Sri Lankan Journalists Revive the #MeToo Movement

Female journalists in Sri Lanka have united under the #MeToo movement to foster change within the newsroom.

An overhead view of Colombo, Sri Lanka. Jalitha Hewage. Unsplash. 

The Sri Lankan government has called for an investigation of several media outlets following allegations of sexual harassment from female journalists. This resurgence of the #MeToo movement was sparked on June 18 when Sri Lankan journalist Sarah Kellapatha spoke up on Twitter about her experience with a male colleague who threatened to rape her during her time at a publication from 2010-2017. 

Encouraged by Kellapatha’s story, several other female journalists began to speak out about their own experiences with sexual harassment in the workplace. For example, Sahla Ilham spoke out about being sexually abused by an editor who pressured her family to remain silent. Another who shared their experience was Jordana Narin, who was harassed by a senior colleague until he was forced to resign by the chief editor. 

The Sri Lankan government appears to be taking these allegations seriously, as the Minister of Mass Media, Keheliya Rambukwella, asked the Government Information Department to further investigate the claims to help ensure that female journalists feel safe at work. 

Currently, the only type of law that Sri Lanka has to address sexual harassment is a criminal law, which would result in imprisonment of up to five years, or a mere fine, for those found guilty. However, according to human rights lawyer Ermiza Tegal, the problem is that the criminal law is rarely used and victims are often undermined and invalidated. 

This recent movement shares its roots with the global #MeToo campaign which started back in 2017 following numerous sexual assault allegations against Harvey Weinstein. The movement fostered awareness of sexual abuse, as well as a safe space for victims to speak about their experiences. Similarly, the journalists who have come forward in Sri Lanka have shared their own experiences, many of them from different news publications, in hopes of fostering change and reform within newsrooms. 

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Zara Irshad

Zara is a third year Communication student at the University of California, San Diego. Her passion for journalism comes from her love of storytelling and desire to learn about others. In addition to writing at CATALYST, she is an Opinion Writer for the UCSD Guardian, which allows her to incorporate various perspectives into her work.

Altered Photos of Cambodian Genocide Victims Spark Outrage

Too often history is viewed as an element of the past—chains of unchangeable events that can be analyzed and nothing more. However, it is important that victims of past atrocities are honored, a lesson in which modern media has fallen short. 

Unaltered photos of Khmer Rouge genocide victims at the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum. Christian Haugen. CC BY 2.0.

With the advancements of the digital age, the culture of media has grown ever more rapid, often leading to negative consequences. In a recent incident, history itself took center stage as one photographer’s actions sparked massive outrage among victims of the Khmer Rouge genocide, which led to the deaths of more than 2 million Cambodians in the late 1970s. 

Vice published the work of photographer Matt Loughrey, who edited photos of victims from the S-21 prison in Phnom Penh taken minutes before their executions. Loughrey has been accused of editing the photos so that they show smiling faces, creating waves of backlash for the photographer. 

Torture room. Timoluege. CC BY-NC 2.0. 

Upset relatives of the photographed victims stated that Loughrey’s work was of horrible judgment, citing his acts as degrading the dignity of the victims. Cambodian officials too were outraged upon seeing the photos; the country’s Ministry of Culture and Fine Arts threatened legal action. In addition to insensitive alterations of the photos, the Vice article misidentified one of the victims, publishing incorrect personal details. 

Victims’ skulls. istolethetv. CC BY 2.0.

Others have declared the actions of Loughrey to be crimes against history itself, stating the alterations to be offensive to truth. 

VICE has since removed the photos, citing errors in the company’s editorial process. 

The Bigger Picture 

Beyond the first waves of anger resulting from this incident, larger lessons have been learned by all involved. Primarily, the incident has brought to light a flaw in the way people view history; although history is an analysis of past events, it must be equally weighted against potential consequences for the victims themselves. Second, it highlights that history is not always entirely of the past—there are still over 5 million Khmer Rouge victims living, along with millions of other descendants and close community members. Third, it brings up the question of what should be considered acceptable when it comes to altering representations of history. Is there wiggle room for subjectivity, or should all journalistic representations be as objective as possible? 

