Read at Anthony’s Funeral

I’d like to thank Catherine and Anthony’s family for allowing me to say a few words. For although it is painful to stand before you today, above all else it is a great privilege.

Anthony was a dear friend to many people and I’m proud I was one of them. For me, he was a rare friend too. Someone I’d met as an adult but liked so much I wished I’d known as a child.

Maybe that is just sentimental indulgence. Really I should just be thankful I knew him as long as I did.

We became friends while working at the Daily Express 10 years ago. There were some tremendous characters in the office in those days, and with them came high jinks, playful banter and general devilment. You had to keep your wits about you. More often than not Anthony was at the centre of the mayhem; always razor sharp, always funny – the mischief maker-in-chief.

Some weeks after he joined the paper he found me admiring my first picture byline. I didn’t really know him very well at the time but he took one look at the picture and said: ‘You should have got them to airbrush the double chin.’

That was the only other time he made me cry, even though I’m sure he was simply being ironic. Either way we became great pals soon afterwards and that’s when the put downs – or laser guided missiles as they sometimes felt – got worse. Only Anthony could have got away with them.

Like many of us here today I knew Anthony as an extremely fine journalist. There are many reasons why he was so good, not least because I believe he understood human nature better than any reporter I’ve ever met. I also think he was much more talented than he himself cared to believe – and I remember telling him so on many occasions – but he would always disagree. His natural humility wouldn’t allow it.

He did his best work at the Express while in Macedonia during the Kosovo conflict. He was there for about six weeks and, as well as chronicling the military build-up, filed countless human interest stories from the teeming refugee camps. It seemed to me that he outclassed the opposition every day. When he returned I replaced him – an unenviable task – and inherited his driver, a Serb, and his translator, an Albanian.

They picked me up at the border and I recall clearly that the translator’s first words to me were:

‘Do you know Anthony Mitchell.’

I replied with prudence that I knew him only vaguely. It was often safer that way with Anthony. I needn’t have worried. For the next two hours all I got from the pair of them was :’Anthony is so funny’, ‘Anthony is such a great guy’, ‘Anthony is such a great reporter….’

And all this from two men on opposite sides of a bitter and bloody conflict. It struck me as amusingly ironic that the Serb and Albanian were agreed on one thing at least…the glory of Anthony Mitchell. And this was a side of my friend I hadn’t glimpsed before: Anthony the peacemaker. But surely Anthony must have teased you, I asked the translator. ‘Of course, ‘ he replied laughing. ‘He reminded us every day that he disliked Albanians and Serbs equally.’

I loved Anthony’s sense of fun, his warmth, his kindness, his generosity, his irreverence, his contempt for pretension in all its forms and his adventurous spirit.

Chris spoke of what a wonderful husband, father, son and brother he was. It is something that cannot be stated often enough.

One of my happiest memories of Anthony is of a visit we made to London Zoo with our two sons. We had a great day, although it did seem rather strange, incongruous even, for the two of us to be pushing prams through Regent’s Park. Inevitably we joked about where it had all gone so wrong – when of course the exact opposite was true.

I will never forget that day but I will remember Anthony like this: blazing across the world full of mischief, full of love, making everybody laugh.

by Tim Jotischky, Read at Anthony’s Funeral

‘Dead at 39: the shining light of African journalism goes out’. That was the headline in the Press Gazette, journalism’s trade newspaper.

We know Anthony Mitchell was a brilliant journalist; not because he told us himself – Anthony, like all the finest journalists, was quite insecure and, despite all the bravado, never realised how good he really was – but because in the days and weeks after his death it was evident in the lavish tributes bestowed by colleagues old and new; in the services held in his memory in Kenya and Ethiopia, and the numbers who turned out to mourn his death; and in the grief shared by all who value a member of the profession who, whether unwittingly or not, changed the world around him by what he wrote.

But, though I too am a journalist, I am not here to remember Anthony Mitchell, the journalist. I am here to remember Anthony Mitchell: the loving son; the much-loved brother; the loyal husband; the proud father; the ebullient, perenially entertaining friend.

Now, perhaps this is a very selfish thought, but I wonder how many of you – like me – when we heard the news of Anthony’s death mourned, not only for his family, but also the fact that never again would we enjoy the company of someone who, no matter where you were or who you were with, would, without fail, be the most irrepressible; the most outrageous; the most dynamic presence in the room.

We received many wonderful letters and cards after Anthony’s death; one of the lovely things about them was that those who knew him best recognized not just that side of him, but also his generosity of spirit; his innate decency; his great loyalty to those he loved.

One especially beautiful card from a close family friend summed up Anthony brilliantly. It read: ‘You can always tell when someone has come from a happy home. I always saw it in Anthony. To have that powerful start in life is a thing many people never know. To appreciate it, while it is happening, as he did, is rare. Your parents have raised remarkable, courageous, confident and kind people. Anthony was irrepressible, funny and engaging. I always looked forward to seeing him and admired the man he became. He experienced so much and lived, as most of us would wish to, with enthusiasm and without fear’.

He was brought up with a clear sense of right and wrong. There’s a story told by an Ethiopian colleague of Anthony’s which illustrates just how deeply he had absorbed the lessons of childhood. The two men were on a reporting trip in a rebel-infested area and Anthony’s colleague told him; ‘If we’re kidnapped by rebels they may kill me because I am an Ethiopian, but they won’t kill you, they’ll hold you for a few days, then release you’. Anthony’s response will stay with his colleague for ever: ‘Listen, old man, we either live or die together. I will never abandon my comrades. That was not how I was brought up’.

As a child, Anthony was always getting into scrapes. I’m told he was in and out of the local casualty department so often he had a season ticket there. From the age of five he had eight accidents which required hospital treatment; on the sixth occasion – this time he had hurt his hand – the doctor asked what had happened.

