Postcards from Stanland

by David H. Mould

  At KRT, where journalists were still government servants, every presidential action, ministry press conference, and official visit by a foreign dignitary was covered. But Piramida’s journalists had no excuse for doing the government’s bidding. Too many items began with “A press conference was held at the Ministry of Agriculture,” “Delegates from Osh attended a conference at the Kyrgyz Technical University,” “A European Union seminar on structural reform took place at the Ministry of Finance,” and “The deputy foreign minister of Botswana visited the White House today.” The images were always the same. Speakers at a lectern or behind a long table, covered with a white cloth with a row of plastic water bottles. Conference delegates looking interested or bored out of their minds. Participants earnestly taking notes. Officials signing documents. Officials shaking hands. Officials receiving bouquets of flowers from young women in national costume.

  As I reviewed the items with the reporters and videographers, I posed two questions: What’s the story? And why should your viewers care? The story was not that a meeting, press conference, or seminar had been held. Sometimes, such events were newsworthy, but they should not be covered simply because they were scheduled. To do so put the journalists in a subordinate position, because officials were determining what was news. I asked them to think about issues that mattered to their viewers. They quickly came up with a list—jobs, housing, city services, inflation, taxes, health services, pensions, education, litter, dangerous drivers. “Maybe those are the stories you should be covering,” I suggested. If the starting point for deciding what’s news is not “Which meetings and press conferences and official functions are scheduled today?” but “What are people at the bazaars, at the bus stops, in their apartments talking about?” you end up with a different news program, one that is likely to resonate with viewers. Of course, these stories are not as easy to cover because they require research, interviews, and analysis, but that’s what makes the difference.

  A few months later, I wrote a report summarizing suggestions for news coverage, as well as recommendations on the scheduling of newscasts and technical issues. I didn’t know how management would react to a report that was critical of the station’s performance and feared it would be filed and forgotten. Instead, in a rare departure from the top-down management style I’d observed in other organizations, Andrey and the company president decided to ask the staff what they thought. The translated version was distributed to staff members (about fifty in all) at a meeting where decisions about expanding facilities and coverage were made.

  Searching for Independent TV Stations

  I’d like to report that Piramida was an independent TV station, free of political influence, but I can’t. Certainly, it had more freedom than KRT, but it still had to tread carefully on hot topic issues, such as ethnic relations, and refrain from criticizing leading political figures who had the power to withdraw its license, send the tax police to scrutinize the books, or lean on advertisers. Piramida President Adylbek Binazarov readily recognized the limits of freedom when he described his company’s policy to me: “Our first priority. No politics. Only information and entertainment programs.”

  In the murky world of media and politics in Kyrgyzstan in the mid-1990s, I never put much stock in labels. Foreign donors were always trying to classify media outlets as “government,” “nongovernment,” or “independent” so that they could decide which to support. The USAID contractor Internews claimed to work only with “independent, nongovernment journalists.” In principle, this sounded fine but in practice it didn’t work because journalists changed jobs, moving between government and commercial media. I argued that we should be trying to raise the professional standards of all journalists, no matter where they worked.

  Certainly, the government controlled newspapers and KRT’s radio and TV networks, but to claim that commercial media outlets were independent simply because they were not owned and operated by the government failed to grasp the complexities of the media landscape. Political parties, ministers, members of parliament, and wealthy individuals with political ambitions invested heavily in media to have a public forum for their views, especially at election time. One Bishkek commercial TV station was owned by a furniture magnate active in politics, another by the president of the state gold-mining concern. Even when political figures had no direct financial interest in a station, alliances were formed. Both parties stood to gain from the arrangement; the politician offered the station protection against interference from agencies such as the tax police or building inspectors; in return, the station provided the politician with a bully pulpit. Some station owners were open about their political agendas. Erkin Ala-Too, one of the two Kyrgyz-language stations in Osh, was closely allied with the city’s mayor. The station’s objective was “to ensure the election of a president from the south,” according to its director, Nurdin Isakov. “The TV station is a political instrument,” he said.