Amid the turmoil and animosity between the opposing sides of this conflict, some light still remains. The incident stands as a crucial reminder for everyone that the analysis of history can be as much a weapon as a tool. It remains up to the media, and their audiences, to use the past appropriately.

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Ella Nguyen

Ella is an undergraduate student at Vassar College pursuing a degree in Hispanic Studies. She wants to assist in the field of immigration law and hopes to utilize Spanish in her future projects. In her free time she enjoys cooking, writing poetry, and learning about cosmetics.

Guilty Verdict of a Heralded Filipino Journalist Poses a Setback to Press Freedoms

Following years of threats and lawsuits by Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte, the heralded journalist Maria Ressa faces up to six years in prison for cyber libel. Ressa is known as one of Time magazine’s People of the Year in 2018, as a co-founder of the online news website Rappler, and as a previous CNN investigative reporter. The verdict is widely seen as a blow to press freedoms in the Philippines and a result of Duterte’s political motivations. 

On June 15, a Manila court found both Ressa and her former Rappler colleague Reynaldo Santos Jr. guilty of cyber libel. The indictment is based on a story that was published by Rappler in 2012 that tied wealthy businessman Wilfredo Keng to then Philippine Chief Justice Renato Corona, who was impeached and removed from office shortly thereafter. “The article also alleged that Keng was involved in human trafficking and drug trafficking, among other illegal activities,” according to Forbes.

The controversy of the charge lies not only in its alleged attack on journalistic freedoms but also in its genesis. The story was written in 2012, four months before cyber libel even became a charge in the Philippines. Additionally, the case was filed in 2017, five years after the article’s publication. Rappler did concede that the story was edited to fix a misspelled word in 2014, but argued that the law still cannot be upheld retroactively. Moreover, the libel law states that a complaint must be filed within one year. After the back and forth over the validity of the charge, The Diplomat reported that “the Department of Justice argued a complaint can be filed under the 2012 cybercrime law for up to 12 years, countering Rappler’s argument that Keng’s complaint was invalid due to being outside the one-year deadline for libel.” 

This is seen as yet another attack on press freedoms following Duterte’s shutdown of ABS-CBN, the Philippines’ largest broadcast media network, which according to The New York Times is “in some of the country’s most remote regions is the only available news source.” To frame the defeat in the context of the U.S., Ressa said, “Imagine an order by a regulatory agency telling CBS or CNN to shut down, and they do? And it’s nationwide.” The pattern behind the stifling of journalistic freedoms is thought to be due to the extensive coverage of Duterte’s deadly drug war by Rappler and ABS-CBN since he was voted into office in 2016. 

In a press conference following the hearing, Ressa was unwavering in the mission of Rappler going forward, stating that the mission of Rappler would remain unchanged. “We’re at the precipice,” Ressa said. “If we fall over we’re no longer a democracy.” Various human rights groups have spoken out since the guilty verdict, with the National Union of Journalists of the Philippines adding that the verdict “basically kills freedom of speech and of the press.”

Duterte’s intimidation tactics toward the media, such as stating in 2016 that “just because you’re a journalist, you are not exempted from assassination,” were just a portent of what was to come. While Ressa has the opportunity to appeal, the mark of Duterte’s intent and message for journalists has been made clear to the Philippines and other countries in this guilty verdict.

Hanna Ditinsky

is a sophomore at the University of Massachusetts Amherst and is majoring in English and minoring in Economics. She was born and raised in New York City and is passionate about human rights and the future of progressivism.

Afghanistan’s Female Journalists Risk Their Lives to Tell the News

Afghanistan is a dangerous place for journalists to work, especially women. Journalists are harassed, terrorized and murdered in this war-torn country. But Khalida Rashid won’t be deterred from pursuing her profession. She covers politics and news for Zan TV, the country’s first all-female news network. Rashid hopes to pave the way for others who want to follow in her footsteps. “When a woman is empowered, society is empowered,” she says.

In Turkey, Academia Reckons with Ongoing Effects of Brain Drain

Following a post-coup crackdown by President Erdoğan, the Turkish intelligentsia is under continuous siege.

Faculty of Political Sciences, Ankara University. Fæ via Wikimedia Commons; originally by SALT Research via Flickr.