When Jackie tried to explain, the doctor silenced her, insisting he wanted Anthony’s version of events. ‘Am I a battered baby?’ Anthony asked the doctor. Jackie, who was writing a thesis on battered babies at the time, cut in: ‘No, but you will be if you don’t shut up!’

Actually, by her own admission, Jackie did once chase Anthony around the garden with a hockey stick. That was in Zambia when Anthony, aged two-and-a-half, decided to mix together sugar, soap, and butter – all in short supply at the time.

Then there was the time Anthony – rather older by now – managed to trade his father and grandfather’s military service medals; a tin helmet liberated from Germany in 1945; and a collection of old foreign coins much loved by his great grandfather – all precious family heirlooms – for a collection of 1970s tat.

John forgave him just as he also forgave him when he was at college and, after closing time, brought back some thirsty friends to his parents’ house in Chertsey for a nightcap or two. The next morning John went downstairs to be greeted by a scattered pile of empty bottles – his expensive hoard of French wine completely demolished.

How could you not forgive Anthony?

Rebecca Whiteley, one of Jo’s oldest friends, can remember Anthony in all his 6-year-old cheeky splendour. ‘He had slightly crooked teeth which were often on display as he was nearly always laughing, his expression one of pure wicked delight and mischief.but in the nicest possible way for he was a charmer too when he wanted to be’.

As a teenager, Anthony had everyone in hysterics – he always knew the latest dirty jokes or catchphrases. ‘Jo, having the benefit of his wisecracks 24 hours a day, would simply roll her eyes’. Rebecca recalls that he was never in trouble for long. ‘Jackie found it hard to resist Anthony’s apologies, which consisted of much sucking up and wide eyed innocent smiles, behaviour that Jo and I found outrageously manipulative, but to which Jackie was blind’.

I asked Jo what Anthony was like as a younger brother when they were teenagers. ‘Embarrassing,’ she replied. He would ask my friends: ‘Why do you wear so much make-up?’ or: ‘Why do you have such bad acne?’

When I first met Jo I was surprised – and impressed – to see just how close the two of them obviously were.

Once I got to know the family set-up better I understood why. Anthony and Jo were not only John and Jackie’s children; they became their friends too. As parents, could any of us wish for a greater tribute? And so, naturally, Anthony and Jo were not just brother and sister but close friends too.

I have so many happy memories of Anthony: one of the first, being the night when Jo and I were celebrating our engagement; Anthony couldn’t make it to the restaurant but very generously rang them to order us a bottle of their finest champagne. It later transpired he didn’t have his credit card on him, but managed to put it on a colleague’s card instead…

To our two girls, he was a much adored uncle. In fact, he was directly responsible for getting Millie, then twelve-months-old, to walk for the first time. Anthony was sitting on a sofa at our house, munching cake. ‘If you want a bit you’ll have to walk over here and get it off me,’ he teased her. Millie, who couldn’t string two steps together, suddenly tottered over and did just that.

He loved to tease the children. I remember the time when Millie was telling him she was desperate to meet the Queen. ‘Fine,’ said Anthony, ‘I’ll ring up Buckingham Palace and arrange it’. He grabbed the phone; held an imaginary conversation with the Queen’s private secretary and then called Millie over, saying: ‘I’ve got the Queen on the line, she wants to speak to you’. Millie, by now terrified, was too embarrassed to come to the phone whereupon Anthony, in ever more theatrical stage whispers, started to berate Millie, telling her she would be sent to the Tower of London if he kept the Queen waiting.

In time, of course, Anthony himself became a dad and, to no-one’s surprise, he was utterly besotted by Tom and Rose. The way Cath tells it he verged on the obsessive: What’s that spot on Rosie’s arm? That other child is already using a knife and fork – why isn’t Tom? Has Tom learnt to kick a ball yet? Will he ever play for Chelsea?

He was besotted by Cath too and I was always interested in the story of how they first got together. Cath was, after all, a good friend of Jo’s from university. Dangerous, surely, for Anthony to make a play for his sister’s friend and risk humiliation.

Jackie claims she was the matchmaker, telling Anthony that Cath was really fond of him and then, unbeknownst to Anthony, telling Cath that Anthony had a crush on her. ‘But he was pretty hooked and seriously determined,’ she remembers.

That’s a Mitchell characteristic, by the way, in case you didn’t know.

Rebecca concludes: ‘Whatever tactics he chose, I am so glad they worked and that in his life Anthony married the woman he loved and with her had two lovely children. I am sure there is much of him in Tom and Rose and he is lucky to have a family that will always cherish them’.

I think we would all agree wholeheartedly with that sentiment.

Anthony leaves behind a wife whose heart has been broken, plagued by daydreams of a future so nonchalantly expected: of football in the park; camping trips; opening Christmas presents; Anthony interrogating Rose’s first boyfriend.

Cath told me: ‘My years with Anthony were the most amazing of my life, filled with the fun only he could bring. It was not always easy – but it was never dull. Life without him will be the hardest challenge I have ever had to face’.

Anthony used that phrase often. ‘Just another challenge,’ he would tell his parents after luring them on another hiking trip in the mountains that couples half their age would have struggled to endure.

I know John and Jackie kept that in mind when, with great bravery, they, like Cath and Jo, trekked to the mangrove swamp in Cameroon where Flight 507 came down on May 5th. (And I should say at this point how grateful all the family are for the amazing support given to them by AP in the weeks after the crash; and I know they wanted me to say that publicly.) The conditions were unimaginable – the smell; the heat; the horrific scene that awaited them – and I know that several times they felt they could not continue.