  Despite evidence that most media outlets had political ties, donors kept classifying and counting, trying to measure the growth of Kyrgyzstan’s “independent media sector.” In such calculations, scale or reach were rarely considered. It was assumed that the greater the number of “independent” TV stations, the greater the media freedom and access to information. Which brings me to a vexing question: What is a TV station? The question is not as silly as it sounds. Obviously, a TV station must broadcast over the air or by cable or satellite to an audience to qualify as a TV station. But that’s about the only criterion.

  In October 1997, I joined a Russian consultant, Lena Fomina, in Djalalabad, the third-largest city, to compile data on the four “independent” TV stations that were presumably producing critical news coverage of local issues and disseminating positive messages about democracy and free enterprise. How did we know there were four stations? The number was on a PowerPoint presentation compiled for USAID, so it must be correct, although the source was not cited.

  Lena and I found the first two stations, but the results were disappointing. Both boasted a “news and information block” but all the “stories” were sponsored, paid for by local businesses and government or nongovernment organizations. Our search for the third station took longer, but eventually we were directed to an apartment block on the outskirts of the city. There we found two students playing pirated movies they had bought at the bazaar and selling simple graphic ads. We never found the fourth station. The three we visited each broadcast for a few hours a week on government transmitters and had no full-time staff.

  To count these as “independent” stations, in the same category as Piramida with its fifty-plus staff and twelve-hour daily schedule, including newscasts—or even other stations with a smaller staff and fewer broadcast hours—was to grossly distort the media landscape of Kyrgyzstan. Yet such statistics, usually unverified, kept popping up in reports to donors, reinforcing the illusion of independent media in the island of democracy.

  The stations in Djalalabad were not the only ones hawking news. Faced with declining government subsidies or competing for scarce advertising revenue, some media outlets came to regard “news” as simply another commodity to be bought, sold, or bartered. The line between news and advertising was always blurred. Newspapers contained hidden advertisements for businesses, organizations, and individuals, while TV stations ran sponsored programs masquerading as news. There were occasional cases of editorial blackmail. A newspaper would threaten to publish a critical or unflattering story on an individual or institution; the only way to avoid publication was to buy a (presumably flattering) advertisement.

  Journalists in Kyrgyzstan faced direct and indirect pressures that limited their reporting. And so they learned to set their own boundaries. These boundaries were by no means stable or universally accepted; indeed, they shifted according to the political climate, economic conditions, or the attitudes of media managers and owners. But they were always there; almost every journalist I talked to could provide a list of taboo topics, or those, such as et
hnic relations, that could be covered only with great caution. If they went ahead, they might receive a “telephone order.” Sometimes, it came from a government official, requesting that the station drop a story or tone it down; sometimes it came from an advertiser with political ties; sometimes from a manager and editor. But most of the time, it was self-censorship. Journalists simply did not cover certain issues and avoided criticism of the rich and powerful. Those who did not conform might end up in court—or in jail.

  Honor, Dignity, and Truth

  Question to Armenian radio: What is the difference between the constitutions of the USA and the USSR? Both guarantee freedom of speech.

  Answer: Yes, but the constitution of the USA also guarantees freedom after the speech.

  —Soviet-era joke

  I met Ryspek Omurzakov in June 1997 at a reception at the US embassy to mark his release from prison. In his late thirties, Omurzakov was tall, studious-looking, and conservatively dressed. He could have been a teacher, a scientist, or a civil servant. He didn’t look like a crusading journalist, a prisoner of conscience. Indeed, he looked a bit uncomfortable as embassy staff and journalists buzzed around asking him about his experiences.

