Freed POW Bergdahl is an attractive candidate for scapegoat for a war U.S. public has abandoned

 

No accounting has been demanded for the U.S. wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The architects of those disasters have shuffled off-stage now to their pensions and honorarias; some occasionally return to the public forum as learned commentators, as if their lethal stupidities of a decade ago now qualify them as experts on the bad choices to come.

Meanwhile the real leaders—Cheney, Bush, Rumsfeld—are hanging back, presumably hoping the next wave of revisionism will restore to them the reputations for wisdom and courage they imagine they deserve. Hey, why not? Their victims are either dead or ignored. Even Nixon was remembered for statesmanship by the time he died.

In this country, we don’t have truth and reconciliation commissions, which elsewhere invite the victims of social calamities to talk publicly, and which try to restore dignity to those who suffered and to lay the seeds for futures in which such debacles won’t recur.

Instead, the engrained U.S. response to catastrophes—such as laying waste to other lands without cause—is to change the channel. In Scarlett O’Hara’s words, “Tomorrow’s another day.” Or as Kinky Friedman put it, “Let Saigons be bygones.”

When the urge for retrospection arises, chances are it won’t be to demand accountability. It’ll be to seek scapegoats. Hence the Bowe Bergdahl affair, an unfolding chapter in how the longest war in U.S. history is being imagined.

Bergdahl was the only U.S. prisoner of war left in Afghanistan. He was freed last month after being held by the Taliban under often harrowing conditions for almost five years. When he was captured he was a 23-year-old private first class (he’s only a sergeant now because he was promoted while in Taliban hands.) Actually, he was a home-schooled grunt from Idaho who had a longing for adventure, a flair for wordplay, and a loathing for the miseries of war.

The initial jubilance surrounding his release quickly subsided. The first buzz-killer was the exchange that freed him, in which five ex-Taliban officials were released from Guantanamo. Obama critics condemned them immediately as “some of the worst outlaws in the U.S. war on terror,” or, as Sen. John McCain declared, “the five biggest murderers in world history,” killers with U.S. blood on their hands.

That’s quite a stretch. Actually three of the five had been in U.S. hands since November 2001 and the other two since Continue reading

On Google, the curse of the Permanent Record, and the right to be forgotten

 

Once, we came of age under the shadow of something called a Permanent Record. Nobody ever actually saw one, but it was a scary thing, and as youngsters we understood we had to keep our own permanent records clean, since any stains on them could do lifelong damage.

Plainly, the idea of an authoritative, ineradicable ledger on individual behavior is a powerful one. Widespread too. You see it in everything from the divine Book of Life to the gift list kept by Santa, who knows if you’ve been naughty or nice.

That permanent record meant somebody was paying attention, which was good, but it was also a brooding and oppressive background presence, since it enabled even trivial sins to curse our futures.

A good thing it was largely mythic. Back then, actual record-keeping was spotty and forgetful, and technology had zero ability to corral the manifold traces that we leave as we make our way through life into some all-knowing compendium.

No longer. Welcome to the digital age. Its mighty search engines have spawned a virtual permanent record for millions of individuals. It’s updated constantly, lasts forever, and is in fulltime public view.

What gets in it and with what prominence—those are mysteries, depending on the alchemy of particular search engines. Generally, it seems, they suck up most anything about someone that was published or resides in Internet-accessible public records. (The search engines don’t scour social media like Twitter and Facebook, yet.)

That means the fraternity house dustup that led to a sleepover in jail, or the rude remark at a political rally, or any of a thousand missteps and embarrassments that in a pre-modern age would have faded into oblivion—the debris of what Justice John Paul Stevens called the “practical obscurity” we used to inhabit—remain vivid, alive and, potentially, toxic.

Hence the importance of last month’s ruling by Europe’s highest court. It authorizes people to demand that links to material that threatens their privacy be scrubbed from search results.

The case involves Google, the California-based colossus that handles roughly 90 percent of Europe’s Internet searches. It was brought by a Spaniard who challenged a link to a 1998 item in a Catalan newspaper about the auction of his home, which was repossessed to pay off debts he owed. He reasoned that the matter had been resolved ages ago and there was no reason people who googled

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Has U.S. journalism lost its nerve?

Much of normal news, the routine patter that fills our screens and spills from the airwaves, is a chummy co-production of authorized sources and compliant scribes. The rituals of normal news ensure that the public agenda is dominated by the concerns and perspectives of the powerful, whose priorities typically lead the newscasts.

Fortunately, that’s not all our news media do. We also have parallel traditions, among them a journalism of defiance. That’s when reporters ferret out and make public newsworthy realities that people in power would rather be ignored and sometimes even make it illegal to expose.

