The clock in the newsroom is peculiar. When a story breaks, it moves quickly, and after the world has scrolled past, it slows down to almost nothing. The rhythm is familiar to anyone who has worked close to one. On the first day, red banners and maps glow on the screens. The producers are already wondering what will happen after the third day. By the second week, the individuals in the video—those who genuinely reside in the area we have been filming—have returned to a life that no one is documenting.
It’s difficult to ignore how infrequently we inquire about their circumstances.
Sitting through any evening news cycle gives the impression that the headline has evolved into its own weather system. It comes, batters, and goes on. A refugee crossing that most viewers couldn’t locate on a map, a bombing in one capital, and a flood in another. The numbers become meaningless as they scroll. 43 people were killed. 70. Two hundred. The mind quietly gives up trying to retain them somewhere between the third and fourth headlines.
The British correspondent Christina Lamb once recounted an incident in Afghanistan that many journalists still remember. A mother is kneeling next to her injured daughter and pleading with a stranger for assistance. Lamb continued to walk, racing toward what she believed to be the true story. She claimed years later that she had misinterpreted her own work. On the road, the action wasn’t in front of her. It was standing next to the youngster. Even though it’s a quiet admission, it says something that most of our newsrooms still find difficult to acknowledge. Seldom is the story in the headline. It’s the sounds surrounding the narrative.
Investors discuss externalities. When being truthful, journalists ought to use the phrase. They are part of every cycle of breaking news. The grandmother is no longer able to sleep through artillery. Nobody will ever write about the adolescent who grows up harboring resentment after witnessing the death of a sibling. Decades after the ceasefire, the men in El Salvador who were missing limbs marched together, essentially asking their erstwhile adversaries, “Does anyone remember we are still here?”
Question headlines that conclude with a small punctuation mark disguised as curiosity have an odd quality. It was noted years ago by Ian Betteridge. The answer is almost always no if a headline concludes with a question. Did the world take prompt action? No. Has the help arrived? No. After a year, did anyone check in with the village? Most likely, you can guess.
As readers, we might be partially responsible. The metrics are harsh. Reconstruction-related stories are not popular. A video of an explosion will always win over a profile of a single displaced family. Editors are aware of this. They are simply managing companies that must endure in a market that values spectacle; they are not villains. Even so, witnessing it occur year after year leaves a lasting impression.
Reading pieces like Michele Gierck’s reflections from El Salvador makes me realize how patient the long-term cost of war is. It is waiting. It outlasts donor conferences, diplomats, and journalists. It spreads into schoolyards and bedrooms. Any clinician will tell you that trauma does not end with the signing of a ceasefire.
For those of us who read and write, perhaps the smallest thing we can do is slow down the clock a bit. Give it another day. Make one more inquiry. Take note of the person whose name barely appeared on the screen. The headline is going to change. Seldom does the human cost.
