survival

In one of the world’s most deprived and volatile regions, HumAngle’s reporting and experience reveal that journalists in Nigeria are not just observing suffering but are pulled into it as they try to report it. Consequently, they say, they find themselves paying out of pocket to feed the people whose stories they are trying to tell.

In theory, the profession is expected to observe some emotional distance from its sources and the stories they tell. However, that model is inoperable in conflict-affected regions of northern Nigeria and the Sahel.

Journalism here is embedded in environments shaped by violence, poverty, and dense social networks. Since these variables affect people at random, the reporter is not an outsider; sometimes, the conflict directly affects them as well. Ethical decisions are then made under pressure, repeatedly, and often without the comfort of certainty.

HumAngle operates in this space. Its work across Lake Chad, Central Africa, Nigeria’s Middle Belt, the North West, the South East, and other conflict zones forces a confrontation with a difficult question: What does ethical journalism look like when the people you report on are not just sources, but individuals whose survival may intersect directly with your presence?

The limits of imported ethics

Global journalism standards discourage payment for information, and while exceptions exist, they do so under strict editorial oversight, a clear public-interest justification, and transparency. Journalism teachers say that, though these frameworks are expected to provide clarity, they don’t in conflict-affected Nigeria, where the assumed context doesn’t apply. The ideal context has clear distinctions between sources and service providers and functioning identity systems. This is hardly obtainable in conflict-affected environments.

Dr Kabiru Danladi, a Mass Communication scholar with the Ahmadu Bello University in northwestern Nigeria, says, “Our curriculum borrows heavily from Euro-American ethical frameworks – objectivity, detachment, neutrality – principles rooted in relatively stable societies. The failure becomes evident when our graduates are deployed to cover issues that weren’t directly taught in class, or they are sent to cover conflicts in places like Zamfara, Sokoto, Kebbi, Borno, Yobe or Benue, where journalism is not just a profession but a survival exercise.”

Dr Obiora Chukwumba, a researcher and media expert in Abuja, identifies the same problem in the moral obligation created by field contact. “There is no ethical barrier to a journalist intervening on grounds of goodwill to assist a source who is in a vulnerable position,” he said.

The reality of field reporting

A fixer in Zamfara, where terror groups continue to kill, abduct, and loot, is not simply an access broker but may also translate, assess risk, and act as a negotiator in certain environments. A driver in Borno, North East Nigeria, may carry more situational intelligence than any formal briefing. An intermediary in the southeast may navigate relationships across vigilante groups and separatist networks.

These individuals are essential. Without them, our reporters’ access vanishes. But they are also embedded in the same systems the journalist is trying to understand, which creates layered risks, including legal risks that emerge when payments made for legitimate services are later interpreted as material support. 

Barrister Joseph Danboyi, a senior lawyer in Jos, North Central Nigeria, says, “Payment to a fixer creates liability if the journalist knew his connection with criminals. Ordinary payment for information is insufficient. The journalist will be aiding and abetting when payment is purposefully linked to criminal conduct.”

He goes further to add, “The practical bottom line is that a journalist who unknowingly pays a criminal for information is generally not liable… liability requires knowledge… and intent to help or further it.”

This distinction between knowledge and intent anchors the legal reality that sits beneath field decisions. 

Dr Obiora also treats fixers and access arrangements as part of newsroom operations, not automatically as ethical breaches. “Parts of the routine (investigative) costs tied to the operations of a newsroom include such services as engaging fixers, obtaining access to a reasonably considered newsmaker, and appreciation handouts,” he said. “They are all legitimate operational costs.”

There is no procedural checklist that eliminates these risks. What exists instead is a need for structured awareness and disciplined judgment in newsrooms.

The Knifar women: A case that reshapes the debate

HumAngle’s engagement with the Knifar movement brings these tensions into focus. The Knifar women are part of a grassroots movement shaped by prolonged suffering. Their husbands, sons, and brothers were detained during military operations, often for years, without trial. In many cases, these men were the primary providers, and so their absence triggered cascading consequences for these women, including food insecurity, poverty, and social fragmentation. The women organised into a pressure group to demand accountability for the detention of their male relatives.

