Treading carefully in bare feet

What we all know is that Muslim extremists are in a tiny minority within the Islamic community.

The last few weeks have revealed, however, that journalists who understand how to deal appropriately with members of that community are in an even smaller minority.

Writing a story about matters relating to Islam has become a minefield of political and religious correctness, and reporters on my student paper the IslingtonNow have found themselves having to tiptoe - sometimes literally - around sensitive subjects for fear of causing offence.

Don't forget, for example, to remove your shoes when entering a mosque to interview the Imam.

Luckily enough yours truly had his wits about him and avoided blundering Converse-clad into the prayer hall of the Finsbury Park Mosque, but not before raising a number of eyebrows in the foyer as he tentatively slipped his trainers onto the shoe-rack.

These eyebrows belonged to older, wiser looking men, who did not entirely seem to appreciate the visit of a fresh-faced journalist and his dictaphone.

But that very dictaphone was a saving grace, if only to save that particular journalist from sleepless nights of worry about possible misquotation or misconstruction.

The front page of my student paper two weeks ago bore the story of the struggle taking place within Finsbury Park Mosque between the majority of moderate worshippers and the minority of extremists trying to influence them.

Although the article praised the good work of the mosque in combating these radicals, it was hardly good press for the mosque’s cause, and this is how the Imam took it. Co-operative and agreeable though he had been in his dealings with us, his subsequent e-mails revealed the sharpness of his tongue, and he criticised the story because it was not "positive".

To what extent does one argue with the man? Especially when the online home page of his mosque has a link saying "Need a Fatwa?"

None of us wants to end up in a bunker somewhere with Salman Rushdie and a Danish cartoonist. Plus, I don’t think I’d look good as an effigy.

And besides, it isn’t a journalist’s job to write flattering stories about people. The Imam had not been mis-quoted - as dictaphone recordings and transcripts can prove - all of the facts in the story had been verified, and we all felt we had presented a balanced picture of both sides of the debate.

What seems more likely is that the Imam got rather cold feet about what he had told me, which is hardly surprising considering he has spent his entire working life without shoes on.

However, a skill in journalism is knowing when not to shoot yourself in the foot, whether shoed or not. The Imam of the Finsbury Park Mosque is an important, respected and, it should be said, thoroughly pleasant man, and it would be foolish to alienate him for the sake of a story.

This tactic proved wise when colleagues from my student paper went knocking at the mosque’s door - bearing a slice of unwarranted humble pie, I might add - to ask Sheikh Saad for his opinion on Sharia law in the UK.

Hence a new front page story. Hence a healthy working relationship with a local religious leader. And hence no copies of the IslingtonNow student paper being furiously burned on the streets of Beirut.

The effigies can at least be kept on ice...for now.

Money, money, money - it's so funny...

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Money makes the world go round. Money is the root of all evil. Time is money. Money, money, money.

Is it just me who isn't interested in money? I don't just mean in a material sense, but in general.

My mind is wandering down this philisophical path because I have just been offered a well-paid internship by a financial news company, but I am going to turn it down.

You might think I'm mad. I might think I'm mad, for all I know, but I somehow feel accepting it would be selling my soul.

Temptation

Let me explain. I went to Oxford University - it is a recognisable name that is supposed to 'open doors' etc etc. I have never been under the illusion, however, that this is the case with journalism. Being an Oxford graduate does not mean ipso facto that you are a good writer, a good people-person and have a good eye for news, and so does not mean that you would be a good journalist necessarily.

Other industries, on the other hand, seem to value that 'Oxbridge' tag more than any other quality. When I say 'other industries', I am by and large referring to the 'City' - that mysterious cover-all term for any and all big firms of management consultants, accountants, bankers and even lawyers to an extent.

When I was in my final year at university, the time came around, in about October, when all the city firms were opening their application processes for their graduate schemes and entry-level jobs.

They all promised a starting salary over thirty grand, a structured career path, plenty of benefits and a glittering future. For all its material perks, I am by no means saying that this is an easy option - the hours kept by new management consultants and accountants are anything but sociable - but it was nonetheless a temptation for all final year students beginning to think about employment opportunities beyond the horizon of Finals exams.