We’re in an era of spectacularly audacious disclosures of official secrets—commensurate with the most audacious expansion of official secrecy in the history of this or any country. Since Wikileaks, the online anti-secrecy network, posted in 2010 the classified gunsite footage of Iraqi civilians being slaughtered by a U.S. helicopter, news media worldwide have showcased stunning disclosures of U.S. secrets and the shadowy infrastructure through which the unprecedented post-9/11 regime of surveillance and data collection has been sustained.

The counterattack has been ferocious: The soldier who was Wikileaks’ source, Chelsea Manning, is doing 35 years in federal prison, and the mastermind who brokered the release to the news media, Julian Assange, is under de facto house arrest in London.

Meantime, top media continue to feast on secrets served up by Wikileaks’ successor, ex-U.S. intelligence analyst Edward Snowden. They include astonishing revelations about government data sweeps, penetration of the tech industry and the overreach of National Security Agency electronic snooping.

Amazing stuff. Political leaders continue to denounce Snowden as a spy, but the public isn’t convinced. One of the few surveys of broad opinion on the matter, a Quinnipiac University poll last year, found that by a huge 55-34 percent margin voters regard Snowden as a whistleblower, not a traitor, and that by 45-40 percent people believe official anti-terrorism efforts go too far in restricting civil liberties.

So you might think that U.S. journalists would feel emboldened: After all, here’s news of vast import, purloined in the name of civic purpose with evidence of public support. Seems like a sturdy basis on which to challenge the tired rituals of normal news, to re-energize that parallel tradition of defiance and independent truth-seeking.

A surprising new survey suggests this isn’t how today’s journalists see things. It’s the latest in a series of polls conducted every 10 years since 1971 by Indiana University researchers. What it found was a demoralized profession, one that has lost its nerve. Respondents are convinced the news industry is generally heading in the wrong direction and that its biggest problem is “declining profits.”

Most remarkable are signs of a dramatically growing rejection of the very reporting techniques that have nourished the journalism of defiance in recent years.

Consider this question: Might, “on occasion,” a reporter be justified in using “confidential business or government documents without authorization?” That means newsworthy information you’re not supposed to have.

Fewer than 58 percent of the 1,080 respondents in the 2013 poll approved, a major decline from nearly 82 percent in 1992. Continue reading

Net Neutrality Debate a Reminder that Content Was Never King

Media consumers are usually too busy paying attention to content to consider the channels through which it arrives. Yet the nature of those channels and the rules governing them have historically had a huge, unacknowledged role in creating and shaping what we read, watch and listen to.

The motion picture business was founded by people who owned tiny movie houses; the future moguls knew nothing about making films, but they owned the exhibition outlets, and needed content to sell tickets for. So they learned, and they shot, and they founded the studios. Channel preceded content, and gave birth to Hollywood.

Channel control has long prefigured media development. In the electronic age, wherever the creative artists went, the engineers had gotten there first.

Broadcasting started out as the late 1920s brainchild of people who made and sold radio sets. They wanted to give customers a reason to buy their receivers, so they then began making programs and transmitting them over the air. First came the distribution channels, content followed.

FM radio languished for 30 years until the 1960s, when regulators told station owners they could no longer fill the high-quality FM band with the same programs they were putting out on scratchy AM. Suddenly huge bandwidth opened up, perfect for audio engineered for clarity — and the revolution in alternative rock was born.

And the feds’ 1962 insistence that all TV sets be equipped to receive signals broadcast in the UHF range – another 60-some channels on top of the four or five that most consumers received — broke the network stranglehold on TV broadcasting and started the industry down the road to the multi-channel cable explosion.

That brief history lesson goes some way toward explaining why today’s controversy over so-called net neutrality matters.

Net neutrality is the policy that has barred the companies that furnish Internet connections from playing favorites. It means Internet

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Saving Sources: Time to Stand Up

Introductory Remarks, 8th Annual Reva and David Logan Symposium on Investigative Reporting, organized by the Investigative Reporting Program of the Graduate School of Journalism, University of California, Berkeley, April 26, 2014

Welcome to Berkeley, where we’re observing the 50th anniversary of the Free Speech Movement, which is a natural segue into the theme of this year’s symposium, which focuses on the beleaguered condition of news sources.

This is something I’ve been talking and writing about for the past few years, so I’m very glad to be able to take a few minutes to tee this up before I hand off to the organizer and star of this gathering, Lowell Bergman.

I have three main points:

1. Press freedom is meaningless without source freedom.

2. Neither the media, nor the courts, nor even our frayed system of civic education has ever assigned sources the importance and respect they deserve.