But each time they wanted to give up they heard Anthony’s voice: ‘Just another challenge, mum and dad’.

Maybe that should be our motto too. Our challenge is to support Anthony’s family in their grief; to remember all that was best about him; to be there for Cath when she needs us; to keep Anthony’s memory alive; and to tell his two children, when they are older, what a remarkable man their father was.

For Anthony’s sake, I’m sure we will all meet that challenge.

by Magnus Temple, Tristan Hughes and Tess Wicksteed, Read at London Funeral

I remember a number of years ago, at a time when birthday’s were still something to celebrate I had a birthday meal with perhaps a dozen, fifteen people. Anthony said to me ‘cor blimey – I’m not sure I could muster up as many friends’. Well Ant, (as I look around me today) I reckon you’re doing pretty well today and that’s not to mention the services already held in Nairobi and Addis – a sign of how many people from different world’s have been in touched and inspired by you.

It’s important to say that the following tribute is a joint effort, written together with Tess and Tristan. We shared two years of living together with Anthony at York University and many adventures since.

This may seem strange for those who first came across Ant in his post-hair, post-fashion incarnation, but when we first met him in York he appeared a rather glamorous figure – he had Paul Smith tops, a large room with a telly, a toastie machine, a credit card (without which I’m sure all of us would’ve starved that first term), and, perhaps even more importantly, a life that he’d already lived before arriving. (Anthony had spent a few years in Business and therefore had the priveliged status of a mature student).

He seemed worldly, and worldly-wise, in a way that the rest of us – more of less straight from school – weren’t. And yet worldly-wise with Ant never translated as world-weary – in fact quite the opposite. The experience of being at university, which perhaps the rest of us took slightly for granted, Anthony embraced with a passionate, wide-eyed enthusiasm – with a kind of infectious wonder. If Ant was going to argue about French and German philosophy until five in morning, he’d do so not to show or prove he was clever but simply because he wanted to understand it more. And that made it OK for us too.

Anthony made learning and education seem like a gift, a boon, an excitement (which I’m sure had a great deal to do with the influence of his mother, Jackie) and we owe him so much for that. Ant had such an extraordinary openness to things, a wish to see them honestly, as they really were – outside of any cant, hypocrisy, pretension, or worthiness that might surround them. It made him a terrific student and journalist, but it was also simply who he was.

The pattern that first brought Anthony to us – of bold and brave changes, of new directions taken and experiences embraced – was to be repeated over the whole time we knew him. Whether as a Fleet Street journalist, with a new life in Africa, as a husband and a father, he brought the same energy and passion to bear. Ant never did anything in half measures. If there was a wind to sail close to, he’d be hoisting up the sails.

It made life with him an adventure. Things happened when you were with Ant, you just never knew where you’d end up – and I’m sure we’ve all got our own anecdotes about the times we spent with him – for me too many memories to pick a single one – and besides which many wouldn’t be suitable to repeat in . But I remember vividly that feeling you got when you went out with Ant – that sense of excitement and slight trepidation, the knowledge that the next few hours (and maybe days) would be possibly dangerous, always thrilling, certainly different than your average Tuesday night out down the pub.

I cannot say how much I’ll miss Ant’s company: his sharp, mischievious, mocking wit, his often unsettling candour, his enormous, hilarious sense of fun, his unflinching loyalty to the people he loved, his self-deprecating generosity of spirit – if you were interested in something then Anthony would share that interest, if you were doing something he’d want to know about it – all the while keeping his own successes and achievements almost unmentioned.

After 17 years of knowing him, I can confidently say that one minute with Ant was the same as at least ten with anyone else. Ant years were like pet years – they were more compact, concentrated, and intensely lived than normal ones. So by my calculation the half a life he lived was the equivalent to many other whole ones.

But with Anthony in Africa, those times spent together were less frequent. Visiting him in Addis three years ago – I remember a wonderful couple of days driving out to hike down the crater of a volcano – relishing every minute of his company – knowing even then that time together was so precious. How much more precious it seems now.

And of course we didn’t have enough time. After all the other transformations we’d seen him go through we were still getting to know him in new ways, in new incarnations – inspiring journalist, loving husband and a doting, adoring father. We all wanted to see what else he’d become.

Anthony became a friend at a point in our lives when we were young and unformed and open enough for that friendship to not just influence us but to help us become who we are. The road we will not continue to take together is the greatest loss.

But memory has the power of preserving friendship – and as we grow older, Anthony will be with us, his passion, wit and love of life unforgotten and undiminished, with us always.

Read at London Funeral

I am about to do something that would have made Anthony unhappy.

You see, in December and January, when the war in Somalia was raging, we were all putting in 16 hour days and taking turns editing stories from out stringer reports.

The lead editor that day would have to process information from 10 different sources and write it up into one story, with someone else’s name on it just to add to the trauma.

At the end of one these days, I said to Anthony he had done a great job. He looked at me, sneered, and said, “I hate it when you say things like that.

Today, I can’t help it. I have some good things to say about Anthony Mitchell.

Anthony was a courageous, thoughtful and compassionate correspondent, though he would have you believe otherwise. He would like you to think of him as a little bit of a coward, but then would turn around and risk his life for a story.

When others were unwilling to stand up, Anthony never turned away from a challenge, and he never failed to report the truth to the rest of the world.

In Ethiopia, one top government official repeatedly called him in and made him stand in front of his desk like an unruly pupil while he lectured Anthony, making veiled – and some not-so-veiled – threats.

But Anthony never let up. He knew his job was to witness and testify, because if he didn’t, often times, nobody else would.
When government thugs intimidated voters, he was there. When opposition leaders proved incompetent, he was there.

