the Brooklyn Bridge, a solid expanse of optimism ready to help you across troubled waters and keep you focussed on that magical skyline waiting on the other side -- as once he did for me. Years ago we went to see "It's a Beautiful Life," the Italian film set in a Nazi concentration camp. When the lights came on, I was choked up fighting tears but Peter was smiling broadly. "Wasn't that a great film? The love of that father." That was quintessential Peter, the guy -- like the man in the film -- who could distill the best even from tragedy, the "papa poule" who'd do anything for his children, the husband still so in love he softened when Catherine spoke.
When I was in Washington last year, he asked for a private session to learn the new AFP interface. He absorbed all in five minutes then said, "Enough, now let's get down to the real stuff" -- which meant chatting about our respective kids, our lives, our adventures, Peter cracking jokes throughout. You can't talk about Peter without talking about Catherine. Peter was quickly smitten with this young French girl -- and he was unequivocal. He actually talked authorities into breaking down her apartment door when they were dating in New York City. He hadn't heard from her and was certain something horrible had happened -- which it hadn't. "Jeez, Peter, how'd Catherine react?" I asked. "Well," he replied with the ultimate Mackler grin, "I guess you can say she got the message that I really loved her."
I first met Catherine in their old apartment in Montmartre. Peter had invited some Americans for Thanksgiving dinner and there she was, gloriously pregnant with their first child, Camille, joking about all the different dishes, saying: "What do I know, I'm French!" A few years later, I too was pregnant with my first child, searching for a bigger apartment. I remembered theirs -- they were abroad by then -- and tried my luck, knocking on the concierge's door. Twenty-five years later, I'm still in that same Montmartre building where we celebrated that lovely holiday.
Your couple began in New York Catherine, but your family began here, in Montmartre. You know you and the girls are welcome, always, anytime -- for a peek back to where some of your own "beautiful life" began. And it will carry on -- the Brooklyn bridge never lets you down.
-- Nancy Shields
Bravo to James for creating such a precious legacy for Peter's daughters, a testament to a special man. That's what I want to write about -- the guy outside of work, who was more than a fabulous journalist. I met Peter my first weeks at AFP in 1980. I was briefly intimidated until I saw that heart of gold shine through and a quick repartee arose tapping an old US rivalry -- our home states, New York vs. New Jersey, the guy from Brooklyn and the Jersey girl. When news was slow Peter got fidgety.
"You are such a New Yorker! Calm down," I once teased. He stood still, thrust out his arm and shot back with what became a standing joke: "Alright Jersey girl, look at this hand, steady as steel." And he was. He was the Brooklyn Bridge, a solid expanse of optimism ready to help you across troubled waters and keep you focussed on that magical skyline waiting on the other side -- as once he did for me. Years ago we went to see "It's a Beautiful Life," the Italian film set in a Nazi concentration camp. When the lights came on, I was choked up fighting tears but Peter was smiling broadly. "Wasn't that a great film? The love of that father." That was quintessential Peter, the guy -- like the man in the film -- who could distill the best even from tragedy, the "papa poule" who'd do anything for his children, the husband still so in love he softened when Catherine spoke.
When I was in Washington last year, he asked for a private session to learn the new AFP interface. He absorbed all in five minutes then said, "Enough, now let's get down to the real stuff" -- which meant chatting about our respective kids, our lives, our adventures, Peter cracking jokes throughout. You can't talk about Peter without talking about Catherine. Peter was quickly smitten with this young French girl -- and he was unequivocal. He actually talked authorities into breaking down her apartment door when they were dating in New York City. He hadn't heard from her and was certain something horrible had happened -- which it hadn't. "Jeez, Peter, how'd Catherine react?" I asked. "Well," he replied with the ultimate Mackler grin, "I guess you can say she got the message that I really loved her."