HumAngle’s reporting amplified their efforts, influencing outcomes that ultimately led to the release of over a thousand men that the women were advocating for. 

Our work required prolonged engagement with the women, whose daily reality was defined by deprivation. In some instances, our journalists provided stipends. In other cases, some of these women became part of the reporting process as fixers and contributors with fixed incomes in our newsroom. We have even given some of them ‘additional reporting’ credit for their work. Since they are both sources and resource persons for our newsroom, we are often clear about what we are paying them for – their work, not their information. We have spoken publicly about the dynamics of our relationship with these women, including in a Pulitzer Centre-supported documentary.

Kunle Adebajo, a renowned award-winning investigative journalist, reflects on his own experience in being moved to provide money to vulnerable sources: “I’ve often had to pay vulnerable sources. This is because the majority of them live from hand to mouth and rely on wages from daily labour to get their sustenance, and so such interviews could be very disruptive and uncomfortable for them. Oftentimes, they also have to transport themselves to meet at the interview location. The sums given were trifling, and there was never an understanding that the interview itself was transactional. 

Dr Obiora agrees that the understanding must always be clear. “If the source or interviewee presents the personal need to overshadow the reason for the meeting with the journalist, then that could be a red flag,” he said, “pointing to potential compromised narrative or ‘adjusted facts’ from the source or interviewee.”

When observation is not enough

Journalists are trained not to pay sources because it could risk distortion and affect credibility, but what happens when the people you are interviewing live in destitute conditions?

“I met residents, elderly men and women who could not feed themselves, who could not afford basic healthcare. I met a father who lost his wife to a particular ailment, and whose two kids are still suffering from the same ailment. Yet, he could not help.”

The award-winning journalist said he felt compelled to help. “I offered to buy meals for some of them through my fixer. Yes, I offered them some cash to buy what they needed. When I got back to my hotel room that evening, I actually cried. I felt the depth of these people’s suffering.”

He is not unaware of the ethical grey spots in giving money to sources. “Ethically, I did not really care at that point whether offering them some cash would be seen as an inducement. I told myself that I had to act as a human being at the moment and drop the toga of ‘a journalist’ at that point.” 

Dr Danladi understands this and says that “Students must be taught that they are a journalist, yes – but they are also human beings. Refusing to help in the name of ‘objectivity’ can itself be an ethical failure.” He says that liability only becomes possible “where the journalist knows or is willfully blind to criminal activity… or where the payment itself is tied to illegal conduct.”

Another journalist from southwestern Nigeria, who declined to be named, described facing similar situations in which his sources were suffering. 

“They had had to eat rotten food sourced from the nearby markets, and sometimes they went days without eating anything because their husbands, who provided for them, had been killed. I saw that most of their children were malnourished and looked so skinny. It was such a touching situation, and I couldn’t help but give them some money that I had with me so that they could buy food and cook.”

The practice of support

Payment for content implies a transaction because it links money to information, but support that exists independently of reporting is different. It protects the integrity of the story while still acknowledging the reality of the environment.

Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu, an award-winning journalist and newsroom manager, said that though in her early days as a journalist, she could not resist the urge to help vulnerable sources, she has now learned to favour long-term external support. “Now, I connect them [the vulnerable subjects of her story] with NGOs… or make it possible for society to donate directly to them or through an independent third party like a fixer.”

In cases where reporters have to provide any form of support, journalism scholars like Obiora say documentation matters. Record decisions and rationale for such actions while in the field. According to Obiora, “one of the most important structures for documenting and reviewing ethical footprints in the newsroom is within the internal editorial space.” He proposed an Editorial Board of Line Editors, chaired by the title editor, and another layer through an Editorial Advisory Board, where “it would be necessary to bring the platform’s legal advisor as a member.”