When diplomats tried to hide their true opinions, he was there. He scored scoops and broke the news and did it with intelligence, compassion and diligence.

He continued his amazing work in Kenya, mixing the serious with the farcical, the irreverent with the sincere.

He was perhaps one of the best reporters I’ve ever known. Anthony was at ease covering disaster in Somalia, politics in Ethiopia and male Massai fashion models in Kenya.

If you don’t believe me, take a look at this. These are all of the condolence messages I had received by Wednesday night. They are still coming in from around the world, from every continent, from friends and strangers, co-workers and distant admirers, diplomats and rebel leaders.

Let me read from one especially moving tribute; it comes from Andrew England, now Middle East correspondent for the Financial Times but who worked with Anthony in Kenya and Ethiopia and became a good friend.

He described Anthony as: ‘A WONDERFUL COCKTAIL OF HUMOUR, CYNICISM AND GENEROSITY, A GREAT FRIEND WHO WOULD ALWAYS TOP MY LIST FOR A BEER AND A YARN.
WHEN SOME OF US TURNED UP AS JOURNALISTS IN AFRICA —, LIKE ME —, WE WERE NAIVE AND INEXPERIENCED, AND SAW NAIROBI AS A CHANCE TO PROVE OURSELVES. OTHERS CAME WITH NOTIONS OF CHANGING THE WORLD.
BUT WHEN ANTHONY ARRIVED HE WAS ALREADY A FLEET STREET VETERAN. I LEARNT HUGE AMOUNTS FROM HIM AS HE PROVIDED INSIGHTS AND EXPERIENCE FEW OTHERS I’VE MET IN AFRICA HAVE BEEN ABLE TO OFFER. HE NEVER CLAIMED TO BE HERE ON SOME MORAL CRUSADE, HE WAS SIMPLY DOING WHAT HE LOVED, WHICH I FOUND INCREDIBLY REFRESHING.
ONE OF ANTHONY’S ENDURING QUALITIES WAS TO AMUSE AND STRIKE FRIENDSHIPS EVEN AS HE WAS TEARING YOU TO SHREDS.
RECALLING OUR TIME TOGETHER, THE DETAILS SOMETIMES SEEMED A LITTLE VAGUE.
IN PART I GUESS IT WAS BECAUSE OUR EVENINGS OFTEN ENDED IN A BOOZY BLUR WITH NEITHER OF US QUITE SURE WHAT HAD BEEN SAID. BUT I ALSO REALISED IT WAS BECAUSE JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING ANTHONY DID WAS LACED WITH HUMOUR AND HIS CUTTING WIT WAS DELIVERED WITH SUCH SPEED AND PRECISION THE REST OF US WERE LEFT TRAILING IN HIS WAKE. THERE SIMPLY WAS NEVER A DULL MOMENT, EVEN IF HE SOMETIMES SENT US SCURRYING FOR COVER.
AND BENEATH THE CYNICISM, ANTHONY CARED DEEPLY. I WAS TOLD THE OTHER DAY THAT HE USED TO GIVE A MONTHLY ALLOWANCE TO A BLOKE WITH NO LEGS WHO SAT ON THE ROADSIDE NEAR HIS HOUSE. APPARENTLY THE MAN WASN’T A BEGGAR, JUST SOMEBODY WHO WOULD SIT IN THE SUN AND WATCH THE WORLD PASS BY.
I STARTED TO THINK ABOUT THIS AND IT OCCURRED TO ME THAT IF THE MAN HAD BEEN BEGGING, ANTHONY WOULD HAVE MADE HIM TAKE OFF HIS TROUSERS JUST TO BE SURE. HE REALLY DIDN’T HAVE ANY LEGS AND WASN’T TRYING TO PULL A FAST ONE.
IN ETHIOPIA, ANTHONY BECAME PASSIONATELY INVOLVED IN THE ISSUES THAT WERE TEARING THAT COUNTRY APART. HE WAS ALSO IMMENSELY GENEROUS AND WOULD OFFER ADVICE AND CONTACTS HE HAD WORKED TIRELESSLY TO ACQUIRE TO JOURNALISTS HE BARELY KNEW.
HE WAS QUICK TO HEAP PRAISE ON OTHER PEOPLE’S STORIES, PARTLY BECAUSE OF HIS PROFESSIONALISM, BUT ALSO BECAUSE HE WAS GENUINELY HAPPY WHEN A FRIEND ENJOYED SUCCESS’.

(Chris resumes here)

Despite all of the praise for his journalism, Anthony was kind, generous and self-effacing.

And how he made us laugh.

Anthony had a razor sharp wit, and after a couple of drinks, beware falling into his gaze.

He would mercilessly tease you until everyone, including you, was rolling on the floor in laughter at your expense.

And Anthony loved his family.

Too many people are great at their jobs, but at a cost. Not Anthony. I have never known a more devoted son, husband or father.

He could drive them crazy at times, but his love for them was palpable,like a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day.

In the last two weeks, I have come to know Catherine and his parents, Jackie and John. They are brave and resilient in the face of adversity, just as Anthony would expect.

I admire their fortitude and now understand where Anthony got his.

Lastly, Anthony could also make a claim that every reporter wish they could: he saved lives with a story.

When dozens of Muslims, some women and children, from 19 countries were arrested by Kenya authorities only to later disappear, Anthony went looking for them. He traced them to holding centers in Somalia and eventually to prisons in Ethiopia, where the government denied their existence.

Anthony kept digging and with the help of other AP reporters, eventually proved these people were in Ethiopian custody and that U.S. interrogators were talking to them.

This forced the Ethiopian and the U.S. governments to come clean and Admit what was going on. I shudder to think what would have happened to them if Anthony hadn’t written that story.