  Omurzakov’s crime was to “tell it like it is.” A journalist for the weekly Res Publika, he had written an article about conditions at a factory hostel in Bishkek where workers lived in cramped, unheated rooms infested with vermin. Omurzakov’s report was based on firsthand observations, interviews, and a petition signed by 108 employees, complaining about substandard conditions. In the mid-1990s, Kyrgyzstan remained one of the few countries in the world where libel was punishable as a criminal offense, with fines and prison sentences up to three years. The factory manager, Mikhail Paryshkura, filed a criminal libel suit against the journalist and Res Publika; Omurzakov was arrested in late March and held in prison until the case went to trial in May. Two factory workers who testified that the article was accurate were in turn charged with “disseminating deliberately false information” and named as codefendants. When the trial reopened, their testimony had mysteriously vanished from the record. Fearful of losing their jobs, no new workers came to testify on Omurzakov’s behalf.

  The trial did not focus on conditions at the hostel, in other words, on the accuracy of the report. Instead, the central issue was the “honor and dignity” of the factory manager; even if he was responsible for housing workers in appalling conditions, his public reputation had been impugned, and Omurzakov had crossed the line by criticizing him. The case demonstrated that in libel cases provable truth was not a defense, and that officials could use the threat of libel actions to silence critics. “The facts have nothing to do with it,” said Omurzakov. “The authorities want to teach independent journalists a lesson in this country, and I’m going to be their latest whipping boy.”3

  Amnesty International accused the authorities of “using criminal legislation in a bogus manner to punish and silence a prominent government critic.” In a letter to President Akayev, the New York–based Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) said: “While we recognize the right of individuals to file libel suits to protect their reputations, we deplore the use of such statutes by public officials to shield themselves from public scrutiny.”4 The government was surprised by the international reaction. Akayev’s press secretary, Kanybek Imanaliev, asked me to come over to the White House to explain what was going on. “Why are we getting letters from these advocacy groups?” he asked. “This is a domestic issue. People in New York should not be telling us what to do.” I told him, as politely as I could, that as long as Kyrgyzstan kept throwing journalists in jail, the government would keep hearing from human rights and journalism advocacy groups, and that the reports would circulate in international media through e-mail and listservs. “There’s no way that you can stop this,” I said. “Maybe the parliament should be thinking about changing the law.”

  Omurzakov was released in June after almost three months in jail. In September, he was sentenced to two and a half years in prison but released under an amnesty law. The Supreme Court upheld his conviction but ruled that he was guilty of libel under the civil, not the criminal code—a creative legal interpretation. Although Akayev publicly supported decriminalization, parliamentary deputies consistently voted to keep libel as a criminal offense, arguing that “without this provision there would be anarchy . . . politicians and public officials would be left unprotected from the lies printed by the media.” In April 1998, deputies voted to sue Kyrgyzstan’s most widely read newspaper, Vecherniy Bishkek (Evening Bishkek) for an article featuring a photo of five deputies, in which an interviewee called the parliament a corrupt and mafia-run organization. Another article accused one of the deputies, Omurbek Tekebayev, of illegal efforts to free his brother from prison. “As long as I am a deputy in parliament,” said Tekebayev, “libel will not be taken out of the criminal code.” His comments carried weight, for he chaired the Committee on State Structure and Judicial and Legal Reform. “The media use their power irresponsibly,” he said. “If I have to choose between freedom of speech and a stable government, I will always choose stability.” A new media bill introduced a raft of restrictions—from pornography to reporting on people under criminal indictment. As one newspaper put it, the prohibitions ranged from “tax evasion by politicians to Kim Basinger’s legs.” It was clearly a self-serving measure, because 117 deputies were under indictment for various crimes.5

  The debate over libel dragged on, with local journalists, media advocacy organizations, Western embassies and some politicians advocating for decriminalization, and parliamentary deputies opposing any change. Every couple of years, there would be a flurry of activity—a conference on media and the law, a petition to the parliament, a draft bill. Hopes were raised for a few months until more pressing political issues pushed libel off the agenda. It was not until April 2011, fourteen years after Omurzakov had gone to prison and after other journalists had spent time inside, that parliament voted to make libel a civil offense. Western governments and journalists’ advocacy groups hailed the decision as a landmark in Kyrgyzstan’s progress toward democracy. They should have known better because what the politicians give, they can also take away. In 2014, parliament reversed itself, passing by a vote of 85–6 a “False Accusation Law,” ostensibly to prevent the publication of libelous reports about people under criminal investigation. President Almazbek Atambayev dithered for a few weeks before signing it. The law makes “intentional defamation” a criminal offense, punishable by up to three years in prison. While some argued that the law will stop journalists using hearsay in reports on criminal matters, most observers saw it as a setback for freedom of speech, saying it could be used selectively to stifle investigative reports.