“These steps will not protect you from state action if authorities choose to act,” a senior security official said. What they only do is to protect the integrity of your journalism, he implied. They help you draw a line between necessary support and inducement, between humanitarian assistance and conduct that could be interpreted as enabling someone directly or indirectly tied to the crime you are investigating.

The unresolved tension

Speaking more to the legal position of a source, unknown to the journalist, being tied to criminal activity, Danboyi reiterates that a journalist who unknowingly pays a criminal is generally not liable, as exposure begins when there is knowledge, or when you consciously ignore signals that should raise concern.

Consider the fixer a journalist has worked with closely. Not a transactional contact, but someone embedded in the reporting process, with days, sometimes weeks, spent together. The journalist has covered his meals, made stops at his home during fieldwork, supported him beyond the assignment, helped with school fees, and contributed when his child was ill. Then, months or years later, the fixer is named in a crime. The record of the journalist’s relation with him exists: Transfers, messages, shared locations. A traceable history of proximity that can be turned into proof of complicity.

A different kind of responsibility

The Knifar women’s story forces a reconsideration of responsibility and demands a different approach to how journalism ethics is taught and judged. “We graduate students who know the code, but cannot survive in the field,” says Dr Danladi.

Dr Obiora returns the question to dignity. “A journalist whose interaction with a source contributes to lifting the source’s dignity has discharged his or her obligation professionally.”

In environments where silence sustains suffering, the act of telling a story, and the way that story is told, carries consequences beyond journalism.

Like the milieu in which they’re set, prison movies can be terribly constricting. Often focusing on well-worn themes of masculinity, regret and redemption, they feature (and sometimes indulge) rough-hewn portrayals of tortured characters suffering through physical and emotional tumult. Inherently compelling but also a shade predictable, the genre promises a tantalizing glimpse at a terrifyingly macho world — one that most of us are fortunate not to know firsthand.

Cal McMau’s feature directorial debut hardly reinvents the formula, but it does remind audiences what remains so sturdy about the premise of an ordinary man trying to stay alive behind bars. And thanks to the latest impressive turn from rising star David Jonsson, “Wasteman” even finds a few new notes to play within a familiar stark melody.

Jonsson is Taylor, who has been serving 13 years in a U.K. prison for a drug deal that went tragically wrong, leading to an accidental death. Soft-spoken and overly accommodating, the young man mostly wants to avoid trouble, allowing himself to be bullied by cell-block thugs Paul (Alex Hassell) and Gaz (Corin Silva) while offering to cut their hair in exchange for the pills that fuel his addiction. Taylor has learned to go along to get along, existing in a zombie-like state from the perpetual high he chases.

But Taylor’s stasis is interrupted by the news that he may be granted early parole. (The overstuffed U.K. penal system needs to shed nonviolent prisoners to make room for dangerous offenders.) Longing to reconnect with his estranged teenage son Adam (Cole Martin), Taylor can see the light at the end of the tunnel — until the arrival of Dee, his new cellmate.

Played by a snarling, coiled Tom Blyth, Dee swaggers whereas Taylor shrinks. Seeing his new home as his kingdom, Dee quickly becomes the prison’s chief supplier of whatever you need — sneakers, candy, drugs — while ferociously asserting his dominance. (Early on, Dee slashes a fellow inmate’s face, recognizing him as someone who once ran with a rival crew.) Taylor adapts to the volatile situation as he always has, serving as the unthreatening beta, eventually earning Dee’s trust and friendship. Soon, Dee takes an interest in Taylor, ordering his lackeys on the outside to give Adam gifts that they claim are from his dad.

“Wasteman” introduces this odd-couple scenario and then waits for their fragile coexistence to rupture. Accustomed to being the prison’s top dogs, Paul and Gaz don’t take kindly to Dee invading their turf, resulting in an escalation of tension that puts Taylor’s parole at risk. But if much of “Wasteman” follows an expected trajectory, the film’s conception of Taylor proves thornier than anticipated.