I first met Catherine in their old apartment in Montmartre. Peter had invited some Americans for Thanksgiving dinner and there she was, gloriously pregnant with their first child, Camille, joking about all the different dishes, saying: "What do I know, I'm French!" A few years later, I too was pregnant with my first child, searching for a bigger apartment. I remembered theirs -- they were abroad by then -- and tried my luck, knocking on the concierge's door. Twenty-five years later, I'm still in that same Montmartre building where we celebrated that lovely holiday.
Your couple began in New York Catherine, but your family began here, in Montmartre. You know you and the girls are welcome, always, anytime -- for a peek back to where some of your own "beautiful life" began. And it will carry on -- the Brooklyn bridge never lets you down.
-- Nancy Shields
Rob Lever: Never a slow day with Peter in the office
It was never a slow news day when Peter was in the office. We had to "come back" on the story from the previous day or look ahead to the next item, plan ahead. He was right of course, and his sense of the story helped make AFP the competitive news agency it is worldwide.
Just because of happenstance, Peter and I probably spent more time together over the past 15 years than anyone, except possibly his wife Catherine. He was my editor and manager. And since I was a union rep, he was technically an adversary. But he knew the strength of any organization was its people and he would frequently take me aside and tell me "off the record" how he was looking out for people.
There was no problem too big or too small for Peter. He had an amazing strategic view, almost Napoleonic. He conquered Asia and Europe and moved into North America. He had to vision to break away from AP to become a real competitor. He moved AFP onto the Web, mobile devices, video. But he saw to small details, offering to get lunch for a busy reporter or order food for a big election.
Yes he was a workaholic. But he was never too busy to take a call from his wife. "OK babe," he would say. You heard the softness in his voice and you knew he was very content at home, just as he was happy in his work at the office, however long he had worked.
Peter and I shared a certain bond. We both were from New York, so could talk about the Yankees or Brooklyn Dodgers. We both worked in VISTA, the government poverty program (this was left out of the obits). We both married French women and knew the joys and problems of bicultural families and bicultural journalism.
Maybe it was the Brooklyn Dodger spirit that drove Peter to drive other people. He knew that the underdog could come back and win whatever the odds. So if we were outmanned 50 to 1, and yet able to beat the competition, Peter wasn't surprised. This is what he had planned for all along.
-- Rob Lever
John Drury: Grateful to be Peter's friend
Peter and I were opposites.
He was a journalist, I a lawyer.
He was from Brooklyn. I was from Upstate.
He was liberal and I was the other.
He rooted for the Yankees after being a Dodger fan. I said "you're a turncoat."
He denied it.
I rooted for the New York Giants (when they existed).
His tolerance for all peoples of the world made way for me to come into his life.
I am very grateful.
He fascinated me with his stories.
He grew up down the street from Barry Manilow.
He took Carol to visit Esther Williams.
He watched Gil Hodges on the streets of Brooklyn.
He said Condi liked the Cleveland Browns.
I liked Condi even more than before.
I sat in his living room Sunday with Carol, Catherine, friends; all grieving deeply.
A young AFP colleague knocked on the front door and deliver an exquisite tall purple orchid to Catherine. Placed in the middle of her table, it captured all the sad beauty of
the room. He spoke of his loss and his respect for Peter. I said to Jay that it seemed that Peter had not died, he would bounce in soon . . . a little late, as he always did.
I thought this could not have occurred to this force of nature.
--John Drury
He was a journalist, I a lawyer.
He was from Brooklyn. I was from Upstate.
He was liberal and I was the other.
He rooted for the Yankees after being a Dodger fan. I said "you're a turncoat."
He denied it.
I rooted for the New York Giants (when they existed).
His tolerance for all peoples of the world made way for me to come into his life.
I am very grateful.
He fascinated me with his stories.
He grew up down the street from Barry Manilow.
He took Carol to visit Esther Williams.
He watched Gil Hodges on the streets of Brooklyn.
He said Condi liked the Cleveland Browns.
I liked Condi even more than before.
I sat in his living room Sunday with Carol, Catherine, friends; all grieving deeply.