For some professors, the change occurred overnight, and with no warning: One day, they reported to work as usual, taught their classes, and returned home safe and secure. The next, they were met outside the gates of their university by swathes of security guards threatening them with tear gas, who informed them that their careers had been terminated, effective immediately. Such sudden and shocking occurrences reflected the overall timbre of 2017 for Turkish academics—hundreds of whom found themselves purged from their jobs in what they described as an officially sanctioned “intellectual massacre.”

The purge was precipitated by the failed coup of July 2016, which resulted in more than 260 fatalities and spurred President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan to declare a three-month state of emergency. During that state of emergency and in the ensuing months, hundreds of academics from more than 20 universities lost their jobs without notice—the result of drastic action by the ruling Justice and Development Party (AKP), which chose to detain, arrest, and fire thousands of public-sector workers in various different fields rather than pressing charges on those responsible for the coup attempt.

According to Erdoğan, the responsible party was Fethullah Gulen, an exiled cleric and former ally who the authorities claim infiltrated supporters into professions all over Turkey as part of a large-scale takeover scheme. Gulen denies having any part in the plan, and many purged academics said they had nothing to do with Gulen’s movement and were unsure how they ended up on the official hit list. Turkey’s Official Gazette describes the banned academics as having “suspected links to terrorist organizations and structures presenting a threat to national security,” but those accused hold a contrasting view: “It is a project to silence all dissident voices within the academy,” Murat Sevinc, who was fired from Ankara University’s Political Science faculty, told Reuters. “The government has seen you can silence 100 academics by firing only one.”

One commonality among many of the academics was their membership in a movement called Academics for Peace, or “Barış için Akademi syenler.” Of the 330 fired in October 2017, 115 had signed an Academics for Peace petition titled “We shall not be a party of crime,” which took a stand against violence in the mainly Kurdish provinces of Turkey. The signatories immediately faced demonization in the pro-government media and condemnation by Erdoğan.

President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan. U.S. Department of State.

As of March 2017, the total count of purged academics was above 7,300. Those affected were not only deprived of their jobs but also banned from taking other jobs in any public or private institutions, robbed of retirement rights, and even suspended from traveling. Certain universities and departments were particularly hard-hit—for example, the Faculty of Political Sciences at Ankara University, Turkey’s oldest collegiate institution and one comparable in prestige and rigor to France’s Sciences Po. The departments of journalism at Ankara and at Istanbul’s University of Marmara were also decimated. Emre Tansu Keten, a casualty of the purge at Marmara, told Vocal Europe, “I am simply proud to be in the same list along with my senior colleagues who are thrown out because of the opinion they expressed.” Students, though not the primary victims of the situation, were nevertheless left reeling with the realization that their universities were mere shadows of the places at which they had enrolled.

The purges of 2017 were hardly the first shockwave to ripple through Turkey’s academic sector in recent years. In the past few decades, Turkish academic life has frequently been tumultuous, with intellectuals embroiled in military takeovers, secular/religious tensions, and leftist/nationalist battles. Following the start of European Union accession talks in 2004, however, fresh influxes of funding allowed Turkish institutions to construct modern research labs, encouraging students to study in Turkey rather than in the United States or elsewhere in Europe.

That progress, some academics suggest, is now in jeopardy. Following the coup attempt and subsequent crackdown, the trend of intellectuals returning in Turkey took a sharp U-turn, with liberals, secularists, and the intelligentsia fleeing the encroachment of religious nationalism. Between the signing of the Academics for Peace petition in 2016 and the end of 2017, nearly 700 Turkish academics applied to the New York–based organization Scholars at Risk to be relocated to a safer position. Historically, many such applications have been successful: In the five years preceding 2017, approximately 17,000 Turkish nationals came to Britain, 7,000 to Germany, and 5,000 to France.

For academics remaining in Turkey, opportunities for rebuilding their careers are slim, and rewards for their work few and far between. In 2018, the more than 2,000 individuals who make up Academics for Peace finally received recognition in the form of the Courage to Think Defender Award from Scholars at Risk, which applauded the group for their “extraordinary efforts in building academic solidarity and in promoting the principles of academic freedom, freedom of inquiry, and the peaceful exchange of ideas.” Scholars at Risk went on to acknowledge the tenuous state of academic affairs in Turkey, writing, “The nomination is a specific recognition of Academics for Peace’s solidarity work, and at the same time a general recognition of the current pressures on all scholars, students and higher education institutions in and from Turkey.”