Although probably best known for the HBO series “Industry,” Jonsson has demonstrated a dazzling range over a short period of time, including acing romantic dramas (“Rye Lane”) and dystopian thrillers (“The Long Walk”). But what unites his diverse roles is the sense of a sensitive, intelligent actor who constantly makes us wonder what he’s thinking.

Jonsson’s silences always seem to say so much and in “Wasteman” he capitalizes on his reserved demeanor and smaller frame to create a character who is much less frightening than those around him. Unlike Dee, he’s no hardened criminal, merely a guy who made one stupid mistake to financially support his child, and “Wasteman” initially encourages viewers to sympathize with this delicate soul who’s been thrown to the wolves.

Gradually, though, Jonsson complicates our feelings about Taylor. Equally desperate to be freed and to keep getting high — essentially escaping one prison while remaining in another — he slowly reveals himself to have little in the way of principles or ethics. When Paul and Gaz confront Dee, Taylor’s response is so cowardly that it’s pathetic, suggesting a spinelessness that bedeviled him long before he wound up in jail. The film presents Taylor as a kindly spirit, which turns out to be little more than calculated self-preservation.

Within the confines of a fairly conventional prison drama, McMau dissects an anonymous nobody who discovers that, both in prison and in life, there are consequences for not taking sides. Despite Dee’s savagery, Blyth portrays Taylor’s cellmate as loyal and honest — someone who believes in a personal code of conduct. The movie’s bitterest irony is that, of the two men, it’s ultimately Dee who may be more honorable.

McMau’s attempts to amplify the story’s grim authenticity occasionally fall flat. (Inspired by footage shot by actual inmates with contraband cellphones, the first-time director incorporates stagey inserts meant to re-create these intimate, graphic images.) He’s on firmer footing exploring his two leads as they square off inside this smoldering crucible. Like Jonsson, Blyth hints at a whole universe inside his character simply by the way he quietly listens and observes. As Taylor’s parole looms, the stakes grow. By the time “Wasteman” reaches its ambiguous finale, our loyalties are far from clear-cut.

Jonnie Park has always gone by many names. The most Google-able is his hip-hop moniker “Dumbfoundead,” which he’s gone by for decades as a seasoned battle rapper and an artist who’s put out a jaw-dropping 13 albums while becoming one of the kings of legendary Leimert Park hip-hop crew, record label and open mic Project Blowed. As a resident of L.A.’s Koreatown since childhood, he’s still known as “The Mayor of K-town.” To his friends, he’s just “Dumb.” Of all the aliases and titles he’s fought for, “author” might seem to be the most unlikely. But as a professional when it comes to producing scathing hot bars in battle raps, it felt only right to put his journey down the warpath of rhymes on paper in his debut memoir “Spit: A Life in Battles,” released April 14 on Third State Books.

The memoir (which includes a foreword by Park’s longtime friend, R&B star Anderson .Paak) recounts razor-sharp memories starting from childhood, including the harrowing story of his family’s immigration from Argentina to L.A. when he was 3. He talks frankly about the perils and prejudice of growing up Korean American in Southern California and thrusting himself into the hip-hop scene, where, after stumbling in as an outsider to Black culture, he ultimately found his voice on stage. It speaks to the foundation that later served him well as an actor, podcaster, comedian and recently TV writer for season 2 of the hit show “Beef.” But he says his reputation as a battle rapper is the one that will always matter most.

Recently Park spoke to the Times about the hardest parts of writing his new memoir, the importance of Project Blowed and taking his underground rap mentality with him from the gutter to the stars.

For your memoir you purposely take the parts of your life from childhood until about age of 30, the peak of your hip-hop career. What was it like to go back and take that journey again?

