Respecting the Fourth Pillar: Journalism Deserves Honour, Not Humiliation
Heramba Nath
In any functioning democracy, two voices stand as vital instruments of public participation and civic awareness—the voice of the people as represented through the press, and the voice of the people as translated through their elected representatives. Both are fundamentally rooted in the principles of accountability, transparency, and mutual respect. One questions power to inform the people, and the other wields power on behalf of the people. But when these two voices clash not on grounds of reason but through aggression and insult, it signals a decay in democratic values that must concern every conscious citizen. Assam witnessed one such disheartening episode recently during a televised talk show, where senior journalist and reputed editor Rajdeep Bailung Baruah was verbally attacked and humiliated by Abul Kalam Rasheed Alam, a sitting member of the legislative assembly (MLA).
The incident, broadcast before a wide audience, was not just a moment of personal disrespect; it was a grave assault on the integrity of journalism, a profession that lies at the heart of a democratic society. Rajdeep Bailung Baruah is a well-known journalist in Assam, respected not just for his editorial insights but for his patient moderation, fearless inquiry, and balanced approach to political discourse. In sharp contrast, the behaviour displayed by the elected MLA—using terms such as “nonsense,” “broker of government,” and repeatedly raising his voice while pointing fingers—was not just unbecoming of a public representative, but a visible display of intolerance and arrogance that ought to be condemned by all quarters of public life.
The talk show was meant to serve as a platform for informed discussion. Instead, it turned into a stage for political hostility, leaving the viewers disturbed and the journalistic fraternity deeply anguished. Rajdeep Bailung Baruah maintained his composure throughout, never once retaliating with aggression, despite being subjected to verbal provocation and high-pitched intimidation. The behaviour of Abul Kalam Rasheed Alam, who not only hurled accusations without evidence but gestured threateningly on screen, betrayed the dignity of his office and crossed the boundaries of civil conduct.
Political leaders are public figures not only during election campaigns or inside the assembly but also during media interactions. They are expected to conduct themselves with the gravitas that their office demands. When an MLA behaves in a way that resembles a street-level altercation rather than parliamentary decorum, it is not merely a personal failing—it is a failure of the political institution they represent. By pointing fingers and using loud, dismissive language, the MLA not only insulted a journalist but trivialised the very idea of democratic dialogue.
It must be said without hesitation that the media in India—and particularly in Assam—has never had an easy path. Journalists here have consistently worked under financial pressure, political risk, social backlash, and in some cases, even physical threats. Yet, they continue to do their job: asking questions, highlighting stories from the ground, and holding power accountable. They are not perfect, but their imperfection is balanced by their commitment. And it is precisely this commitment that seems to have become intolerable for certain sections of the political class.
When a journalist like Rajdeep Bailung Baruah moderates a discussion, his responsibility is not to protect any party or individual, but to facilitate a conversation where the public can witness the arguments, contradictions, and perspectives of their leaders. His neutrality, experience, and professional standing demand respect. To assault that role by calling him a ‘government broker’ is not only baseless but an outright insult to the media community as a whole. It is even more disturbing because such insults are often strategically used to delegitimise journalism, creating an atmosphere where dissent or questioning is painted as betrayal.
This event is not isolated. It is a mirror reflecting a larger trend where political leaders, increasingly intolerant of scrutiny, attack the very voices meant to keep them in check. The same hands that seek votes are now pointing fingers at the press; the same voices that demand to be heard during campaigns are silencing journalists during debates. This erosion of mutual respect is a dangerous sign, not just for journalists but for the public at large.
The democratic space in Assam has always valued the power of words, dialogue, and respectful confrontation. Be it in the traditions of Mahapurush Srimanta Sankardev or the intellectual clarity of Bhupen Hazarika, Assam’s socio-cultural legacy has celebrated debate without hostility, difference without division. The political conduct displayed that day stood in sharp contradiction to this legacy. Shouting over others, demeaning journalists, and displaying physical aggression—even in gestures like pointing fingers—are not signs of strength. They are signs of weakness, a refusal to accept accountability.
