Author: Marilena Zigka

Joshua Yang 

I’ve always considered journalism to be a form of addiction masquerading as a respectable career option or, even worse, a praiseworthy service to society. Some people with an addict’s mindset take up overworking; there are also those who prefer to take up drinking, and those who might even take up gambling — but the least fortunate of them all are those who decide to take up reporting. In truth, having tried my hand at all of the aforementioned activities, I’m sorry to say I nonetheless fall squarely into the last category. 

Journalism as an addiction works like this. I stumble around a foreign environment — in this particular instance, the city of Berlin — not just as a clueless outsider, but (worse still!) as a clueless, American outsider. I chase leads, I email sources, I visit sites; I search for an elusive thread that, once tugged on with sufficient amounts of force, will unravel into a narrative worth publishing. 

As the hours turn into days, and the days turn into empty notebooks and unresponsive contacts, the symptoms begin to take root. The fear of failure, the anxiety of underperformance, the throbs of ennui — all of these cloud my mind until I feel quite literally nauseous. 

At some point, when I am on the verge of defeat (and perhaps on the verge of quitting journalism entirely), I manage to drag myself to one last interview. Of course, this is exactly the moment when a minor miracle occurs. I meet a source, I find a promising lead, I have a story — and I am euphoric. In a single instance, my faith in the reporting process returns in a dizzying rush; I wonder why I ever doubted myself, even though I know I’ll go back to doubting myself in a few more weeks’ time. 

This happened to me today. After weeks of emailing, calling, and WhatsApp’ing my way into a thicket of dead ends, I decided to show up unannounced at Tempelhof, a former airport that once hosted the Berlin Airlift and now serves as a long-term shelter for refugees from the Middle East, Ukraine, and beyond. I was expecting to be turned away or ignored by residents, but to my surprise, I soon ran into groups of Ukrainian refugees who welcomed my presence. Over bowls of buckwheat porridge and vividly violet borscht, I asked meaningful questions and received meaningful responses — among the first I felt like I had gotten all trip long. I ended up staying for hours, and I left Tempelhof giddy and exhilarated. 

I should mention here that today was notable for a different reason: This morning, I turned twenty years old. Around 6 p.m., as the day wrapped up, my mom asked me if I had celebrated my birthday. “No, I was just working,” I responded. “But today was really productive.” 

Actually, this is one of the best birthdays I could have asked for. For most of my teenage years, I felt like I was hurtling toward a life I didn’t really want; I was just another kid growing up in the California suburbs, unhappily imagining following my parents into a soulless software engineering career. To be able to spend my first day as a twenty-year-old interviewing refugees in Berlin instead — to feel all the highs and lows of this addiction I’d chosen for myself, and to understand the value of my work with that much more certainty — feels like an incredible blessing. 

And, in the end, my friends and I did manage to squeeze in time to celebrate. In lieu of a cake, my friends bought me a single donut; in lieu of a candle, they bought me a pack of cigarettes. We stumbled out of the bar shortly before 1 a.m., splashing in the puddles on the sidewalk outside and feeling our cheeks chapping in the frigid air. I stared out into Berlin, taking in the dark streets and the dull blue glow of the nearby U-Bahn sign. 

When I turned thirteen, I couldn’t stomach the idea of life going on as it did. When I turned twenty, I wanted the rest of my life to be like it was today — unspooling in this direction, day after day, and into the years.

The first lesson of International Relations 101 – whose Princeton equivalent, POL 240, for some reason, evades the typical 100-level nomenclature – is that the world exists in a state of anarchy. With its etymological origins in the ancient Greek words αν, the prefix denoting absence, and άρχον, the noun for leader, anarchy in international relations describes the lack of a global sovereign. But anarchy also means chaos. In 2022, Ukrainian villages and cities, once homes to graying couples and TikTok teens, turned into shaded regions in operational maps as the entire country morphed into a battlefield. This week’s assigned material pokes holes at the veil of chaos that covered Ukraine after the Russian invasion.

The BBC top-down analysis included a commentary by Professor Timothy Garton Ash of Oxford University which framed the Ukraine war as a contest of worldviews. Connecting current events to critical points of disjuncture in European history, namely the 1945 Yalta conference and the 1975 Helsinki Final Act, Ash interprets this war as a competition between the Yalta world of spheres of influence, and Helsinki’s world of transnational democratic solidarity. Though the conflict in Ukraine is itself unprecedented, it is underpinned by timeless items of the European geopolitical agenda. Allan Little’s piece was overall focused on high politics; yet, the closing paragraph quoting former Defense Secretary Rober McNamara, made me realize just how little actual control exists over a war. “Robert McNamara explained how the world had avoided destroying itself. Was it skilled diplomacy? Wise leadership? No. “Luck,” he said. “We lucked out.” These phrases made me wonder how lucky we have been during this war. Has a nuclear catastrophe already been averted? And how much longer will our luck last? 

