THE phrase ‘breaking news, broken bones’ is meant to remind us that journalism here does not just uncover facts; it invites retribution. Each broken rib or jaw is evidence that truth is under assault. In Bangladesh, reporters set out with cameras and notebooks to cover events and they return not with recognition but with injuries. The simple act of reporting has become one of the riskiest professions.
This violence is not occasional. It has become part of the system. Journalists covering student protests have been beaten alongside the demonstrators. Those reporting on ruling party excesses have been assaulted by quarters that enjoy impunity. Photojournalists documenting labour unrest have had their cameras destroyed and their bodies attacked as if destroying the messenger could erase the message. The pattern is clear: exposing power carries physical punishment.
State forces are too often part of the problem. The police, who should protect journalists, frequently target them. Party actvists, acting as enforcers, ensure that uncomfortable truths are suppressed. Their actions are rarely punished. Non-state actors add their own threats: criminal gangs, corporate interests and extremists who see journalists as obstacles to their power. In every case, violence becomes a way of silencing scrutiny.
And yet, reporters persist. They continue to cover protests, corruption and strikes, knowing the risks. That persistence should not be mistaken for acceptance. It reflects dedication, not consent. A democracy that demands truth cannot afford to let its truth-tellers be treated as expendable.
Shafiqul Islam, press secretary to the chief adviser Muhammad Yunus, and others in his press corp are not faceless bureaucrats. They are life-long journalists. They built their reputation running towards danger, often under tear gas and truncheons, standing shoulder to shoulder with the same reporters who are now being beaten. That experience gives them a moral duty that no one else in government can claim. If they remain silent, their silence will not be neutrality — it will be gross indifference, if not outright betrayal.
The Yunus government has a rare opportunity. Within weeks, it could announce three measures that would transform the landscape for journalists: a national nournalist protection act, mandating swift prosecution for assaults on reporters; a media safety and solidarity fund, to provide emergency medical and financial support for injured journalists; and a pay and benefits commission, to set fair and transparent standards across the industry.
These are not extravagant programmes. Comparable countries have already shown what is possible. In Mexico, one of the deadliest places in the world for reporters, a federal protection mechanism for human rights defenders and journalists was created in 2012. It provides panic buttons, safe houses and rapid police response for threatened journalists. The system is imperfect, underfunded and uneven, but it at least acknowledges the problem at the national level.
In the Philippines, another country notorious for attacks on journalists, the government launched the presidential task force on media security in 2016. Its mandate is to monitor and fast-track cases of violence against journalists. While critics argue that it has not solved impunity, the fact that assaults are tracked by a dedicated body has given media workers at least some recourse.
Closer to home, Pakistan passed a landmark law in 2021: the Protection of Journalists and Media Professionals Act. It created a commission empowered to investigate threats and attacks, require state agencies to cooperate and recommend action. Like Bangladesh, Pakistan has a history of violence against the press. But, that law signalled that the state can no longer shrug off responsibility.
Positive models also exist. In Norway and the United Kingdom, journalist safety is embedded in broader press freedom frameworks. The police are trained to see journalists as protected actors during protests, not as participants. Assaults are investigated quickly and prosecuted. The culture is different because the law makes the difference clear: harming a journalist is not assaulting an individual; it is undermining democracy.
Bangladesh need not copy these examples wholesale, but it can learn from them. The message is that countries with serious problems have begun building protective structures and countries with stronger democracies already treat press safety as non-negotiable. Bangladesh has every reason, and now under an interim government, the freedom, to take similar steps.
Every delay carries consequences. Each week brings new reports of attacks: a journalist beaten at a rally, a photographer injured in a clash and a columnist threatened into silence. These are not isolated incidents but signs of a system that treats violence against journalists as normal. That normalisation must end.
The international community is watching as well. Organisations such as the Committee to Protect Journalists and the International Federation of Journalists continue to record assaults in Bangladesh. Their reports draw attention, but change must come from within. For a government led by a Nobel laureate known for promoting human dignity, failure to protect journalists would be a striking contradiction.
Some will argue that pay and job security are the primary issues for the press. Those matter and must be addressed. But safety comes first. A fair wage is meaningless if a journalist cannot work without fear of assault. Protecting lives and bodies must be the foundation on which all other reforms are built.
The choice before the Yunus government is clear. It can seize this moment to show that even a short interim administration can leave a lasting mark by defending those who defend the truth. Or it can allow the cycle of violence to continue, leaving reporters to count their injuries instead of their stories.
Reforms delayed are freedoms denied. The question is no longer whether change is needed. The question is whether those who once stood as reporters will now stand for reporters. The time for excuses is over. The time for reforms is now. If not now, when?
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Dr Abdullah A Dewan is a former physicist and nuclear engineer at BAEC and professor emeritus of economics at Eastern Michigan University.