Haydarpaşa campus of Marmara University. Fikricoban. CC BY-SA 3.0

On the ground, academics across the country continue to participate in protests, boycotts, and sit-ins at various universities, while a donation fund supports victims of the purge. As of early 2017, Ankara’s “Street Academy” hosted public lectures on Sundays, extending a special invitation to workers and oppressed communities. Funda Şenol Cantek, one of the throngs of fired academics, expressed her defiance to The Advocate: “the government should worry more now that they expand academia to the streets.” Similarly, Sevilay Celenk said of the occasional lectures she holds in public parks, “We took these dismissals as an opportunity to push the limits and bring university together with the streets.”

In June 2019, the body politic of Turkey elected an opposition candidate as mayor of Istanbul, interrupting two decades of control by the AKP. Nevertheless, reported the New York Times, “something about this era under Erdogan has still felt different, more lasting, as if the continuing existence of the A.K.P.’s repressive policies will permanently impair otherwise resilient, historic institutions.” That feeling doubtless stems in part from the uncertain futures facing vast swathes of Turkey’s once-resilient academic sector: As of spring 2019, the legal proceedings concerning 501 members of Academics for Peace remain ongoing. And at the universities, absence is keenly felt. Inside Ankara’s Faculty of Political Science—known as the Mulkiye—walls once plastered with leftist posters are now smattered with a sparse assortment of Turkish flags, the Times described. Certain subjects, such as Foucault and queer theory, have been wiped from the schedule. Master’s and doctoral courses have been canceled, and at the once-lively film society, the showing of films has been banned altogether. Thus, the effects of the purge linger on: in the hallowed halls of universities, in the leafy parks and city streets, and in the hearts and minds of Turkish learners and teachers around the world.

TALYA PHELPS hails from the wilds of upstate New York, but dreams of exploring the globe. As former editor-in-chief at the student newspaper of her alma mater, Vassar College, and the daughter of a journalist, she hopes to follow her passion for writing and editing for many years to come. Contact her if you're looking for a spirited debate on the merits of the em dash vs. the hyphen.

Daydream in the Philippines

Visiting the Philippines has always been on the list of places Pete R. wanted to go to and since he was back in Asia during the whale shark season, he decided to take the opportunity and traveled to the Philippines for 2 weeks. His plan was to spend the first week exploring the volcano part of the Philippines and last week in the islands.

Images of Suffering Can Bring About Change – But Are They Ethical?

In a series of provocative photographs, poor children in India were made to pose in front of fancy tables covered with fake food. A prize-winning Italian photographer, Alessio Mamo, took these pictures in 2011, as part of a project called “Dreaming Food.” After the World Press Photo Foundation shared the photos on Instagram, they sparked a bitter controversy. Many considered them unethical and offensive.

In his apology, Mamo described his desire to show to a Western audience “in a provocative way, about the waste of food.” He was attacked for lacking cultural sensitivity and violating 21st-century photographic ethics.

Despite such risks, as a public law scholar, I am aware that images of suffering are often part of human rights campaigns. And freedom of expression, including visual representation, is protected by a United Nations treaty and many national constitutions.

At the same time, however, I argue for ethical limitations on the right to take pictures.

Moral questions

The controversy around Mamo’s so-called “poverty porn” images is not the first time that such questions have been raised.

The iconic photograph ‘Migrant Mother’ by Dorothea Lange, on display at the Oakland Museum of California. AP Photo/Eric Risberg

One such case was that of the 1936 black-and-white photograph of Florence Owens Thompson that became the iconic image of the “Migrant Mother” during the Depression. Photographer Dorothea Lange took the picture for Resettlement Administration, a New Deal agency tasked with helping poor families relocate. It showed Thompson, with her children, living in poverty.

The family survived on frozen vegetables and birds they hunted. The photo was intended to build support for social welfare policies.

The photo raised some moral questions.

