Death of Bibhuranjan Sarkar and a documentary epitaph

Senior journalist and columnist Bibhoranjan Sarkar has left behind a message of grief for honest journalists in Bangladesh, which may be called his self-written epitaph. That epitaph has become a grim document of the miserable state of professional journalism in Bangladesh.

Before going missing, in the early hours of Thursday (August 21), he sent an article titled “Open Letter” to bdnews24’s email. As a note he wrote: “You may publish this as my last piece”. He reportedly also sent an SMS to one of his friends. It contained just one word: “Farewell.” On Thursday morning, he left his home without taking his mobile phone. He deliberately did not take it so that no one could track him. By Friday evening news came that Bibhoranjan’s body had been recovered from somewhere in Munshiganj. His body was found floating in the Meghna River.

Therefore, at this stage it is reasonable to assume his death was suicide. Perhaps he left home and, by bus, CNG or some other vehicle, or on foot, reached a bridge and jumped. He bid farewell to the world. He bid farewell to friends, relatives, companions, colleagues and even enemies. Then perhaps the ebb tide carried his body southward down the river. This is mere imagination. How Bibhoranjan Sarkar actually died may never be known, or may be known one day. But he is now free of burden, at peace.

The “Open Letter” that he described as his last piece should not be seen as a mere whim of personal hurt; not as the frustration of a freedom fighter who did not seek a certificate; not as the helpless account of an honest journalist. Rather this open letter, or this suicide note, is essentially a collective manifesto on behalf of all honest journalists in Bangladesh. A joint declaration on behalf of a profession bereft of professionalism.

Bibhoranjan declared: you who treat an uncertain and unprofessional activity like journalism as a “noble profession” and complacently take pride, you who call yourselves the “fourth estate” of the state and feel vain satisfaction—your ultimate fate is that of Bibhuranjan Sarkar, if you remain honest and at the same time try to speak and write with courage and integrity. That is why in his open letter Bibhoranjan wrote: “It is not easy to survive by writing the truth.” Who now dares to speak this truth—that survival by writing truth is not easy? Nowadays, if you tell the truth, you are labelled as a lackey of the previous government. In the previous government’s time, telling the truth meant being branded as a BNP–Jamaat lackey. This tagging of honest and courageous journalists has not stopped. In the post-uprising “new Bangladesh” this politics of tagging has become even more dreadful.

However, not all who are tagged, or have been tagged, are innocent. In every regime a large number of journalists have taken all kinds of benefits from the government and the ruling party. Especially during the ousted Awami League’s rule, many journalists became owners of hundreds of millions of taka by associating themselves with government projects and through various types of lobbying-trading, according to allegations. Yet countless journalists have also maintained absolute honesty and professionalism in journalism—and still do.

The reality is that the number of journalists who receive benefits is never very large. There is no scope for it. Not everyone has the chance to get close to power. Not everyone goes; many cannot. Yet countless journalists, without taking any state or party privilege, have been victims of tagging. They still are. Bibhuranjan was one of them. In his open letter, he wrote: “Only because of my unwavering position in favour of the Liberation War and secular democratic politics, I am still tagged as ‘Awami’. But even during Awami rule, I received no real reward. I received neither a plot, nor a good job. Instead, I remained unemployed for long periods and my debt burden increased.”

If we accept Bibhoranjan’s death as suicide, then it must be seen as a structured state and professional killing. Because in describing the crises of journalism as a profession, Bibhuranjan pointed to the state’s responsibility. Who will see whether the media of a country is functioning properly, whether professionalism is developing there, whether employees receive fair wages on time, whether institutions ensure arrangements for living with dignity? Will concern remain only about what journalists publish or broadcast against the government—or will anyone look after the condition of this large community itself?

Why should people like Bibhuranjan have to go to the Prime Minister’s Office to request assistance? He wrote: “During Sheikh Hasina’s rule many people in many guises have taken many facilities. At one stage, forgetting my shame, I too went to Sheikh Hasina’s court to seek help, but in vain. Many journalists got plots. I applied twice but failed. They say many people changed their fate by writing books on Bangabandhu and Sheikh Hasina. Yet for the two books of mine published by Agamee Prakashani, I did not receive a single taka royalty. That’s fate! But yes, once I had the chance to go to Singapore as Sheikh Hasina’s entourage. I got some pocket money for that trip. But that finished just buying a suit, shoes and tie—I even incurred more debt. Thanks to that trip I bought a suit, tie and shoes! I spent my life in sandals.”

Bitter as it is, the cruel truth is that journalism in Bangladesh is an emotional profession where you return home empty-handed. People join this profession out of passion. There is excitement. Then they become bound in a bond that most cannot break. But as the years pass, the job-insecurity increases.

Owners launch newspapers and television channels to advance their various businesses and schemes; but they make no provision for pensions for their workers; no provident fund. Before granting a Tk 2,000 increment, they curse the workers to their fourteen generations. Yet it is because of those journalists that their other businesses survive.

Suppose an owner has no other business except the newspaper or television—for whose protection he would use the media—yet even then there is no business model for that paper or TV. It runs as if for God’s sake, like an orphanage. His workers have no appointment letters, no regular and respectable salaries, no other financial or social security. Yet from those very journalists the people expect brave, factual and impartial journalism.

A person who has no certainty of his own job, whose own salary is not fixed, reports live on garment workers protesting for unpaid wages.

It is hard to find another profession as unsafe and insecure as journalism. It is riskier than being a day labourer. Because a day labourer gets paid if he works; but employees in countless media organisations go months without pay. Yet they continue working. There is no guarantee when they will get their dues. As a result, many go astray. They turn to schemes and deals. If given the chance, they take government favours. But not everyone does this. Even if all wanted to, not all could. It requires special eligibility. Those without it meet the fate of Bibhuranjan Sarkar.

Journalism in Bangladesh is such a profession where with age and experience your job security declines, the market shrinks. Owners begin to see you as a burden. They are happy if a senior leaves, because on his salary at least two new recruits can be hired. But the time, talent and labour required to become a Bibhoranjan has no value to the owner. Thus, in the end one has to write a suicide note and jump into the river—or find some other way.

The man whose writings once made the weekly Jaijaidin hugely popular; who held key positions in Dainik Sangbad, Weekly Ekata, Dainik Rupali, Weekly Chaltipatra, Mridubhashan, Dainik Matribhumi; whose columns were published regularly in almost all the dailies and online outlets of the country—if that man, in the final stage of life, has to struggle to buy medicine, then what is the value of that honesty, that courage, that patriotism? Why should “sorrow be the last companion” of an honest journalist?

If the honesty, courage and patriotism of an honest journalist cannot even ensure his food, clothing and medicine—why would educated young people enter or wish to enter this profession? And if the educated and talented truly do not enter, then the void will be filled by half-educated, partisan, touts and crooks. If the country’s media one day really falls into the hands of the dishonest, the half-educated and the partisan, then journalism will cease to exist. There will remain only praise of the powerful, and rumours-lies-propaganda—that will push the country into deeper darkness.

Amin Al Rashid: Journalist and writer