By Tony Hickey

Since John Graham has told this story at the remembrance service for Anthony, I thought I should add some more detail, and supply a photo.

It was April 2005, the obelisk was coming back, but the Italians kept postponing its departure from Rome. Rumours were flying around, some people felt that the delays were deliberate, to sabotage the celebrations by ensuring there was no media coverage – international journalists couldn’t afford to hang around in Axum, great place though it is, indefinitely.

The “it’s on it’s off” carry on meant that we – the media, the obelisk committee, various officials and others – were up and down to Axum like the proverbial “hoor’s knickers”.

Finally it seemed that the great day had arrived – we’d heard the plane had taken off and was due in at around 0530 the following morning.

The night before it’s arrival, Anthony, Tefera Ghedamu and myself went out on a pub crawl of Axum’s night clubs. There were a number of things I remember about that night. There was the guy who tried to dip into Anthony’s bag in one bar. We were warned by someone else, and then Anthony tried to set me up to fight the pick pocket. There was Anthony holding a 3 foot model of the obelisk positioned in a certain way, which scandalised the bar girls and others. And then there was the incident, captured on film by Tefera, in which Anthony led the bar in a soccer hooligans’ chant of “I stole the obelisk!” He’d told the people in the bar he was Antonio Mussolini, and that he personally had stolen the obelisk. They had no idea what they were saying, but you can see Anthony in the background with a great grin on his face, egging them on, and me about to piss myself laughing.

We left Anthony to walk back to his hotel at about 2.00 am, a few hours later we were all out at the airport to welcome the obelisk back.

Anthony had an irreverent sense of humour, so irreverent that I won’t be posting up some his jokes on this website, but I enjoyed them all.

We talked several times in March, he was calling me about the kidnapping incident in the Afar Region. We joked about that, as we did about most things.

Anthony was a great piss taker, he was scathing about everybody, aid workers, politicians, journalists and the media, me, and himself for that matter. The aid workers at least must have forgiven him, judging by the number of aid organisation vehicles at the memorial service.

The full and unexpurgated version of My Memories of Anthony Mitchell will be prepared for Catherine and family.

That so many people have memories is a measure of the kind of guy he was.

Testimonial delivered by John Graham at a memorial service for Anthony at St Matthew’s Church, Addis Ababa

Catherine, (Tom and Rosie) John and Jackie – thank you for being here today to help us to remember and celebrate Anthony.

I know that I speak for Anthony’s many friends here in Ethiopia when I say that we need this time to express our feelings of sorrow and to give whatever support we can to you, as Anthony’s family.

We have many memories of Anthony in Ethiopia, which I’d like to divide into two broad categories – his sense of humour, and his intense interest in justice and fairness.

Anthony’s serious side was, I think, primed and fully developed in Ethiopia. He came to Ethiopia, I thought a bit reluctantly, out of dedication to Catherine. He’d left behind a settled life as a tabloid journalist for the uncertainties of Ethiopia, but his talent and ambition soon found him hired by the IRIN news service and eventually AP.

Anthony was not the sort of person one normally finds in the aid community – he really hadn’t chosen this life. Therefore it is all the more remarkable that he rose so spectacularly to the challenge.

Many have talked about Anthony’s commitment to political coverage in the tumultuous post election period in Ethiopia – the coverage that got him thrown out of the country. But I like to remember earlier periods of coverage by Anthony, in particular his ground breaking reporting on the emerging famine in the Afar Region in 2002, and his coverage of the overall drought in 2002-03.

Donors and government alike were in denial about the seriousness of the drought in the early stages, but Anthony told it like it was. I remember having a drink with Anthony as he told me about a donor representative who yelled at him that day for exaggerating the drought, and he was mystified that an aid person would get so angry about him simply telling the truth. Anthony had a technical term for these types of people – with apologies to the Bishop – he called him an ‘asshole’.

Of course Anthony was right about the drought and it turned out to be far more serious than any of us expected. There were long months of struggling to get agreement on the response and then the resources to save the 15 million people threatened. Throughout it all, Anthony dug into the story, writing article after article and in many ways single handedly bringing the news to the world.

After this was all over we were having a drink and I told Anthony that he’d done something which was really exceptional – that he had directly contributed to the saving of thousands, if not millions of lives. Typically Anthony would have none of it. I think his response to me was ‘You’re full of crap’. He refused to be self congratulatory, the type of behavior that he uncovered and despised from so many in the government, diplomatic and aid community.

Anthony was tough on himself, but he was also tough on others. Again, over a drink, Anthony told me about one of the many ethnic massacres which have occurred in Ethiopia over the years – this was I think the death of about 70 people in the Tepi area. He pushed me over it, demanding that someone should stand up and say something about this – he couldn’t find anyone to quote about what an outrage it was. If I was such an outspoken NGO person, why wouldn’t I speak out against this atrocity.

I gave the normal line that I had no first hand experience of the event, that our NGO wasn’t even working anywhere near that area, and so I had no legitimacy to say anything about it. I knew that the answer didn’t satisfy Anthony – and that I had disappointed him. That disappointment bothered me – I wanted to be able to live up to Anthony’s high standards – and I’m sure others felt the same way.

His pushes did have results on people, some rose to his challenges. For me, the part of the work I do now on conflict resolution, trying to uncover these terrible ethnic and clan killings and doing something about it, owes much of the inspiration to Anthony.

Anthony had a strong moral compass and high expectations of people – which made him a tough and brilliant journalist. He continued this work after he left Ethiopia, with a widening circle of issues which demanded coverage with Anthony’s special touch.

I spoke to Anthony on the telephone about an hour before he left Ethiopia for the final time, and he was hoping that he would be able to return, but it didn’t happen. I was glad to know that Anthony was out there, even if he wasn’t in Ethiopia, and that Africa would be a better place for his efforts. There is now a large hole where Anthony used to be.