More than the act itself, what is troubling is the lack of institutional response. Until now, there has been no formal apology from the MLA. No public statement from the party he belongs to, distancing itself from such conduct. This silence is not neutral—it is complicit. It suggests that such behaviour is not aberrant, but acceptable. That finger-pointing on TV, calling editors brokers, and shouting down journalistic moderation is a new normal that we must learn to live with. This cannot be allowed.
If such episodes are normalised, it will not be long before journalists begin self-censoring. The next time a moderator prepares his questions, he might think twice about asking something that could trigger political wrath. The next time a reporter writes a headline, he might soften it, fearing backlash. This chilling effect is not theoretical; it is real, it is already happening, and this incident will only deepen that fear.
It is also important to examine why this attack happened. Was the MLA cornered by facts? Was he uncomfortable with the topic being discussed? Was the debate revealing something politically inconvenient? These are the questions that arise when politicians lash out without provocation. Often, aggression is a mask worn by those who have no answers, no facts, and no patience for truth. The louder the voice, the weaker the argument. And in this case, the argument collapsed the moment the insults began.
The responsibility of political discourse is not just to win arguments, but to maintain the quality of our public conversations. A leader’s real test is not in the heat of their words but in the strength of their listening. If an MLA cannot respond to a journalist without shouting, it raises serious questions about his ability to govern, to legislate, to negotiate with dissenting voices. After all, governance is not a monologue; it is a dialogue. And dialogue cannot exist without respect.
In this moment, we must stand firmly with Rajdeep Bailung Baruah—not because he is a celebrity, but because he represents every journalist who works with honesty, who believes that asking questions is not a crime, and that public accountability is not an insult. We must stand with him because the day we allow journalists to be humiliated on air without consequence is the day we declare our silence as acceptance.
We also appeal to the political community in Assam and across India: show leadership, not hostility. Condemn such behaviour openly. Reaffirm your respect for the media. Issue guidelines to party members about engaging with journalists in a manner befitting the values of democracy. Let this be a turning point where political leaders realise that the only strength they must show on screen is the strength of their ideas, not the loudness of their voices.
The media houses must also not stay quiet. Editors, reporters’ associations, press clubs—all must rise in defence of Rajdeep Bailung Baruah. Not because of the incident alone, but because silence will only invite more attacks. Statements of solidarity, legal safeguards, and public discussions on journalistic rights must be initiated. At the same time, the media must also reaffirm its own ethical standards, ensuring that debates do not become shouting matches, and that moderators are trained to handle provocation with dignity, as Rajdeep so commendably did.
The citizens too have a role. The public must understand that an insult to one journalist is an insult to the information they rely on. The next time a journalist is abused, the citizen loses not just a reporter, but a layer of truth. The public must demand accountability, not just from the press but from politicians who claim to serve them.
Assam has a long tradition of journalism rooted in sacrifice. From the freedom struggle to contemporary times, the Assamese journalist has always stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the common people. Whether reporting from flood-hit zones, highlighting the voices of the marginalised, or questioning unjust power, the press has consistently played the role of a moral compass. It deserves more than insults; it deserves respect and protection.
This episode involving Rajdeep Bailung Baruah is not just a journalistic concern. It is a societal moment. A test of how we treat those who ask difficult questions. A reflection of how much space we still allow for disagreement without disgust. And a reminder that power, when unchecked, quickly turns to tyranny—not always through violence, but through disrespect, through dismissal, and through humiliation.
Let us hope this unfortunate episode becomes a teaching moment. That Rajdeep’s calm in the face of aggression becomes an example. That Rasheed Alam’s behaviour is not seen as normal, but as a warning. Let this not be buried in the news cycle, only to be forgotten. Let it spark a larger reflection—on how we speak, how we listen, and how we treat each other in our democratic journey.
Because if democracy is to thrive, the voice of the people—whether spoken in Parliament or printed in the press—must be allowed to speak without fear, without insult, and without being silenced.