While Lange shot to fame, no one knew the name of the woman. It was only decades later that Thompson was tracked down and agreed to tell her story. As it turned out, Thompson didn’t profit from “Migrant Mother” and continued to work hard to keep her family together. As she said later,

“I didn’t get anything out of it. I wish she hadn’t taken my picture. … She didn’t ask my name. She said she wouldn’t sell the pictures. She said she’d send me a copy. She never did.”

Thompson felt “bitter, angry and alienated,” over the “commodification” of her image, wrote scholars Robert Hariman and John Louis Lucaites, in their study of powerful images.

Thompson was the poster child for the Depression, and she did take some pride in that. Her photo benefited many. But, as she asked a reporter, “what good’s it doing me?”

What’s the role of a photographer?

Another striking example is a 1993 photo by South African photographer Kevin Carter showing a young Sudanese girl, with a vulture perched near her. The iconic image captured public attention by focusing on the plight of children during a time of famine.

Kevin Carter’s photo shows a starving girl with a vulture next to her. Cliff

Unlike other images depicting starving children with “flies in the eyes,” this one highlighted the predicament of a vulnerable famine victim, crawling to a food station in Ayod, in South Sudan.

The picture won Carter a Pulitzer Prize in 1994, but also precipitated an avalanche of criticism. Although Carter scared the vulture away, he did not carry the girl to the nearby food station. The fate of the girl remained unknown.

In a critical essay about the image, scholars Arthur and Ruth Kleinman asked: Why did the photographer allow the predatory bird to move so close to the child? Why were her relatives no where to be seen? And, what did the photographer do after he took the picture?

They also went on to write that the Pulitzer Prize was won “because of the misery (and probable death) of a nameless little girl.” Some others called Carter “as much a predator as the vulture.”

Two months after receiving the Pulitzer, in July 1994, Carter took his own life. Apart from his own challenging personal circumstances, his suicide note revealed that he was haunted by the vivid memories of the suffering that he witnessed.

Pictures for charity

Admittedly, famine, poverty and disasters need attention and action. The challenge for journalists, as scholar David Campbell notes, is to mobilize public reactions before it is too late.

These catastrophes require prompt intervention by government and relief agencies, through, what human rights scholar Thomas Keenan and others call, “mobilizing shame” – a way of exerting pressure on states to act to rescue those in dire circumstances.

Such an effort is often more effective if images are used. As Rakiya Omaar and Alex de Waal, co-directors of African Rights, a new human rights organization based in London, note,

“The most respectable excuse for selectively presenting images of starvation is that this is necessary to elicit our charity.”

The truth is, these images do have an impact. When James Nachtwey, an American photographer, took photos of the famine in Somalia, the world was moved. The Red Cross said public support resulted in what was then its largest operation since WWII. It was much the same with Carter’s image, which helped galvanize aid to Sudan.

Nonetheless, as Campbell contends, media coverage can reinforce negative stereotypes through an iconography of famine or images of those starving in “remote” places like Africa. His argument is that individuals continue to present people in what the Kleinmans call the “ideologically Western mode.”

In this framing, the individual appears without context, usually alone, and without the ability to act independently.

Changing representations

Greater awareness of the power of images in different contexts has exerted pressure on NGOs and journalists to shift from a “politics of pity” to a “politics of dignity.”

In 2010 Amnesty International issued photo guidelines, regarding rules for images that show suffering. Save the Children also drafted a manual after conducting research on image ethics in various parts of the world.

Explicit rules include not posing subjects, avoiding nudity and consulting subjects about the way they believe the narrative ought to be presented visually. A major concern has been how sometimes the subjects and scene might be manipulated to orchestrate an image.

What this reflects is a desire to show greater sensitivity to the precarious status of some subjects in photographs.

But this is easier said than done. Recognizing that voyeuristic interpretation of distant suffering is offensive does not necessarily mean this practice will cease. The real challenge ultimately is that the ethically problematic images that present “pitiful” victims to the world are often the ones that capture public attention.

Eventually, much rests on the stringent ethical standards that photographers set for themselves. What they do need to remember, is that often, good intentions do not justify the use of questionable images of suffering.

ALISON DUNDES RENTEIN is a Professor of Political Science, Anthropology, Public Policy and Law at the University of Southern California – Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences.

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