Anthony’s other serious side was his family. He was totally devoted to Catherine – gladly traveling half a globe away to Ethiopia at her request. He was equally if not more devoted to his children – Tom and Rosie. Anthony’s work gave him flexible hours, and more often than not you’d find him at home with Tom as a toddler, spending his quality time during the day.

It may have surprised some to find what a dedicated husband and father Anthony was – his outgoing and social personality made him seem more like a party boy. Because he was so unpretentious, Anthony probably didn’t even think of himself as an especially good father – but those of us who watched him knew he was. Fortunately his two beautiful children got Catherine’s looks rather than his.

When Anthony and Catherine first arrived they were a lively young couple with no kids – always out there and busy and fun. In the midst of the 2002-03 drought in Ethiopia, Catherine and I were working together with Cassandra and many others here at Save the Children (UK), busy and stretched to breaking point.

Catherine had some news for me, which she was very reluctant to break, but she finally screwed up her courage, sat me down, and told me she was pregnant. Because Catherine was so dedicated, her biggest worry was that she was letting the rest of us down, by having to take maternity leave in the midst of a crisis. I knew better. I congratulated Catherine and enfolded her in a big hug.

My first thought was how wonderful an experience Anthony and Catherine were about to have. Catherine didn’t yet understand what I and so many others discovered when we had our first child, that there is nothing more wonderful or important in the world than the family. We would soldier on at Save the Children, doing work which was and is incredibly important. But we would also survive somehow while Catherine and Anthony went through the most important experience of their lives. After they had Tom, I think Catherine had completely changed and was reluctant to leave him and come back to work! Both Catherine and Anthony embraced their family as the most important thing, which it is, and led an even happier and more balanced life because of it.

Anthony and Catherine were a great couple. Both of them were very strong minded and independent. Although Anthony tore a strip off of almost everything and everyone at some point, I never heard him whisper one critical word about Catherine.

Catherine had equal devotion but a somewhat different approach. One time I called her when we were working together at Save the Children, and mentioned that Anthony had been outspoken at a press conference that morning. “God, I wonder what that idiot has said now”, Catherine moaned. We all knew how dedicated Catherine was to Anthony, and that she required the patience of a saint to sustain him in all his crusades. Anthony deeply appreciated it.

Neither my own beliefs nor those of Anthony, I suspect, encourage us to think of Anthony sitting up somewhere watching down on his beautiful wife and children. However I do like to think that the spirit of Anthony lives on and challenges and entertains us still, and this spirit continues in the effect he had on all of us, his friends, but more especially in his beloved family.

So that’s the serious side of Anthony, but there was a very irreverent side as well.

Anthony used to gather with me and other friends for a Friday night after work drink at the Old Milk House. Myself and the three T’s – Tony, Tefera, and Theodros – gathered a week ago Friday at the Milk House to drink a jar to the memory of Anthony. The talk turned to the many jokes and tricks that Anthony loved to play on people.

Tony remembered the time when they were up in Axum for the arrival of the obelisk returned from Italy, and they were, not surprisingly, having a few drinks. Anthony decided that he in fact bore an uncanny resemblance to Mussolini, and he jutted his chin out and declared that he stole the obelisk. Pretty soon he had the entire bar full of Ethiopians, with no idea of what they were saying, chanting with him “I stole the obelisk, I stole the obelisk”. He somehow got out of that one unscathed.

Anthony’s quick mind and ready humor made him a favorite at our house for parties and dinners. We enjoyed the company of John and Jackie at our house as well for a lovely evening. When he was in the right mood, and that was most of the time, he would entertain everyone for hours, with only an occasional prompt to keep him going. We might not remember what had been said the next day, but we had the sore sides to remind us that we had laughed ourselves off our chairs.

At moments like this we should also consider forgiveness. Anthony had one great fault, but I think we should dig deep in our hearts, and absolve him of this terrible error. Anthony was a Chelsea fan. Let us forgive him.

Anthony had a good life. It was too brief, but he accomplished much, created a strong family, and improved the world. We have much to celebrate about our good fortune in knowing, and being touched by Anthony.

John Graham

A from Tsegaye Tadesse at Anthony’s memorial serivce in Addis Ababa

Mrs Mitchell,
Parents and friends of Anthony,
Members of the Diplomatic Corps,
Colleagues,
Ladies and gentlemen,

Permit me , to shed some light on the close working relationship I developed with Anthony Mitchell during his two or so years , he had worked as the correspondent of the Associated Press in Ethiopia.

The late Anthony Mitchell, was a colleague and a friend and a fearless and outstanding journalist.

When I first met him, I thought he was one of those Afro-pessimists , who looked down on people of the African descent and distanced myself from him.

I was mistaken.

As I found later, he was a good natured man, open hearted with a gift of an outstanding human relations.

Our friendship was based on mutual interest .He found out that I maintained strong local contacts and could get news earlier than he was getting.

Further more, since most breaking news in Ethiopia were being released on state TV , in the Amharic service in the evening, and I was translating and reporting the news the same evening , Anthony was desperate , he could not match my story because of language barrier.

Smart as he was , Anthony developed a mechanism in which we could forge close working relationship with me. He proposed to exchange information on professional and reciprocal basis. I gave him a story at least after half on hour I dispatched the item to my head office and he was doing the same when ever he got one.

Anthony , the smartest journalist beat me on my on turf.

My first field trip with Anthony was to Badme, a flash point of the 1998-2000 Ethiopia-Eritrea border war. Because I am an Ethiopian , he was suspicious that whatever story I plan to write would be biased against Eritrea and accused me
openly.