To me, it’s always kind of the core of who I am. Even as a multi-hyphenate, I always say I’m first and foremost a battle rapper. It was such a pivotal moment at a time in my life and I take that label with me wherever I go, so it doesn’t feel too distant. But to actually be in that arena feels very distant. I look back and I just think about the audacity of a young Asian kid in that world. I’m just like “Wow, I really had the balls to do this at one point.” And I still love the subculture of battle rap. It’s something I’m a part of and a story that I want to tell in all these other mediums — whether it’s screenwriting or developing a TV show, I still feel like there’s a lot to be done with that subculture.

Why was it important for you to help your readers learn about the technical aspect of battle rap and what it takes to be a battle rapper?

There’s a lot more layers to it than people know. Obviously we know Eminem’s “Eight Mile” was the height of the story of where battle rap got to, and it did a great job of that. Obviously it’s been many years since then. But I also wanted to let people know that the people involved in this subculture aren’t just in poverty trying to make it out and get on a record label. This is a real subculture that people obsess over and I just wanted to find an excuse to nerd about it and also teach people this kind of new era of battle rap. I also highlight some of my peers really deserved it, and including the open mic I went through called Project Blowed. That’s the one thing I love about this book is that I can immortalize some of my personal heroes and places that I hold dear to my heart.

But mechanics of how our brains work when freestyling is something I find interesting. People always ask me “How do you guys freestyle or battle?” And I was really nervous about explaining it. I just didn’t know how I would do that. I had the help of my co-author, Donnie Kwak, who I’ve known for many years. He’s never written a book either, but he’s just kind of like a big brother to me and we’ve had many conversations about this. So being able to break that down was really cool for me. And I still really love that chapter about freestyling and battling for dummies.

Dumbfoundead’s memoir “Spit” chronicles his rise through underground battle rap, offering deeper insight into the subculture.

(Lenne Chai)

What was it like for you as you were discovering your voice through open mics at Project Blowed?

Project Blowed freed such a big part of me. I think when I saw the other rappers there, and they were taking [rapping] to heights I never imagined, the styles of raps that I would see here, from there, were so unorthodox. At that point, I was listening to everything on the radio along with mix tapes and stuff. But this was not even that. This wasn’t even like the underground mix tapes. It was the most raw and purest form of rap. It was so weird and abstract, even for me, just the young Korean kid at the age of 14 that hadn’t gone south of Pico Boulevard, growing up on Third Street, and all of a sudden I’m on 43rd. It was like another world for me. Next thing I know, I’m immersed in this world where there’s black kids that are into anime, punk rock and rapping their a— off. And I’m like, “This is insane!” So it did a lot for my perception of everything, more than just hip-hop.

Why was it so important for you to kind of showcase your Korean from not only the standpoint of a rapper but also as a writer?

Definitely the Korean American part was very important to me, because we see Korean culture, Korea especially being this global powerhouse, and what we know of it is the “Squid Games,” and the K-Pop of it all. And so I did want to share this more in the perspective of a Korean American. Even more specifically, in Southern California, in Los Angeles, there is a different vibe of Asian American life than the rest of the country. I’m the epitome of that. A lot of our parents have these wholesale businesses downtown or dry cleaners or liquor stores. Growing up in K-town, a lot of Korean families have a dad who’s an alcoholic, and there’s a lot of domestic violence situations. I think through my story, a lot of people will see themselves in these situations.

Jonnie Park, a.k.a. Dumbfoundead, writes in his memoir about growing up in Koreatown.

(Third State Books)

I think it also just speaks to all the different layers of struggle, battles that you and your family have gone through. Were there any aspects of this book that were really challenging for you?

The hardest part was definitely writing about my father, and knowing that this book is going to be out in the public because it’s so revealing. There’s affairs, there’s businesses that he worked at that are named. These families do exist — I grew up with that family that my dad had an affair with. I don’t talk to them or anything, but it’s all in the book. And I did want to be honest, I just felt like this is a place to do it if I’m going to do it. I don’t know if my dad will read it, but if it ever got translated into Korean, he’s definitely reading it. I still don’t have a great relationship with my father and I just feel like there wasn’t, there’s not much of a closure to that still. And maybe the book will help open up some new conversations between him and I. So that part was a little difficult, and also talking about some of the domestic violence in my house. Growing up with my dad and my mom, it made me feel for my mom a lot.