A young AFP colleague knocked on the front door and deliver an exquisite tall purple orchid to Catherine. Placed in the middle of her table, it captured all the sad beauty of
the room. He spoke of his loss and his respect for Peter. I said to Jay that it seemed that Peter had not died, he would bounce in soon . . . a little late, as he always did.
I thought this could not have occurred to this force of nature.
--John Drury
Allan Kelly: A friendship cut short
We worked together, Peter and I, on three continents over nigh on 30 years - Asia, Europe and North America --- Had we the time spread out before us I would quite happily add Africa and South America. Sadly we can't.
It was Peter who drew me (and Marie-Therese and four-year-old Christopher) out of a Paris torpor on a night flight to Asia in August, 1984 where like everyone else I was galvanised by his journalistic instincts and "what if " attiitude. Never had exerienced that before. Never looked back. Our daughter Charlotte was born there.
Professional-life apart we became good friends and our wives and families became close. We were neighbours in Hong Kong, where we used their apartment-block swimming pool and tennis courts after Catherine managed to get us passes. In Le Chesnay (Versailles) we lived 100 metres away from each other - other side of the road - and looked after each other's apartments when absent. In Washington we were both in Bethesda. We celebrated together Christmas, New Year, Thanksgiving, Bastille Day and even a Scottish Burns Night.
Peter the journalist was an exceptional case. We all know that . But my abiding memory will always be Peter the family guy with Catherine whom he adored and his two bright and loving daughters Camille and Lauren. Suddenly the Nabib of the Newsroom was the Lamb of the Livingroom as he would sit back, glass of wine in hand, nod his head contentedly and happily do what he was told - unknown for PM in the newsroom. Great compassion also for others - no exceptions. Help not hindrance his motto and he stuck to it faithfully.
Last point - Peter was also an exceptional sportsman - had he chosen I am sure he could have made the grade somewhere - great physique, talented ball skills and as hard as nails mentally. We played at golf - he beat me. We played at tennis - he beat me. I would never have taken him on in a boxing match. But then again knowing Peter he would have likely worked out a way of making me think I had won.
Huge loss, hard to take for us all, but he will always be with us in spirit - thats for sure.
Just hoping that Catherine, Camille and Lauren in time can come to terms with Peter's untimely death as best they can. We hope to see them all in France or the USA whenever they are ready.
--Allan Kelly
AFP Paris
It was Peter who drew me (and Marie-Therese and four-year-old Christopher) out of a Paris torpor on a night flight to Asia in August, 1984 where like everyone else I was galvanised by his journalistic instincts and "what if " attiitude. Never had exerienced that before. Never looked back. Our daughter Charlotte was born there.
Professional-life apart we became good friends and our wives and families became close. We were neighbours in Hong Kong, where we used their apartment-block swimming pool and tennis courts after Catherine managed to get us passes. In Le Chesnay (Versailles) we lived 100 metres away from each other - other side of the road - and looked after each other's apartments when absent. In Washington we were both in Bethesda. We celebrated together Christmas, New Year, Thanksgiving, Bastille Day and even a Scottish Burns Night.
Peter the journalist was an exceptional case. We all know that . But my abiding memory will always be Peter the family guy with Catherine whom he adored and his two bright and loving daughters Camille and Lauren. Suddenly the Nabib of the Newsroom was the Lamb of the Livingroom as he would sit back, glass of wine in hand, nod his head contentedly and happily do what he was told - unknown for PM in the newsroom. Great compassion also for others - no exceptions. Help not hindrance his motto and he stuck to it faithfully.
Last point - Peter was also an exceptional sportsman - had he chosen I am sure he could have made the grade somewhere - great physique, talented ball skills and as hard as nails mentally. We played at golf - he beat me. We played at tennis - he beat me. I would never have taken him on in a boxing match. But then again knowing Peter he would have likely worked out a way of making me think I had won.
Huge loss, hard to take for us all, but he will always be with us in spirit - thats for sure.
Just hoping that Catherine, Camille and Lauren in time can come to terms with Peter's untimely death as best they can. We hope to see them all in France or the USA whenever they are ready.
