Why Newsrooms Forget Their Own
A recent article by celebrated journalist Vishveshwara
Bhat highlighting how journalists are often denied meaningful acknowledgment in
the very papers they serve has sparked overdue introspection. The issue is not
sentiment but institutional memory. Reporters and editors who document the
lives of others frequently exit without a proper record of their own
contribution. In an industry built on remembrance and public record, the quiet
passing of its practitioners raises an uncomfortable but necessary question
about newsroom values.
By Sharan Kumar
The newsroom is a strange battlefield. Names are built
there, reputations forged, governments rattled, scams exposed, heroes made and
unmade. Yet when one of its own falls, the silence can be louder than any
headline. Inspired by a deeply reflective piece by Vishweshwar Bhat, this
article examines an uncomfortable truth of modern journalism: the journalist
who chronicled history often exits without a proper line in it.
A journalist may spend decades inside the engine room
of a newspaper. He files from floods, riots, elections, scandals and funerals
of the famous. He rescues editions on chaotic nights, plugs gaps when systems
fail, mentors cub reporters, and at times helps management steer through crises
that threaten the publication itself. But when his own story ends, the paper he
served may acknowledge it with a brief item, a corner note, or sometimes not at
all.
In many newsrooms there exists an unwritten rule that
the death of a journalist is not news. At best, it earns a small single column
brief. At worst, it is treated like any other anonymous incident unless the
individual held a top editorial post or enjoyed public celebrity. The paradox
is stark. Those who decided every day what deserved space are themselves denied
it.
The practice is often defended as editorial
discipline. Newspapers argue that they must avoid appearing self-absorbed.
Readers, they say, expect public interest news, not internal mourning. There is
also the question of consistency. If one staffer receives a tribute, what about
others? Rather than define fair criteria, some organizations eliminate the
category entirely.
But restraint can easily drift into indifference.
Journalism is not a factory line of interchangeable
parts. It is a craft built on judgment, courage, memory and voice. A seasoned
reporter carries decades of context and instinct. An editor quietly shapes
public understanding. Recognizing such contributions at the end of a life is
not indulgence. It is institutional honesty.
There have been painful instances where even
long-serving journalists received no meaningful obituary in their own
publications. Colleagues have sometimes pooled money to publish paid obituary
advertisements because the paper would not carry a staff tribute as editorial
content. The irony is hard to ignore. Those who filled columns for years must
purchase space to say farewell to one of their own.
Behind this culture lies the commodification of news
space. Every inch is measured against revenue. Tributes do not trend.
Obituaries do not attract advertising unless they are paid notices. In tightly
controlled corporate structures, sentiment rarely survives budget logic.
There is also a moral dimension. Journalism asks
society to remember. Anniversaries, death centenaries, tribute features and
legacy pieces are routine editorial exercises. To deny that same courtesy
within weakens the profession’s ethical core. Respect cannot be only outward
facing.
A reporter’s final dateline should not dissolve into
blank space. A sub editor’s last edit should not be silence. When a journalist
dies, it is more than a personal loss. It is the closing of a lived archive and
the quiet departure of a working part of democratic machinery.
Newspapers write the first draft of history each
morning. They should not forget to write a few honest lines about the people
who held the pen.
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