I lost my cool and began lecturing him on professionalism and journalistic ethnics which I cherish as my guiding principles. He was not convinced , but kept quiet.

We both wrote stories on our trip ,including interviews of the residents of Badme, UNMEE officials and soldiers on the frontline. After he read what I wrote, he called me to meet him for a cup of coffee at Hilton. Anthony did not hold back , he jumped from a chair and hugged me with words of apology.That was Anthony, a fearless and honest man.

On another occasion, we went on a reporting trip to the Ogaden.The area which we was about to visit was a rebel-infested one
While we were relaxing at Gode , the regional capital, before our trip, I mentioned to Anthony that , in case we were kidnapped by the rebels, they may kill me because I am an Ethiopian, but they won’t kill you , they may hold you for a few days for propaganda purposes and would release you.They have done it before , I said.

His response is still vivid and lives with me for ever. ”Listen old man, we either live or die together.I will never abandon my comrades at such times.That was not how I was brought up”, he said.

One day some two years ago, Anthony failed to call me the whole day. He was not answering his telephone.This scared me and kept on calling him every hour. Finally he answered and received a barrage of insults from me .

Cool down old man , I was in hospital , my wife gave birth to a baby boy, he said.

I congratulated him and asked him what name he plans to give to junior. Do you have a suggestion he asked?, Yes I have , Why don’t you call him Dusty , after the area you live in. Aware means dusty. He laughed.

Anthony has served as treasurer of the Foreign Correspondents Association in Ethiopia.His aim was to develop the association into a professional organization capable to serve the interest and capacity of working journalist in Ethiopia.

On his professionalism, I would like to quote a statement attributed to his brother-in-law , Tim Jotischky who said,” Anthony was a bloody good hack.who loved his job and Africa. He was really a brilliant journalist , he had very strong principles and was fearless.”

To his wife Catherine and his children TOM (DUSTY) and Rose , his parents and family I would like to express my deep felt condolences on behalf of myself and members of the foreign correspondents Association.

THANK YOU

From the Press Gazette

Anthony Mitchell died when Kenyan Airways Flight 507 plunged into a mangrove swamp in Cameroon on 5 May.

Based in Nairobi, he had become one of southern Africa’s most respected journalists since leaving the Daily Express six years ago.

He was working for Associated Press when he died, aged 39, leaving wife Catherine and children, Tom, three, and one-year-old Rose.

Close friend Oliver Harvey, The Sun’s chief feature writer, remembers him.

He would have said: “Spin it up; just make me look great.”

The truth, at the end of Anthony Mitchell’s his short life, was that he didn’t need any help being remembered as a wonderful journalist, father or friend.

The one-time Fleet Street pub raconteur had become a devoted family man and latterly one of Africa’s finest journalists. After his death, a syndicated column across the USA headlined his obituary “A Shining Light Goes Out in Africa”.

Anthony – his humour Sahara-dry – would have laughed hysterically. Yet it highlighted the high regard in which his fearless reporting was held. It saw him expelled a year ago from his adopted homeland of Ethiopia for reporting its government’s brutality.

“Only last month his exclusive report on the illegal detention of terror suspects in Ethiopian prisons not only made global headlines, but also saved lives.

Surrey scoops It all began about as far away from the mangrove swamps of Africa as you could get – at the sleepy, suburban Richmond and Twickenham Times.

Born in Chertsey, Surrey, to John and Jackie Mitchell, Anthony had followed big sister Jo Jotischky into journalism in 1993, after graduating in philosophy and politics from York University.

His contemporary Thomas Whitaker – now at The Sun – remembers Anthony discovering that Hounslow Council had charged white groups to use a local hall while for Asian groups it was free. Another splash revealed how a councillor had built an extension without planning permission.

Thomas remembers: “Both stories sat uneasy with our management, being a bit too ‘red-top’ for us. The truth is that they were excellent.”

Anthony soon headed for the London-based National News Agency, where I first met him.

Irreverent and razor sharp, he relished the cut and thrust of tabloid reporting and the dark arts of Fleet Street.

Photographer Jeff Moore remembers being sent to confront a “dirty” doctor with Anthony. As the doctor returned home carrying his shopping, he saw Jeff’s camera and stuck the bag on his head.

Tins of beans rolled down the street and the doctor’s wife rushed out of the house to attack Jeff with a broom.

Jeff said: “Anthony came to the rescue and grappled with the doctor’s wife as they both rolled around on the tins of beans. It became one of his pub anecdotes.”

He also joined the National football team – electing himself centre forward, naturally. He was actually pretty good for the first 30 minutes, before the booze and fags began to tell.

After a day of doorsteps, we adjourned to The Fox in Old Street to keep the adrenaline flowing. Anyone who has been on a night out with Anthony knows what a white-knuckle ride it could be.

A showman and brilliant conversationalist, he perfected the uncanny art of ripping someone to shreds yet making them like him all the same. He loved a reaction, any reaction.

He was also happy to laugh at himself. A drag queen strippergram sent to humiliate him on his stag do was himself left embarrassed when Anthony stripped off the man’s sequined dress and wig and began cavorting around the pub, refusing to give the clothes back.

After a year at National, Anthony moved to the Daily Express in 1996, making his name with a six-week stint in Kosovo and Macedonia.

The desk had asked Anthony to find an injured Kosovan girl in a 25,000-strong German-run refugee camp. Anthony saw the Germans used loudhailers at the camp, so he found one, and began walking around the tents shouting the girl’s name.

A German patrol raced over to Anthony and demanded he stop using his megaphone. Anthony turned around and barked through his megaphone: “Go away and let me do my job.”