--Allan Kelly
AFP Paris
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Barbara Slavin: We will miss him so much
Peter always had to remind me that he was older.
I edited his first big story for UPI – something really sexy about solid waste disposal in Westchester County, N.Y. -- so I thought of him as the kid reporter. As the years passed and Peter became a big-time editor, the age thing became a running joke between us. We stayed in touch after we both left UPI and began traveling the world, reconnecting in Hong Kong and then, happily, in Washington, D.C. When Peter turned up on the State Department beat, I was ecstatic. There was something so comforting about sitting next to him on those endless flights, knowing he wouldn’t mind if I snored and that we would backstop each other on quotes. He worked harder than anyone and always with great enthusiasm. Occasionally, I could persuade him to come out for a meal but only after every single desk at AFP was more than satisfied. Conscientious doesn’t begin to capture his work ethic.
But Peter was so much more than the consummate journalist. The father of two daughters, he took time to mentor a fatherless boy – the son of a friend whose death was even more untimely. Peter and Catherine’s hospitality was legendary, bringing together the old UPI crowd to celebrate their wedding anniversaries, reminding us how lucky we were to have worked together at that crazy place and at that wonderful time for journalism. Peter was the ultimate Brooklyn boy made good, the guy who always worried about others, who made everyone feel at home, who made friends from Flatbush to Tehran.
We will miss him so much.
-- Barbara Slavin
I edited his first big story for UPI – something really sexy about solid waste disposal in Westchester County, N.Y. -- so I thought of him as the kid reporter. As the years passed and Peter became a big-time editor, the age thing became a running joke between us. We stayed in touch after we both left UPI and began traveling the world, reconnecting in Hong Kong and then, happily, in Washington, D.C. When Peter turned up on the State Department beat, I was ecstatic. There was something so comforting about sitting next to him on those endless flights, knowing he wouldn’t mind if I snored and that we would backstop each other on quotes. He worked harder than anyone and always with great enthusiasm. Occasionally, I could persuade him to come out for a meal but only after every single desk at AFP was more than satisfied. Conscientious doesn’t begin to capture his work ethic.
But Peter was so much more than the consummate journalist. The father of two daughters, he took time to mentor a fatherless boy – the son of a friend whose death was even more untimely. Peter and Catherine’s hospitality was legendary, bringing together the old UPI crowd to celebrate their wedding anniversaries, reminding us how lucky we were to have worked together at that crazy place and at that wonderful time for journalism. Peter was the ultimate Brooklyn boy made good, the guy who always worried about others, who made everyone feel at home, who made friends from Flatbush to Tehran.
We will miss him so much.
-- Barbara Slavin
Perry Glasser: Old college friends
Macklepuss and I were friends when we were undergraduates at
That was when Peter first started working in the Brooklyn halfway house for schizophrenic teenagers, the
Peter’s first publication was an expose of the inconsistent treatment he received at
Peter as a young man played a merciless game of tennis; applauding every shot an opponent made, but giving no quarter. He’d dance to Creedence Clearwater Revivals “Suzie Q” on any pretext, and he danced terribly, a version of the white-boy shuffle complete with shrugging shoulders and that overbite that showed intensity. When he was dating Catherine, she’d ask me for details of his life as an adolescent, and I told her the truth — he was a loyal friend and decent guy. What she saw was what she’d get. There was no dirt. At their wedding in a
Tyler Marshall: a special kind of reporter
As a former colleague who traveled with Peter frequently on State Department trips, it didn¢t take long for me to discover he was a special kind of reporter. In a traveling press corps filled with workaholics, Peter always seemed to give that little bit extra. In a group that never slowed, his energy levels seemed higher. (As I came to learn, his energy levels were ALWAYS higher.)
Whether it was talking about some policy issue, a new business idea or a bit of baseball trivia 30 years back, enthusiasm and energy were just part of who Peter was. On the job, he was focused. His questions to power were smart, sharp and fearless. He gave no quarter. He played no favorites. His stories were clear, balanced, and fair. For all these traits, I developed an enormous respect for Peter and the way he did his job. But once the pressure was off the story, he could kick back and talk just as passionately and enthusiastically about music, sports, family or whatever else was going on in his life. And there was always plenty.