  Hillary’s Boxes

  It was November 12, 1997, and I was standing on a flatbed truck with a clutch of photographers and videographers, waiting for Hillary Clinton’s plane to arrive at Bishkek’s Manas Airport. My job, as explained to me by the USIS public affairs officer, Kelly Keiderling, was to hold a good camera position for ABC News, which was providing pool coverage for the US networks. I felt slightly overqualified to be a media bouncer, but held my ground as the plane dipped out of the clouds and the photographers pushed and shoved to find a good angle.

  The members of the American press corps came running from the plane to the press area that Kelly, two USIS staff members, and I were policing. A few minutes later, Mrs. Clinton got her cue and walked down the gangway to be greeted by the president’s wife, Mayram Akayeva, the US ambassador, and government dignitaries, before walking to a stage to make a brief speech. It occurred to me that only two types of plane park on the tarmac, with passengers descending by steps—those operated by cut-price airlines and those carrying political leaders. The first park out on the tarmac because they do not have gate privileges; the second use the steps as a photo opportunity.

  For days, USIS staff had been working to prepare for the whirlwind five-and-a-half-hour
visit. The schedule was planned, reviewed, revised, translated into Russian and Kyrgyz, and revised again. Press kits were compiled; they included “Visit of First Lady Hillary Clinton to the Kyrgyz Republic” notepads. Every newspaper and every TV and radio station in Bishkek wanted to cover the visit, so a press pool system had to be devised. Eleven US journalists were accompanying Mrs. Clinton on her six-cities-in-six-days tour—to Lviv (Ukraine), Yekaterinburg (Russia), Tashkent (Uzbekistan), Bishkek (Kyrgyzstan), Almaty (Kazakhstan), and Novosibirsk (Russia)—so to maintain balance eleven local journalists were selected to join them in the airport press area and at other events. The idea of a press pool was a novelty in Kyrgyzstan, and everyone expected disputes over who should be included. The government wanted more slots for KTR, and tried to drop Piramida. Kelly protested, and the government backed off.

  Preparations at the airport had begun the previous day. We had the driver pull the flatbed into different positions so that we could calculate the best position for shots of the gangway and stage, given the angle of the sun and the amount of backlight. Meanwhile, government officials were carefully positioning the small crowd enclosure. There were the questions about whom Mrs. Clinton was going to meet and in what order. Will Madame Akayeva step up to the podium from the left or right? Do we need twenty-five flag-waving children, or will twenty be enough? The airport event was held to mark the donation of two truckloads of medical supplies by the United States to a charity run by Madame Akayeva. This called for a backdrop of boxes, and officials shuffled them around to frame exactly the right image behind the podium. “OK, let’s try it with five across the bottom, and let’s get the welcome banner two inches to the right.”

  From the airport, Mrs. Clinton was driven in a motorcade to the city to speak at the formal inauguration of the new Kyrgyz-American University, visit a women’s poverty alleviation project at the Osh bazaar, and have lunch with the first couple at their summer residence in the mountains. The heavily choreographed visit ended with a meeting with the “American community” in the airport VIP lounge. It lasted only fifteen minutes. Mrs. Clinton and Madame Akayeva spoke, and posed for pictures with children, including Pushkin’s protector from the dvor, Laura-Marie. Then Mrs. Clinton was off again. In Almaty, they were already lining up the flatbed truck, and arranging the backdrop.