3. And finally, the media need to step up institutionally for their sources.

1. To my first point, which should be obvious but apparently isn’t: press freedom Continue reading

Paying Reporters for Online Traffic Could Take a Toll

How news reporters are paid has always been a matter of some puzzlement, not least among reporters themselves. That’s partly because the value of what they do is hard to put a price on. It’s partly because to what extent their work requires subject knowledge, experience, sweat and even artistry is hard to determine.

And it’s partly because of a fundamental business uncertainty: How much does a given reporter contribute to the commercial success of the enterprise?

In the old days the model was straightforward: Publishers figured a more robust editorial product would mean more readers and a more hospitable space for advertisers to make their pitches. That meant higher ad rates and, the logic went, more revenue.

As for wages, though, the model wasn’t much help. The newsroom was a mildly anarchic micro-economy. It lavished money on supposed stars without evidence they brought in discernible payback, while the rest of the staff labored under a sluggish and generally stingy compensation system that rewarded longevity over performance.

The digital revolution promised to replace alchemy with science, by offering measurement tools to enable publishers to figure out what particular stories are actually worth—and, working backwards, what individual journalists should be paid.

In theory, the logic of calibrated journalism rests on the fact that both the costs and revenues of online news are potentially knowable: News managers already have a reasonable idea what producing a particular story costs. Now they could also forecast the revenue it’s likely to generate, since ads are being placed and priced with increasingly surgical precision, depending on where and alongside what they appear.

Knowing revenues and costs, the result would be a fairly reliable profit-and-loss projection for the assignment the editor was contemplating. The budget-minded editor would direct coverage accordingly.

We’re not quite there yet, but now the news business is taking a further step in that direction through a surge of payment schemes to encourage reporters for the vigor of their online engagement. A few weeks ago The Oregonian, the respected Portland daily, created a stir by introducing a compensation plan to pay journalists for the traffic their postings draw.

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Sex isn’t the only way to spoil a news relationship

Sleeping with a source seems like such a transparently bad idea there wouldn’t seem to be much point exploring why journalists shouldn’t do it.

But with The Los Angeles Times summarily firing one of its top investigative reporters after he told his bosses he’d had a brief affair with an informant, it seems worthwhile to look at what the limits ought to be in the relations between journalists and sources.

Physical intimacy is only one of many powerful off-screen entanglements that can develop amid the mutual dependency that often arises between reporter and source. Few of them draw the same gut-level disapproval as extramarital sex, but many still have the potential to corrupt the work that the public sees.

In this case, the Times reporter, Jason Felch, had been investigating the alleged failure of LA-based Occidental College to comply fully with federal rules requiring it to report complaints of sexual wrongdoing on campus. Felch had written three stories on the subject and had accused Occidental of incomplete disclosure, asserting that allegations of 27 sexual assaults had wrongly gone unreported to U.S. education authorities.

Occidental didn’t address the substance of the stories before they were published, and afterward hired a PR firm to prepare a detailed response. It was presented to the Times in March, three months after the last story ran.

The school argued, persuasively, that Felch had misunderstood his data, and that the 27 unreported instances did not involve assaults at all, but instead covered a range of allegations—distasteful emails, for instance—that fell below the threshold of significance at which disclosure is legally mandatory.

It was, then, when his bosses confronted him with the apparent reporting errors that Felch told them about his romance. He says the woman hadn’t been a source since the beginning of their affair—a contention that conflicts with what the Times says he initially said. He also says the affair was brief and, by now, was over.

Still, the Times fired Felch—a 10-year employee and a onetime Pulitzer finalist—and editor Davan Maharaj said Felch’s failure to tell his bosses sooner of his “inappropriate relationship” amounted to “a professional lapse of the kind that no news organization can tolerate.” The core point: “Our credibility depends on our being a neutral, unbiased source of information in appearance as well as in fact.”

I’m always uneasy when decisions like this one are made with an eye to appearances, and the Times allowed the core question—was Felch’s reporting skewed by his affections?—to go unaddressed. Too bad, because as a matter of professional conduct (as opposed to personal morality), that’s the question that really ought to matter.

But that silence is unavoidable. Who can possibly know? That’s why sex has to be off-limits for reporter and source. It destroys any reasonable expectation that the source’s influence will be weighed fairly and dispassionately. Did the source offer sex as a way to make sure his or her account got greater weight? Did the reporter suggest that sex might be a way to ensure the source version of evens is taken seriously?

And what if sex comes to be seen as a routine part of the bargain, if potential sources understand they might be asked for favors in exchange for sympathetic treatment? How much harm might be done in a general way to the ever-imperiled flow of publicly significant information?

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