Thursday, January 7, 2010
Friday, June 19, 2009
Rob Lever: One Year Later
During Peter's time in Washington, I may have spent more time with him than anyone, dealing with matters of the desk, union contracts (since I was the guild representative) and a variety of other issues. We seemed to have a bond because of a number of things we had in common: We were both from New York, both worked in VISTA, married French women and had a dedication to and love for journalism. One thing that struck me about Peter is that during all the meetings we had, all the tough discussions, he always was willing to take a call from his wife or one of his daughters, whatever the issue. I recall the shift from tough editor to tender family man, and then back again, many times. As hard as Peter worked -- and he seemed to be the hardest and most most dedicated person in the office -- you also knew his heart was at home. And I thought of him as lucky to be doing something at work he really loved while being surrounded by a caring family.
On the professional side:
If you look at AFP's history over the last two decades, there is probably no one more important than Peter Mackler in transforming what had been one of a number of sleepy European news agencies into one of the major players in the global news market. I think Peter understood better than anyone the need to develop the English language service to be a major global player. But he also had the force of personality and understanding of the French (he was the only person I knew who spoke perfect French with a Brooklyn accent) to be able to move the French bureaucracy and shake up the system. He seemed to have a Napoleonic vision -- he conquered Europe, conquered Asia, conquered North America -- to help AFP grow.
In Washington, he understood the need to disconnect AFP from AP to fully compete, and engineered that change, which allowed the US operations to grow and flourish. He also understood the importance of technology and got us all on the Internet (I remember the first time I used it was Peter's AOL account at the office). He spearheaded the creation of multimedia and video departments at AFP. So in all, I think there are dozens of people in North America (and probably many more elsewhere) who owe their jobs to Peter, who made it possible not only to work at AFP but be part of a dynamic news operation that competes with other global players.
--Rob Lever (AFP)
On the professional side:
If you look at AFP's history over the last two decades, there is probably no one more important than Peter Mackler in transforming what had been one of a number of sleepy European news agencies into one of the major players in the global news market. I think Peter understood better than anyone the need to develop the English language service to be a major global player. But he also had the force of personality and understanding of the French (he was the only person I knew who spoke perfect French with a Brooklyn accent) to be able to move the French bureaucracy and shake up the system. He seemed to have a Napoleonic vision -- he conquered Europe, conquered Asia, conquered North America -- to help AFP grow.
In Washington, he understood the need to disconnect AFP from AP to fully compete, and engineered that change, which allowed the US operations to grow and flourish. He also understood the importance of technology and got us all on the Internet (I remember the first time I used it was Peter's AOL account at the office). He spearheaded the creation of multimedia and video departments at AFP. So in all, I think there are dozens of people in North America (and probably many more elsewhere) who owe their jobs to Peter, who made it possible not only to work at AFP but be part of a dynamic news operation that competes with other global players.
--Rob Lever (AFP)
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Chuck Kuhn: Memories of Indianapolis
First I'd like to extend my condolences following Pete's death. I read with sorrow about his death. That was combined with a degree of pride in having known him and happiness in knowing that Pete had good friends, family and the respect he deserved from his peers.
I had not seen Pete in 35 years. I was a Vista volunteer serving in Indianapolis' Meyer Neighborhood House with Pete and Tim Curtin. He and I both worked together, briefly, at a state hospital in Indianapolis as psychiatric aides.
I'd like to think that I was present when Pete got his first taste of journalism. You see, we were young radicals in a very conservative city. We got involved in what was referred to as the "underground press". I remember Pete writing stories for the Indianapolis Free Press. We did everything: we wrote, edited, had all-night parties when we laidout and pasted up the finished product, before driving the paste-ups to the printer. I remember seeing Pete on street corners hawking papers.
Pete decided to leave Indianapolis and he had arranged to get a driveaway car that he was taking to Texas. There were five of us. We spent a night sleeping under the stars in KC and in the morning Pete dropped Tim and I at a highway and we hitchhiked to South Dakota to follow a story for the Free Press. Pete went on to San Francisco and lived there for a brief time, before returning to Brooklyn.
The Pete I knew was still trying to find himself, I'm glad that he was able to do so.
Apparently, about the time of Pete's death, I was having dinner with another of Pete's old friends, Mike Cruz, and we talked and laughed as we reminisced about old friends including Pete. We speculated about what had happened to him.
I emailed Pete's obit to Mike and he wrote back that he was gratified to see that Pete had matured so well and that he remembered him as "a great guy".
Once again I am sorry for your loss. Feel free to contact me by return email. I have stories that I can relate, bu that Pete was a different one than you knew, I am sure. Please relate my condolences also to your daughters.
Chuck Kuhn
LCSW, BCD
Psychotherapist
I had not seen Pete in 35 years. I was a Vista volunteer serving in Indianapolis' Meyer Neighborhood House with Pete and Tim Curtin. He and I both worked together, briefly, at a state hospital in Indianapolis as psychiatric aides.
I'd like to think that I was present when Pete got his first taste of journalism. You see, we were young radicals in a very conservative city. We got involved in what was referred to as the "underground press". I remember Pete writing stories for the Indianapolis Free Press. We did everything: we wrote, edited, had all-night parties when we laidout and pasted up the finished product, before driving the paste-ups to the printer. I remember seeing Pete on street corners hawking papers.
Pete decided to leave Indianapolis and he had arranged to get a driveaway car that he was taking to Texas. There were five of us. We spent a night sleeping under the stars in KC and in the morning Pete dropped Tim and I at a highway and we hitchhiked to South Dakota to follow a story for the Free Press. Pete went on to San Francisco and lived there for a brief time, before returning to Brooklyn.
The Pete I knew was still trying to find himself, I'm glad that he was able to do so.
Apparently, about the time of Pete's death, I was having dinner with another of Pete's old friends, Mike Cruz, and we talked and laughed as we reminisced about old friends including Pete. We speculated about what had happened to him.
I emailed Pete's obit to Mike and he wrote back that he was gratified to see that Pete had matured so well and that he remembered him as "a great guy".
Once again I am sorry for your loss. Feel free to contact me by return email. I have stories that I can relate, bu that Pete was a different one than you knew, I am sure. Please relate my condolences also to your daughters.
Chuck Kuhn
LCSW, BCD
Psychotherapist
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
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