He drafted me into one of his ventures, Global Media Forum. We were also bound by the shared experiences in our careers-- the common experience of surviving UPI and the luck of getting foreign assignments in both Europe and
Tyler Marshall
(ex-
Gill Tucker: a life well lived.
Peter gave us so many reasons to love him. He was a loving husband and father, a loyal friend, a committed journalist,a compassionate human being who sought ways to use his knowledge and experience to make the world a better place.
But above all, he was that rare person - one who lived life to the full, never wasted a second, always, whatever he was doing, concentrated 100% of his energy and enthusiasm on the moment.
Now, suddenly, that vibrant presence is gone - and Sarah said it for us all: nothing will ever be the same. But as we miss him and mourn him, Peter has left us one last, great gift - the comfort of knowing that, though tragically cut short, his was indeed a life well lived.
-- Gill Tucker
Olivier Knox: Building AFP
The year was 1996, maybe four or five months after he had hired me, and Peter was describing the evolution of AFP's English-language service. He was justifiably proud of severing ties to AP, whose stories AFP used to have to use for North American coverage. But what I remember most is his description of the shocked reaction from the Associated Press boss when Peter told him we'd be going our own way: "So, are you smoking the crack, or is
Peter hired me in July 1996, fresh out of graduate school, my only journalism experience a year-long stint as the factotum to a French newspaper correspondent in
I share my colleagues' fond-but-with-a-tinge-of-exasperation recollections of a tireless reporter with staggeringly accurate news judgment and the uncanny ability to motivate those who worked with him. But what I will most remember, what I will most miss now that he's gone, is the faith he put in all of us, in me, to do the best we could, to be a team.
Four months after he hired me, Peter walked to the English Desk where I was translating copy from French and Spanish into English -- I say "walked," but those of you who knew Peter can easily picture that half-sprinting gait he had in the newsroom -- and earnestly asked me to come into this office. It was quickly clear that I had screwed up. A French reporter had described a prominent democracy advocate as a "militante de la paix" and I had lazily translated that as "peace militant."
"She's not happy. Her people aren't happy," Peter said somberly. "They say that has a military connotation. Militant/military. They say they are going to sue. Do you see the problem here?" I was terrified. He went on: "You cannot translate word-for-word. You need to think of the meaning of the whole sentence. Not just individual words." I just nodded. "Now, here's what I'm going to do: Nothing. I told her people they were being ridiculous and that we would not be issuing a formal correction, and that they were welcome to try their luck in court. But I need you to make sure you watch those kinds of errors."
Peter had gone to bat for me, but he had made sure not to miss the opportunity for a teachable moment.
So it’s more than a decade later, and I'm hooked on the AFP crack: For all its faults, I love the agency. And as for Peter, nothing will be the same without him. I'm not ready to do without his compassion, and his guidance. Or his sense of purpose. Or his faith in me. Or the way he rallied everyone around him.
But thanks to 12 years spent learning from him, from the best, day-in and day-out, of seeing how it’s done…I think with time I'll be ready to try.