The beginning and the end is the most difficult part, because the end really discusses kind of like that insecurity as an artist, and where I’m at in my life as an artist, seeing a lot of my friends becoming extremely successful. I really wanted to be honest about that. The book doesn’t necessarily end with me being triumphant and feeling at ease.I still feel that as an artist, and I think that’s why it’s just an ongoing battle.

Describe what that’s like having come out of that underground rap scene and showing your skills to the world in TV and film while holding on to that underground mentality.

Even being in a writer’s room for “Beef” Season 2 — that was my first writer’s room — felt like a cypher. Knowing when to jump into the conversation at the right time, and knowing when to fall back. That just tells you that the skills that I acquired from freestyling and battle rap, I was able to take into the real world and apply it in so many different places.

I think it’s so interesting that I got that “Beef” Season 2 gig because the showrunner and the creator of the show really loves my perspective on Asian American culture on my podcast [“Fun With Dumb”], just based off of that. I got to a place in my life where I just felt very comfortable being vulnerable and self-deprecating through all the things I’ve done in battle rap. I was able to apply it to podcasting, too. And to have that humor and wit and that vulnerability, that comedic sense that I’ve acquired from battling and freestyling, one thing just led to the other. I still have the same kind of slate of stories and ideas that I’ve been trying to get made for many years. That includes stories on battle rap, K-town and being Korean, American. Those are always kind of the things I take with me to whatever I’m trying to make right now, and maybe once I make those, I can move on, but I’m still working on that.

Liverpool went into their Champions League last-16 tie against PSG last season with a 74.4% win rate under Slot after 43 games.

Since being knocked out on penalties, the Reds have won just 49.2% of their past 59 games, while their loss percentage has more than trebled.

Slot has retained the support of Liverpool‘s owners and has credit in the bank after last season’s Premier League triumph – but that is likely to change if they do not qualify for the Champions League.

The Reds either have to win this season’s competition – which seems unlikely after Wednesday’s performance – or qualify through finishing in the top five in the Premier League.

They are currently fifth – one point ahead of sixth-placed Chelsea.

“Slot is not going to get sacked for losing 2-0 at PSG,” said Warnock.

“They are one of the best teams in Europe. But the defeats are stacking up, and there’s the danger there could be more damage next week.

“It is going to suit PSG next week because Liverpool have to go at them.

“They can’t play like this and sit in at Anfield, when they need goals.

“But what does Slot do? Liverpool‘s system tonight screams ‘you are better than us’. If he opens up, they leave themselves vulnerable and they could get battered.”

Captain Virgil van Dijk accused the team of “giving up” against City last weekend, when Liverpool conceded four times in the space of 20 minutes either side of half-time.

After losing to PSG, he insisted the team would not give up on their Champions League ambitions.

“We shouldn’t forget we play against the European champions of last season and you see the quality they have in the games that they played already this season,” he said.

“We have to be absolutely spot on with everything we do.

“Hopefully our fans can play a big part in that as well. I’ve been through many special evenings at Anfield, I’m very lucky and privileged, and our fans, that’s the backbone of the club and hopefully they can be there for us again.”

WASHINGTON — The House on Monday approved allocating an extra $30 million to community and migrant medical centers, a move aimed at reducing infant deaths.

The bill, passed on a voice vote, requires the Department of Health and Human Services to give spending priority to centers that serve high-risk areas and to population groups with high infant mortality rates.

The bill was sent to the Senate, which passed a similar measure Aug. 6. Conferees will work on a compromise between the two.

The Reagan Administration opposes the legislation. It has proposed instead to test innovative ways of providing services to Medicaid-eligible pregnant women and infants up to a year old.

When the House Energy and Commerce Committee approved the House version last month, several Republican members called it unnecessary and said they found no reason to believe the extra spending would help more newborns survive.