Although I am not a journalist -- nor claim to be one -- I occasionally write on international affairs, and more rarely, on domestic matters. I cannot pretend to fully grasp how a professional journalist’s mind works. Yet, I feel compelled to share some reflections prompted by a group photograph published in a popular vernacular newspaper not too long ago -- an image that left me deeply unsettled.
Journalism is among the noblest of professions. At its best, it speaks truth to power and gives voice to the voiceless. But it is also a calling fraught with peril. Across the world, journalists have risked -- and lost -- their lives in pursuit of truth. Many who reported from the living hell of Gaza in recent years may have escaped drone surveillance, but not the bullets that silenced them. These fallen reporters are among the true heroes of our time -- those who held the pen like a sword and chose principle over safety.
In stark contrast, the image I saw -- since quietly removed -- was troubling. It showed the beaming, long-serving editor of a leading newspaper receiving a flower bouquet from a small group that included a controversial industrialist turned politician, with a history of political opportunism and alleged manipulation of media platforms.
The image wasn’t just distasteful -- it was symptomatic of a deeper malaise. It reflected the creeping intimacy between segments of our media and power-linked actors, at a time when journalism should be purging itself of such complicity. I attempted to retrieve the photo but failed; perhaps it was removed out of belated good sense.
Bangladesh has known courageous journalists who paid dearly for their integrity. Tofazzal Hossain, Manik Miah, Monsur Ahmed, Shahidul Alam, Nurul Kabir, Saleem Samad, and many others command our respect. They faced jail, torture, and threats -- but stood firm. Tragically, they were often forsaken by the very society they sought to enlighten. The unresolved murder of journalist couple Sagar and Runi remains a chilling reminder of our collective failure to protect those who seek truth.
Over the past 16 years of Sheikh Hasina’s authoritarian rule, most of the journalistic community -- barring a principled few -- opted for silence or complicity. Leading dailies became mouthpieces of the regime, with editors functioning more as enablers than watchdogs. A new term emerged in our political vocabulary: Lespencer -- referring to journalists who serve the powerful rather than the public.
Today, some of these very individuals, without a trace of introspection, have begun championing democracy and advising the interim government. Others eagerly parrot foreign narratives, still clinging to their old loyalty over the nation’s interests.
There are, however, global examples of journalistic courage that continue to inspire. Names like Bob Woodward, Walter Cronkite, Robert Fisk, Dahr Jamail, Christiane Amanpour, Oriana Fallaci, Shireen Abu Akleh, Kuldip Nayar, Khushwant Singh, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Maliha Lodhi, Hamid Mir, Mahmudur Rahman, Shahidul Alam, and Shafiqul Islam Kajol remind us that integrity is possible -- even under pressure. These individuals did not bend, whether in the face of threat or enticement. Sadly, such figures have become rare in Bangladesh’s media landscape.
While researching journalist persecution, I discovered that since 1992, 13 journalists have been killed in Bangladesh -- excluding the many who died during our War of Liberation. In Pakistan, between 2012 and 2022, 53 journalists were killed. In India, since the early 1990s, the number stands at 29. These are sobering figures.
What troubles me more is the erosion of journalistic ethics at home. Our media landscape today is dominated by self-interest, selective courage, and careerism. Years of repression have conditioned many into self-censorship. Yet that does not explain their double standards -- aggressive when targeting the powerless, silent when confronting the powerful. There’s no gainsaying that the enthusiastic support shown by some of our media outlets for Sheikh Hasina contributed to the creation of a cult of personality around her -- one that ultimately enabled her to indulge in the nefarious activities she later carried out.
Even Western media, once revered, has faltered. Its coverage of Israel-Palestine often reveals glaring double standards. I still remember how BBC’s reporting on Bangladesh’s Liberation War in 1971 gave us moral strength and international attention. That same BBC today often chooses strategic silence, undermining its own legacy.
Which brings me back to the photograph that sparked these reflections.
The editor, whom I have long known, was being felicitated for receiving a prestigious international award. But the presence of the said industrialist and politician in that celebratory moment left a bitter aftertaste. Just days before Sheikh Hasina’s fall from power, this gentleman had unabashedly declared his devotion to her in a public gathering of business leaders with theatrical fervour. Such sycophancy might have been comical if it weren’t such a vivid symptom of the culture of unprincipled loyalty that has long poisoned our public life.
So I wonder: Whom should I hold more accountable -- the editor, for allowing such symbolic proximity, or the businessman for once again inserting himself into an opportunistic moment?
With full respect to my journalist friends, I offer this not as an indictment but as a heartfelt appeal. Journalism is a sacred trust. As it holds power accountable, it must itself be open to scrutiny. Without integrity, press freedom becomes an empty slogan. Without accountability, journalism turns into a mirror of vanity, not a lens of truth.
In the end, history will not remember those who found comfort in silence. It will remember those who dared to speak -- especially when the truth was most inconvenient.
Ashraf ud Doula is a freedom fighter, a retired secretary and a former ambassador.