I steadfastly refused, however, to apply to any of them. I have wanted to be a journalist for as long as I can remember. I am fully aware that the road into journalism is rocky at best, that the pay is nothing to shout about, and that it has all the job stability of a jelly in a tumble dryer, but it's what I'm passionate about. I'm a writer. There's nothing that gives me more satisfaction than finding the perfect words to express what I want to say.

Therefore, the idea of balancing books, outsourcing corporations or second-guessing the futures market couldn't have appealed to me less.

I remember well feeling a (perhaps slightly bitter) sense of disappointment in a close friend who, despite his ambitions to go into film production, had applied for and, to his credit, been offered a job at a management consultancy firm. What I remember better was the almost patronising sense of pride I felt in that friend when they turned the job down at the eleventh-hour to take up an unpaid internship with a film company.

Follow your heart every time, I say. I know, I know, I'm a hopeless Romantic (with a capital 'R'), but life's too short to go taking jobs you aren't passionate about. If you're just making a living, that's not really living, is it? Corny, but true.

I watched the deadlines for all the JP Morgans and Goldman Sachs come and go, and felt a stubborn sense of pride. My soul had remained my own!

Anyway, I thought that that period of time was to be the true test of my resolve to be a journalist. The possibility of wads of cash and hefty bonuses had been flashed in front of me, and I had stuck to my guns of wanting to write and report and be a bloody good journalist dammit.

Decisions, decisons...

However, I now find myself faced with a fresh dilemma. Although it isn't really a dilemma because I've made my mind up. The dilemma is not that I can't decide, but rather that I can't decide if I've made my decision too easily.

You see, I would almost venture to call myself a writer as much as a journalist. I love writing news, reporting stories, researching facts, interviewing witnesses, but what I love at least as much is writing Features - the stories behind the news. Where news stories rely on cold, objective intros and the no-nonsense presentation of hard facts, Features ask the more probing questions; they draw the reader in with dropped intros and keep them hooked with subtly worked colour-writing and well-chosen case studies. It's about creativity and imagination.

This is why working for a financial news company surely isn't for me. Stocks, shares, commodities, options, trade, commerce, inflation, credit crunches, mortgage crises...it just doesn't do it for me.

Money to me is a lot like water or oxygen. You need it to live and to avoid dying under a bridge somewhere, but beyond that I can't imagine being enthused by money in itself. I just do not appreciate the so-called 'magic' of money, where city executives talk with dewy eyes about the beauty of the international markets and the marvels of the inter-linked, mutually dependent financial world in which we live. If I had it my way we'd all just barter turnips again.

So accepting a post with a company whose bread and butter is reporting on the minutiae of the markets would be silly. Wouldn't it?

This is the dilemma. In an industry where a ready job and good pay is hard to come by, am I being arrogant as a student journalist by turning down a job that so many people would kill for?

If, in six months time, I haven't been employed by a national newspaper or leading magazine, will I regret that decision?

Probably not. In fact, definitely not. What the hell. If you can't throw caution to the wind when you're young, when can you? I have enough faith in my own writing and my own tenacity to think that someone somewhere will want to employ me to write for them. If it takes a bit of hard graft then so be it.

The very nice lady on the phone who offered me the internship was rather taken aback when I asked to 'sleep on it'.

"Everyone else accepted straight away," she joked. I think she knew I was going to say no. In the interview I made no bones about the fact I was an artsy person with little financial knowledge. Ultimately, I only applied for the post because they asked me to. Perhaps I shouldn't have, but if someone asks you to apply for something, there's no sense in not having a go.

Now I've had a go and have come out a little wiser and with a clearer picture of what I got into journalism for. And it wasn't for reporting on the stock market. Or for working for a company that colour-coordinates the fish in its aquarium with its orange desks because orange promotes creativity. They were all lovely lovely people, but with more fish than could possibly be healthy.

So I shall bite my lip tomorrow morning, ring the nice lady back and graciously turn down her offer. I'll even write another blog post tomorrow morning to confirm it, if you don't trust me.

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Just as a postcript, I realise I've written this piece much more for myself than for you. A sort of expiation, as it were. I also realise, glancing back, that I've used Features with a capital 'F' all the way through, as if referring to some kind of deity. Perhaps that's the best indication of what I love about journalism.

Cue the violins...