Redux
Stories that circle and return
I didn’t return to journalism with wisdom. I returned with questions. Because somewhere along the way, the headlines changed, in tone, in texture.
When I left the newsroom, we were still arguing about commas. Back in my day, a “cloud” meant rain. I used to check the sky before dispatching a press release on a pigeon’s leg. Today, it’s apparently a storage unit floating above Cyprus. The cloud stores my to-do list, her TikTok drafts, his vacation photos, their existential crisis and probably our soul. How do I upload my thoughts to it, exactly?
Once upon a time, the Cyprus problem dominated the headlines, every whisper or update felt urgent. Now things are shinier: corruption scandals flash and fade with a swipe. Everything is digestible. Everyone’s an expert. AI writes the best headlines. People tweet scoops from the beach. And every teenager with a phone is a “content creator.” Journalism, my old friend, has gone punk rock, raw and DIY.
During my absence, I crossed to the other side, I lived in the “dark arts” of corporate media relations, the land of advertorials and “please attribute to a spokesperson.” I survived glamorous events and wandered back to the newsroom. I’ve rejoined the circus with my friends’ kids, my dazzling young colleagues, who assume my age is also a deadline. They move faster than I tweet and speak fluent SEO and emojis.
In the transformed newsroom Pixels replaced carrier pigeons. You can ask AI for synonyms. There’s less shouting and more scrolling. The debate focuses on timing. Should we post now, or wait till lunchtime? They teach me TikTok ethics; I show off with some old-school magic: verify before amplify! During meetings I quietly Google what it is that “engagement metrics” actually measure…
Everyone might be a publisher now, but not everyone’s a journalist and there is a difference between “having a platform and having a purpose”, between “going viral” and informing, I sound righteous, throwing out big truths like they are proclamations and then I question their real weight. Truth needs friction. It needs contradiction but does it translate in revenue?
So what? Ethics don’t go down as easily. Media literacy isn’t a nice-to-have, it’s essential survival gear. Ethics is a daily workout in judgment. And that’s where journalism persistently survives. It sounds a bit strange, doesn’t it? That journalism, real journalism, is still beating strong. Its core is about asking hard questions and holding power accountable. It serves the truth. No algorithm can replace real journalism. Remembering ethics is not nostalgia and should never go out of print.
Oh well, I am back. Journalism didn’t need another voice but am here, for the pixels and the stories. OK maybe truth telling might need a bit more strategy, but it still matters to ask.
And I plan to survive. Armed with caffeine, my journey, a bit of panic about notifications, a notebook in every bag, and a growing indifference that only menopause can gift you. Humor first but the mission remains: clarity over chaos. Facts!
And if you see me shouting at a cloud, don’t worry, it’s just me asking it to cite its sources.