-- Olivier Knox
Diana Rea: My friend's father
Peter was my best friend's father, but I considered him more like extended family. In a lot of ways, he reminded me of my own father. Over the years that I've known Camille, he and Catherine have been incredibly kind and generous to me, welcoming me into their homes in both France and DC. It was on one of the trips to France that he actually coined the term "Sushi Club," which Camille and I, along with our best friend Christine, still use to refer to ourselves. After a long flight from New York, the three of us had passed out, exhausted, on a bed in Peter and Catherine's home in various curled up positions, causing him to remark that we looked like pieces of sushi sitting on a plate. We laughed about the silliness of the name at the time, but four years later, it has stuck with us. Peter will always be considered an honorary member of the Sushi Club. He was awesome on that trip, playing host, chauffeur, and tour guide all week despite his busy work schedule. He took us to lunch one day at a nice restaurant near his office, and I still remember him laughing at me when I ordered a "sandwich avec trois fromages" - pointing out that I had come all the way to this nice restaurant in France to order a grilled cheese. Diana J. Rea
I also have to thank Peter for his efforts in converting Camille into a diehard Yankees fan. He explained to me once how he came to be a Yankees fan even though he grew up in Brooklyn, though I have to admit the story still leaves me scratching my head. Without his good influence, she no doubt might have become a Mets fan or worse, and then I would have no one to go to games with. I enjoyed going to games with Peter and Camille, discussing Yankees history and their current prospects with him, speculating on whether they would win their division. I will definitely miss his company and his insight.
As I write this, it's hitting me that even though Peter is gone, there are little reminders of him that endure. From silly nicknames to Camille's infatuation with baseball and the strength and love of his incredible family, it's clear that his presence is still very much tangible. Although I was only fortunate enough to know him for a few years, I know that the friendship and kindness he showed me in that time will have a lasting influence. I hope he knows how grateful I am for that.
Gersende Rambourg: The heart of a warrior
We're in a taxi, heading towards the Supreme Court. An important ruling on Guantanamo is expected. I whisper to Peter, who volunteered at the last minute to help out: I'm happy there's three of us, but the competition is going to have a dozen people.
Silence. Then Peter tells me, very calmly, like he's telling a joke: Just think of yourself as a mujahideen. You're on your own, your weapons are outdated, but these guys in the tanks might be overconfident. So you need to give it all you've got, focus all your energy and who knows, you might be able to outpace or outsmart them.
I'm reminded of the mujahideen allegory often. Not necessarily in work situations but whenever I feel ill-equipped in the face of a new challenge. I think of the confidence in his voice, the trust he's put in me and that's all the boost I need.
I will miss him terribly.
Gersende Rambourg (AFP)
Silence. Then Peter tells me, very calmly, like he's telling a joke: Just think of yourself as a mujahideen. You're on your own, your weapons are outdated, but these guys in the tanks might be overconfident. So you need to give it all you've got, focus all your energy and who knows, you might be able to outpace or outsmart them.
I'm reminded of the mujahideen allegory often. Not necessarily in work situations but whenever I feel ill-equipped in the face of a new challenge. I think of the confidence in his voice, the trust he's put in me and that's all the boost I need.
I will miss him terribly.
Gersende Rambourg (AFP)
Albion Land: He was larger than life
I need fewer than the fingers on just one hand to count the people I have known who are “larger than life,” and Peter Mackler was one of them.
I was still fairly new at AFP and to the
And help he did. Not only was he there with us in the day-to-day challenge of covering the story but also bullying a short-sighted management into recognising that, if you’re top story in the world nearly every day, it stands to reason that you need adequate human and technical resources to cover it.
So much has already been said here about Peter’s personality and professionalism that I won’t tire the reader with repetition.
Just one thing, though.
Sauf erreur, the obit left out the fact that Peter also “orchestrated” coverage of the
I will miss you very much, Field Marshall.
-- Albion Land
Middle East Desk, Nicosia
Isabel Parenthoën: Peter was a friend.
He was one of the most respect-worthy people I've ever had the honour to meet, both as a professional and a person.
He was fully committed to whatever task he had taken on, and never let go before he had reached a solution he found acceptable. This is probably the biggest lesson I have learned from him, and in this regard I consider him as a mentor: nevermind the setbacks, nevermind the struggle, one should stick to one's priorities. Each of us has to ability and the strength to influence a whole system, using both dedication and humility.
It took me time - and the maturity that comes with it - to fully understand that patience can bring you wherever you want to go. He was telling me this, him of all people, the most impatient man I knew when it came to getting the best out of you !
Peter was also very much in love: with life in general, with his family in particular. He trusted life. Totally.
He considered himself lucky in all regards and was always very thankful for being alive. Another lesson I will cherish.
