I used to think journalism was built on cynicism.

You could say it’s awfully cynical to think of it as cynicism in the first place. A more generous angle is realism plus a healthy dose of scepticism, which is only a good quality in a journalist.

Nonetheless, when I started my first reporting internship over a decade ago, I worried I would become a cynic. That I would become a weathered journo who’d lean back on my chair while making scathing remarks about the state of the world, who’d believe the worst of everyone.

Perhaps I’d chainsmoke, too.

It wasn’t such a strange fear to have. After all, as George Orwell or William Randolph Hearst or Lord Northcliff (the internet can’t agree which late writer or newspaper magnate to attribute the quote to) may have said, news is something somebody doesn’t want printed; all else is advertising.

It goes without saying then that much of that news will be bad news.

Working as a journalist means filtrating the news. When it reaches the reader, viewer or listener, it’s been worked into a format that’s meant to help them make sense of it. That doesn’t always work, but if you’re not a journalist and you think the news is overwhelming, imagine what it’s like before it reaches you, when it’s still millions of pieces of information just swirling around out there.

It’s no wonder that the archetypical journalist is a cynic. You’d almost have to be.

But then again…

Cynicism doesn’t explain why the vast majority of people I meet in my job are curious, friendly, kind and want to help. Whether they’re readers or sources, high-ranking decision makers or “ordinary people”, so many of them happily give their time, they answer questions, they ask me questions in turn, they patiently explain thorny issues again and again. They’re just… nice.

I used to be terrified of doing vox pops, when reporters accost random people in the street to ask them simplistic questions about their opinion on pointless issues. Why would anyone speak to a stranger who turns up with a notebook in hand? Turns out the answer is: almost everyone.

Research suggests that we tend to underestimate how willing people are to help, but that most of us want to, even when we aren’t forced to. It’s like we’re cynics, sceptics and pessimists at the same time as we’re caring, helpful and exist as part of a community, looking out for each other.

The government minister who phoned me from her summer holiday after she had forgotten to call me for our scheduled interview. The ambassadors who cuddled my mother’s dog when I had to bring her to a round of interviews. The woman who kindly answered my critical questions when her husband was about to be deported, because as much as I trusted her I had to verify the claims.

The readers who get in touch to share a news tip, to thank me for an article I’ve published, or even just to kindly point out typos. They get nothing out of taking the time to write, and yet they do.

Who can be a cynic then.

The most important lesson I’ve learned in my years as an editor is how journalism isn’t only a tool to report on the bad, it is also a force for good. It has the power not only to show the world as it is, but how it can be a better place. It shines a light on our demons and our angels at the same time.

I used to spend a lot of time worrying that reporting on problems every day would irrevocably harden me, and so I never stopped to think of the solutions to those problems, and that they’re worthy of reporting on, too. And I didn’t know then that people in fact want to read more about solutions.

Cynicism doesn’t explain that. Nor does it explain why the most horribly nicknamed of all journalistic practices – the infamous “death knock”, when a reporter turns up on the doorstep of a bereaved family – only rarely ends with a door slammed in their face. I used to work with one reporter who would invariably come back late to the newsroom after the families not only spoke to him but also invited him in for tea and a long chat, eager to share their loved one’s story, even when grieving.

As people we need to connect with each other, and journalism facilitates this.

Cynicism doesn’t explain why thousands of people and news organisations have rallied to donate millions of euros to The Fix’s campaign to support Ukrainian independent media, nor the bravery of those who report from the frontline of the Russian invasion of Ukraine or other wars and conflicts, every day.

And cynicism doesn’t explain the numerous conversations I’ve listened to by fellow journalists and media leaders about how to improve journalism, how to engage with our audiences in a meaningful way, how to help our communities, and how to, in short, make the world a better place.

That’s not cynicism at all. It’s hope.

I thought journalists had to be cynics. I was wrong

Emma Löfgren

Why journalism has given me faith that things will turn out OK

Author

Emma Löfgren

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