As a student of geopolitics, delving deeper into the worlds of Hobbes, Grotius, and Kant, often means seeing the real world grow increasingly distant. History, not the one with a capital H, but rather ordinary narratives, is often overlooked. It is accounts like Munachi and Alyona’s as presented on the This American Life podcast or reports like Lindsey Hilsum’s that can restore humanity, this time with a capital H, both in the study and conduct of international affairs. Those two pieces made the story of Ukraine personal. They also humanized it, and for me, the way they did that was through the use of humor. Conventional conflict coverage tends to focus on the grimmest and most brutal aspects of wars (which are obviously necessary to document so that justice can be pursued in the future). But scenes like the one in the WBEZ prologue where the dog pees on the Russian tank, or when Katia, refers to Zelensky as a sex symbol and his speech as ASMR for Westerners, or when Munachi says “I’m not a refugee bro, maybe you are, but not me,” and even when the hospitalized boy writes “‘Putin is a dick!’” on his iPad, stood out. Not only did they offer comedic relief, but importantly they were a portal to our shared humanity. They make the reader realize that Ukrainians are not unidimensional characters, mere protagonists in a faraway tragedy, but people just like us. People who still crack jokes.

Sulzberger calls for a Lippmanian approach to journalism, whereby “journalists do not serve a cause no matter how good.” But instead of merely stressing objectivity, the Times publisher emphasizes journalistic independence. The ability to craft stories that state all the facts and recognize uncertainty, stories that allow readers to see the full picture for themselves is critical for the survival of liberal democracies. Classic political theory tells us that liberal democratic polities require dynamic consensus-building, dialogue, and disagreement to endure. In this ecosystem, journalists do not pose as mere stenographers of the dominant narrative; rather, as Sulzberger mentions, their role is to “challenge and complicate consensus with smart questions and new information.” There is no Hippocratic oath for journalism, but Sulzberger’s commitment to following the facts, embracing uncertainty, and being ready to “exonerate someone deemed a villain or interrogate someone regarded as a hero” should be the guiding axiom of every media professional. In the contemporary hyperpolarized world, where divisions cut deep into the social fabric and the other side is demonized, the embodiment of this maxim by journalists who carry their own biases is becoming increasingly difficult.  

My country has been consistently ranking last among EU members in press freedom indexes, and maybe that is why I often catch myself being deeply cynical about the media. Yet, reading that even respected information titans like the New York Times or the Washington Post not only failed to thoroughly investigate the Trump-Russia affair and fell pray to partisan narratives, but also intentionally omitted evidence that would add nuance to their coverage and perhaps dampen political tribalism, disappointed me. Learning that the Clinton campaign manufactured conspiracy stories related to Trump’s involvement with Putin and then tipped off researchers to pitch stories to mainstream editors did not shock me; politics is a dirty, zero-sum game, where each candidate employs any and all means to victory. Journalists, however, must position themselves outside of this game. But what Gerth’s piece illustrates is that they instead put on gladiator armor, too, and entered the arena. 

The readings’ assigned order, with Gerth’s piece preceding Sulzberger’s, nurtured an intensely ironic, almost Oedipian, atmosphere. As the former’s extensive exposé revealed all the mishaps and errors that traditional media like the Times committed in their treatment of Trump’s alleged Russian ties and poured fuel on the fire of division and polarization spreading in America, the Gray Lady’s publisher extolled his organization’s commitment to journalistic independence “without fear or favor” and ultimately failed to pursue what the Post’s Bob Woodward called the “painful road of introspection.” In Sophocles’ ancient tragedy “Oedipus Rex,” young King Oedipus searches for his father’s murderer unaware that the man he seeks is none other than himself. So, even though Sulzberger’s perception of journalistic objectivity and independence is warranted and necessary for the industry, the other piece demonstrates that his own publication has failed to look in the mirror and recognize that they are, too, guilty of journalistic dependence, and do not always live up to their commitment to “only publish what we know; we would rather miss a story than get one wrong.”  

ps: There were many times in this reflection when I felt the need to clarify my own political allegiances. I think this is the product of the society we live in where an intense competition of us vs. them unravels, and where there are times that I think to criticize your own is to stand against them. But only through honest introspection, acceptance of mistakes, and correction can the media regain its trust among the public and strengthen liberal democratic trends.