by Rushworth M. Kidder
“No news story is worth someone’s life.”
It’s a pithy policy, crafted by the Canadian Press wire service to guide the reporting of kidnapping and terrorism stories. Since October 12, when Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) reporter Melissa Fung was kidnapped in Kabul, Afghanistan, that policy has been on trial — but so quietly that until a few days ago the public never knew she’d been seized.
Why not? Because the CBC, the Canadian military, and Canadian prime minister Stephen Harper’s office pleaded with the Western media to keep mum. They argued that news coverage could complicate the negotiations for her release, leading her kidnappers to realize how valuable a target they had taken and perhaps endangering her life. The editors complied, and on November 8 Ms. Fung was released unharmed.
No one with a shred of humanity would have wanted a different outcome. Yet this case raises wrenching questions about the role of the media in our political future. The request for silence placed editors in a classic right-versus-right dilemma. On one hand, it’s right to publish. Journalism’s mission is clear: Report news promptly, objectively, and without favoritism. For the Canadian news media, any kidnapping of a high-profile Canadian in a region of the world where 2,500 Canadian troops are still deployed, is undeniably newsworthy. This story was especially so, given that it happened two days before the October 14 election that returned Mr. Harper to power — an election fought by an incumbent who was under pressure from protesters to end the Afghan mission, which has cost the lives of 97 Canadian soldiers.
Would bad news from Afghanistan have had negative consequences for the prime minister’s reelection bid? “Consequences are not something journalists usually think about, because they aren’t in the business of shaping outcomes,” said Toronto Globe & Mail editor-in-chief Edward Greenspon shortly after Ms. Fung’s release. “If a given piece of information is newsworthy, in the public interest, it’s [usually] ‘publish and be damned.’”
On the other hand, it’s right not to publish a story if it costs someone’s life. Mr. Greenspon, commenting on his paper’s decision not to publish, went on to argue that “there are no absolutes” and that “editors exist to exercise their discretion about what should be published and in what way.” Or, as Don Martin of the Canadian National Post explained, media outlets “voluntarily refrained from telling the story, not only because negotiations for Melissa’s release were at a critical life-threatening stage, but to prevent the profession from becoming an even juicier target for kidnappers.”
Here, however, the Canadian Press raised a crucial issue: “Was there a double standard because a journalist had been kidnapped? Would the same blackout be put into effect if an aide worker, politician or military person had been snatched?” Or, to crank it up a notch, a corporate executive, popular athlete, or celebrity performer? Asking editors to sit on such stories is, I suspect, like asking pirates to eat politely.
Which side is right? Ends-based thinkers, who look at consequences and feel that ethics gets done when things turn out well, have every reason to be satisfied with the don’t-report decisions. But rule-based thinkers, wanting to uphold principles that should be applied universally, are troubled. If any story, they would ask, can be shrouded, shifted, or suppressed simply because it is potentially harmful to someone, where does the moral hazard end? What other news, readers will begin to ask, are you withholding — and why?
What’s at stake here is the news media’s role not simply in reporting but in advertising. That traditional two-part function — running stories and displaying ads — reminds us that most media companies, like it or not, are inextricably entangled in creating reputations both in the news hole and in the ad slots.
That’s a point not lost on kidnappers and terrorists. The former, if they’re criminal extortionists with no political agenda, often want to avoid publicity. Sometimes, however, they understand that the price of the product (the ransom) rises as it achieves a strong reputation (is widely advertised) and is seen to be rare (just one “freedom” for the kidnap victim is available, from a single vendor) and time-constrained (act now, because tomorrow may be too late). So they occasionally welcome publicity.
Terrorists, by contrast, crave publicity. They understand that terrorism doesn’t happen in some far-off country. It happens right here, in our living rooms, on our television screens — and unless it happens here, for all intents and purposes it hasn’t happened. Terrorists depend absolutely on this kind of free media for their work to be effective.
To the extent that Ms. Fung’s case has benefited journalism, it has done so by helping editors see that their toughest ethical dilemmas are about right versus right, and that this dilemma pits the news ethos against the advertising mindset. Did Western editors get it right, or did they set a dangerous precedent? That question won’t be resolved without a clearer recognition of ways in which news inadvertently advertises. The irony is that journalism is often taught in university schools of communications, adjacent to classes on public relations, marketing, and advertising. Twenty-first-century journalism ethics has come a long way, but it still needs to recognize that, despite the commonality of these communications functions, their moral missions must be kept conceptually distinct.
Ethics Newsline® editor Carl Hausman contributed reporting to this story.
©2008 Institute for Global Ethics

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For more information, see: Globe & Mail, Nov. 11 — Globe & Mail, Nov. 10 — Canadian Press, Nov. 8 — National Post, Nov. 8.