Peter gave so much - just by being himself.
Anne Penketh: Peter was a change agent
I don't think it would be an understatement to say that AFP would not be what it is today without Peter Mackler, the indefatigable moving spirit behind the expansion of the English service since the 1980s, who made a generation of us raise our game professionally.
When I left Paris for New York in the mid-1990s I saw a different side of him. I will never forget the extent to which he took care of Graham Brown, who was then dying of cancer, and whose death left another hole in our lives. So it is not just Peter the consummate professional that I will remember, but the caring person who should have taken better care of himself.
We were all in shock when Tim Russert died of a massive heart attack only a couple of weeks ago. Peter was the Tim Russert of AFP.
Anne Penketh
When I left Paris for New York in the mid-1990s I saw a different side of him. I will never forget the extent to which he took care of Graham Brown, who was then dying of cancer, and whose death left another hole in our lives. So it is not just Peter the consummate professional that I will remember, but the caring person who should have taken better care of himself.
We were all in shock when Tim Russert died of a massive heart attack only a couple of weeks ago. Peter was the Tim Russert of AFP.
Anne Penketh
Francis Kohn: Adieu Peter
J’écris volontairement cet hommage à Peter en français. On sait le rôle essentiel joué par Peter pour bâtir le service anglais de l’AFP, mais son envergure était telle que son influence ne s’est pas limitée aux « anglos ». Il était respecté de tous. D’une certaine façon, il a symbolisé ce que l’AFP a de meilleure, une agence multilingue avec des femmes et des hommes venus de tous les horizons. Energique, passionné, emporté parfois, toujours sur la brèche, il savait se mettre en quatre pour les autres. Une fois alors que nous étions en Californie, il m’a offert une carte représentant un funambule sur la corde raide. « Cela décrit ton boulot de rédacteur en chef » dans la région Amérique, m’avait-il dit. « Peter, t’as pas savonné la corde au moins ?», lui avais-je répondu. Il avait de l’humour et nous avons ri ensemble. J’ai gardé la carte. Je n’arrive pas à croire qu’il soit tombé.
Francis Kohn
Jacques Lhuillery: Too Hard, and too painful
I joined AFP in 1979, the same year than Peter. And I already was impressed by him, by his kindness and the natural authority emanating from him. To me Peter was, is, probably the most possible achieved mix fo what is best in French and American culture and spirit.
I was enraging to hear him speaking French so well with nuances and all subtleties while I was tiring my eyes on Harraps english dictionary...
Peter was even more part of my then American dream one year later, when he was covering US primaries campaign. I just came back from the US where I had the chance, thanks to a friend, to be "embedded" for a week with G.H Bush staff campaign in Houston and later in Florida.
So, when I came back in Paris and AFP desk étranger, every time the shift chief editor was asking: "Peter just sent a story and a profile, any volunteer to translate?" I was immediately almost shouting "me! me!". I was just like a kid. Laughters around.
He was making me dream, confirming my ideas about the kind of journalism I was dreaming of and aiming at.
Almost 30 years later, and even if our professional roads had divided long ago, I still remember and cherish these moments.
Pour moi Peter était la quintessence aboutie de la gentillesse, de l'exigence, et du plus grand sens de ce métier. Et comme les plus grands, hélàs, il est mort en scène...
JACQUES LHUILLERY
AFP LAGOS NIGERIA
I was enraging to hear him speaking French so well with nuances and all subtleties while I was tiring my eyes on Harraps english dictionary...
Peter was even more part of my then American dream one year later, when he was covering US primaries campaign. I just came back from the US where I had the chance, thanks to a friend, to be "embedded" for a week with G.H Bush staff campaign in Houston and later in Florida.
So, when I came back in Paris and AFP desk étranger, every time the shift chief editor was asking: "Peter just sent a story and a profile, any volunteer to translate?" I was immediately almost shouting "me! me!". I was just like a kid. Laughters around.
He was making me dream, confirming my ideas about the kind of journalism I was dreaming of and aiming at.
