Why Shouldn’t We Sell Our Stories?

When the British sailors were released from Iranian captivity on April 6, they probably had no idea that they would be subjected to an entirely different kind of torture. The media had gorged itself on speculation, on propaganda video of apologies and strange moments of “recreation” – playing table-tennis, eating snacks – even debating Iran’s motives behind those awful, ill-fitting suits that the sailors were outfitted with upon their release. But this wasn’t enough. All the spectacle had created a frenzy among newspapers, magazines and publishers, each positioning to gain access to the sailors’ experiences. Then reports surfaced that the sailors were being allowed to sell their stories. Soon after, it was revealed that Faye Turney, the only female of the group, had apparently been paid 150,000 pounds for joint TV and newspaper rights. Eventually, Des Brown, the British Defense Secretary, reversed the decision, banning the sale of any further stories. But the damage had already been done. Public outrage and embarrassment circulated the same media that had sparked the controversy.

But beneath the fiasco, there remains a difficult ethical problem. Why not let these sailors sell their stories? After all, newspapers and television stations are paid to report the stories, their staffs are given salaries to assemble the stories . . . Why shouldn’t the sailors – the center of the story, the entire reason that the story exists in the first place – share in some of this money?

When news broke that the sailors would be generously reimbursed for their stories, the outrage was instantaneous. The disapproval exploded from within the media and spread outward through the public and into the halls of government, until even Tony Blair had to admit that it was a mistake. Liam Fox, the shadow Defense Secretary, claimed that the sailors were damaging the professionalism and dignity of the armed forces. Colonel Bob Stewart, British commander of the United Nations, accused the sailors of acting like reality TV stars. Rose Gentle, the mother of a British soldier killed in Iraq, said that the behavior was wrong and pointed out that none of the families of those killed in the Iraq war were profiting from their loss.

The primary reason that was given to justify the original decision to allow their stories to be sold was that the sailors’ families were being offered huge sums of money, and that it was best to “manage the situation”, as Mr. Blair stated. Someone was going to be paid, Mr. Blair seemed to indicate – why not at least pay the ones who were actually involved? It was the government’s way of cutting out the middle-man.

So we seem to all agree that it was wrong. But why? In this tabloid culture, when news travels the world in a heartbeat, what does it mean when a media organization crosses the line? And who even knows where the line is anymore? Was it wrong because they were in the military? Was it wrong because the issue pertained to serious world matters – rather than, say, a celebrity baby? Perhaps it was wrong because it seemed to damage the credibility of the news, implied that the truth was something to be bought and that some experiences were inherently worth more than others.

Furthermore, when an individual is paid enormous sums of money to tell his or her story, this creates a kind pressure, an expectation that the story will somehow be worth the money. There is a risk that people may feel a certain demand to embellish the truth in order to provide something that we’ll want to read. From here, it’s possible to foresee “witnesses” fabricating their testimony in order to make money, or newspapers giving bribes to boost their circulation, or people negotiating over what they’ll say to the press, depending on how much they’re paid.

Consider for a moment that the entire Iran/British sailor ordeal was in fact incredibly boring. Imagine that all they did was sit around, playing table-tennis, eating strange food and wearing bad suits. Perhaps this wouldn’t be worth a lot of money. But at least it would be the truth.

Ultimately, this story is not about the sailors, but instead about the media that cast them into the world. All of this only reinforces some of the less attractive qualities of the press. Media organizations do not merely exist to tell us the news. They profit from the news. They’re businesses. As with any business, exclusivity creates demand. The bigger the story, the greater the profit.

Idealists want to believe in a media that protects and enhances the democracy of a nation. The press that functions as a link between the government and the people: informing the people, ensuring that the government acts in the people’s best interests. But in a free market, with huge amounts of money cycling in and out of the system, the priority isn’t about some greater principle of democracy – it’s about business, it’s about drawing in readers, attracting viewers, selling advertising, and beating the competition. Without this, the free market media organization could not exist.

The problem is that this business motive has the potential to undermine the integrity of the media. When the greatest incentive is to attract customers, the institution has a tendency to follow the path that will lead to the greatest profit. As a result, we see “real news” merging with splashy tabloid gossip, until you can no longer tell the difference between one and the other. It is not enough to report the event, because after a while this event has been reported countless times already through countless outlets, meanwhile, there is still an audience to satisfy. New stories must be reported. The sailors were released from their captivity – they were still alive, World War III had been averted for another day – but the news had only just reached its climax. The media still had the public’s attention, more than ever before. And like any good business, the press capitalized on this demand. Until eventually, the story that eclipsed all other stories was about the media itself: it was revealed (by the media) that the media paid for the stories. And this became perhaps the biggest story of all. By this time, the news had begun speculating about itself. It was a postmodern conclusion to a strange ordeal: The media looking back at its own reflection, uncertain at what it sees.

Picture based on a photograph by Erika Sumanis, © 2006 .