He refused to talk to Germans unless he was using his megaphone. Bemused, they eventually let him get on with it. Anthony, of course, found the girl and got a great show in the paper.

On another occasion, working with photographer Jonathan Buckmaster, he beat his way through the jungles of Sierra Leone to find Pinky, a white chimpanzee. “I don’t know if it was the shock of being interviewed by Anthony, but Pinky died a few days afterwards,” Jonathan remembers.

Off to Africa Then, long-term girlfriend Catherine Fitzgibbon was posted to Ethiopia to work with the Goal aid agency.

Anthony gave up his beloved Fleet Street in 2001 for a fresh start in Africa, working as a freelance. He soon married Cath – who went on to work for Save the Children – his undoubted rock who anchored him to reality.

Shortly after, I visited him and we took a guide, a guard and mulers trekking for a week in the remote Simian mountains.

Waking early on the first morning, I opened the tent flaps to see Anthony – swigging from a bottle of the local firewater – drilling the men military-style in the local Amharic language. Africa had got under his skin.

He loved the wildness and unpredictability of Africa. In Addis Ababa, he had a large circle of friends and journalistic contacts – he was soon filing for The Times, Guardian and Telegraph and landed a job at Associated Press.

Grilling Geldof On a trip to Ethiopia with Bob Geldof, I joined Anthony as we followed the Live Aid hero around Aids clinics. Anthony – by now an expert on African geopolitics – asked Geldof an intricate and testing question about the effects of Live Aid cash.

Geldof spun round and retorted: “What’s it to you, slaphead?” Later Geldof asked who Anthony was, admitting he “knew his stuff”.

Anthony then helped me find Birhan Woldu – the girl seen dying on the big screens at the original Live Aid – in northern Ethiopia.

It led to a meeting with Tony Blair who was visiting Addis – me in a suit borrowed from Anthony – and saw the relaunch of the Band Aid single, earning £12 million, and later the Live 8 concerts.

Returning alone to Addis Ababa, by plane, Anthony later told how the flight had taken off, then both engines had cut out and the plane had glided, slowly, back to the runway. He just laughed it off.

By now, his dogged reporting style, honed on the tabloids in Britain, was bearing fruit on stories that really mattered. During the 2005 election, Anthony repeatedly uncovered government efforts to influence the vote’s outcome and obtained secret European Union reports that detailed allegations of rigging.

Expulsion In January 2006, the Ethiopian authorities gave him just 24 hours to leave the country that had become home. His expulsion attracted widespread condemnation from human rights groups and was front-page news there.

Ian Gallagher, a close friend from his Express days, said: “He was threatened, arrested, bugged and followed by police. Despite being in great danger, he persisted in exposing government lies. That took real courage. He always made light of his talent and achievements.”

Relocating to Nairobi with his family, he became one of the continent’s most dogged newsmen. AP dispatched him to Somalia, Djibouti and, finally, the Central African Republic.

“Anthony was an extraordinarily talented and dedicated journalist,” said Tom Curley, AP’s president and chief executive. “His loss will be deeply felt by anyone who cares about Africa and its future.”

His last scoop was discovering markets that sold elephant meat and gorillas to international smugglers.

To many of his family and friends it came as some solace that he died with his journalistic boots on.

His wife Cath said: “He lived life to the full and died doing the job he loved. He was a fantastic father and husband.”

If there is such a thing as a journalistic Valhalla, Anthony will be centre-stage at the bar tonight bragging of past scoops. Waiting for the newsdesk call to send him on the next one.

Memories of Anthony, its trickier then you first think, particularly if you are trying to come up with memories for the children. But I’ve decided to give up trying too hard to think of ‘appropriate’ memories and let the ones closest to the surface spill out.

For some reason, one of my strongest memories was sitting in the Arsenal Bar watching football. Presumably it was Chelsea vs. Arsenal but to be honest I can’t actually remember apart from the fact it was definitely Chelsea. The bar was full with well behaved supporters who were favouring Arsenal but were applauding good play by either team – in a way which admittedly confuses any British football supporter. I’m guessing it was a strained match, but finally (from Anthony’s perspective) Chelsea scored. Anthony immediately jumped up, stuck his face close to some unsuspecting Arsenal supporter, arms out front, two fingers out on each hand and expressed what he thought of their support for the opposition. The bar was silent. Hysterical!!!

I also remember bumping into Anthony at the Sheraton, he was in the process of buying flowers to say thank you to someone at the Embassy – that someone having helped to negotiate his release after an incident outside an opposition member’s house. ‘I thought I better buy her flowers, she might have to do it again.’ He and his colleagues had been assaulted by the police, but Anthony (although I may be projecting here) was wearing his bruises as a badge of honour. Anthony often managed to rub the expat crowd up the wrong way. We were often so smug, thinking that because we kind of wanted to do good then we must be; and how Anthony loved to prick that bubble late of an evening and challenge us on our priorities, point out how our agencies (and ourselves) turned a blind eye to human rights abuses and so on. In the post election period in Ethiopia Anthony, therefore, suddenly found himself in the unusual position of being everyone’s hero. All those ferengies who usually found themselves uncomfortable in his presence would suddenly gush and tell him how fantastic he was. He showed unusual forbearance.

And then Anthony was kicked out. I wrote to him to try and work out what kind of advocacy I could be doing on his behalf; whether there were any buttons he could think of that I should try and push on his behalf. I was feeling, and being, pretty useless. His response was blasé about himself, but came in with a request to look out for Catherine. And that is all I can imagine him requesting now:

“I would appreciate the odd call to Cath, just to check she is ok but I am sure she is bearing up fine”.

From the author of the blog Ethiopian Politics

Simply put, Anthony Mitchell has single handedly restored our (Ethiopians) confidence in foreign journalists.