Almost 30 years later, and even if our professional roads had divided long ago, I still remember and cherish these moments.
Pour moi Peter était la quintessence aboutie de la gentillesse, de l'exigence, et du plus grand sens de ce métier. Et comme les plus grands, hélàs, il est mort en scène...
JACQUES LHUILLERY
AFP LAGOS NIGERIA
Richard Ingham: Teaching Americans about cricket
When I went to Hong Kong in 1993 to run the regional news desk, one of my first steps was to go through the drawers and cupboards to take stock of what was there.
At the bottom of a pile of dusty, yellowing papers, I found a clipboard which contained a nine-page explanation of cricket for HK's American deskers.
The ancient document had originally been pounded out on a typewriter and photocopied and rephotocopied many times, bore coffee stains and jotted-down phone numbers, and over the years had acquired the seer, venerable feel of mediaeval parchment.
You could hardly imagine a more helpful or more exhaustive guide to cricket. With charm and patience, it explained, for people brought up on baseball, the meaning of a googly, a leg before wicket, the difference between a bye and a leg bye, a wide and a maiden over and all the other crazy complexities of the game. The author -- of course -- was Peter.
I pick on this anecdote to provide just a tiny illustration of this man's extraordinary energy, his commitment to excellence and his love of journalism. Today, he leaves a legacy as broad as it is deep. AFP has a growing stature in the world, and the English service in Asia is one of its crown jewels. All of us benefit from this success. Let us praise the man who lay its foundations, bulldozing through innumerable obstacles and facing entrenched interests with courage and tenacity.
There was also Peter's inner life, and those of us who caught a glimpse of it came away enriched by his unfailing fairness, his humour and his discreet but deeply-felt acts of humanism. He was a one-off.
Richard Ingham
Jean-Louis Pany: Before and after Peter
I had crossed Peter's path on a few international summits but had never worked with him before 9/11
At that time, I was posted in Montreal and I was lucky enough to reach New York this very day, just before the border was closed
So I was able to experience the "before and after" Peter's arrival.
As soon as he got to the office, what was just emergency frantic coverage of the first hours turned into organised work
The journalists, who hardly knew each others, instantly worked together and in harmony, a word that sounds a bit strange considering his somewhat military attitude toward organisation.
During those meetings in front of his little board, we were still wondering about the possibilities of a story when Peter had already put it on the menu !
And just when we could get exasperated by him giving orders iin a less than democratic manner, he had a way of showing a contagious enthusiasm or aknowledging our work that would push us a bit further.
Jean-Louis Pany
AFP Paris
Jo Biddle: This was not the way it was supposed to be
"See you Monday," I said, waving good-bye late Thursday after chatting about my plans for a long weekend with the kids: Ashling, the princess as you called her, and Callum the tearaway who last year at 15 months old nearly plunged AFP America into darkness after wandering into the technicians lab and finding some very enticing buttons.
Gilles Tarot: Always in search of excellence
It is rare to see a journalist with such a level of commitment to the agency and with such a willingness to reach excellence.
Not a journalist myself, I would not elaborate about his journalistic skills as many will do it better but I would like to emphasize and recognize his contribution to our commercial development in North America. Despite his daily heavy agenda in the journalistic side, he never refused to help our marketing team and to spend time to meet with potential clients; even better, having him with us was our best sales pitch when explaining AFP coverage and telling our differences. We successfully managed to sign up with a major Newspaper Group in
I think he deeply loved AFP and was dedicated to bring the agency at the very top. His words at our lunch party on Friday were still focusing on his satisfaction to have the
He also loved his wife and was so proud of his daughters; I happened to witness some very touching words with his family while traveling together with him to see clients.
He recently told me how happy he was to have finally found a house in Saint Remi after a long search; I told him that my parents were living in Salon, very close to his new place area and we agreed to meet in Provence when both in the area.
Some singers or actors say that they wish to die on stage but Peter did not deserve to fall in the Newsroom. He had so much more to do for us all.
Gilles Tarot
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