survival

In the trunk of his battered 10-year-old Ford sedan, Larry Gross stores half a dozen scarred yellow folding chairs. The chairs, strewn among volleyballs, softball equipment and long-discarded papers, are essential equipment for a man who spends much of his life arranging and attending meetings.

Gross is a professional organizer, a man whose career is measured in meetings. He sets up his chairs everywhere in the tiny city of West Hollywood, in the dingy church office where he works, in the clean, well-lighted offices of City Hall, in cramped apartment common rooms and in sparsely furnished election headquarters.

What he accomplishes at those meetings often has immediate impact on the fortunes of the 16-month-old city. With the aid of a small band of young leftist activists and a loyal army of elderly Jewish tenants, Gross has built a potent grass-roots version of a political machine and become the city’s most commanding power broker.

Formidable Power Bloc

In the process, his Coalition for Economic Survival has transformed itself from a Los Angeles-based fringe pressure group with limited successes in rent control and street demonstrations into West Hollywood’s most formidable power bloc. No other organized group in the city wields as much influence or inflames as much controversy.

The coalition and its supporters have elected two of the city’s five council members–both of whom face reelection on April 8–and are priming for a third. Some of its volunteer members have wangled key appointments to the city’s commissions. Others have been hired in policy-making posts in the city’s fledgling bureaucracy.

“West Hollywood is (the coalition’s) oil gusher,” said Ron Stone, who led the city’s incorporation movement. “They’ve dug holes all over Los Angeles, but they never struck deep until they came to West Hollywood. They worked hard here and they deserve the rewards.”

The coalition’s primacy has alienated many of those who are accustomed to holding power. Landlords are roused to fury by the mere mention of Larry Gross’ name. Businessmen worry that the coalition’s continuing dominance will cost them profits. Rival politicians are jealous of the group’s clout. Even some council members seethe privately at the coalition’s refusal to compromise on minor political issues.

“CES is run by a very small group of people,” said Tony Melia, an insurance man who chairs a faction of moderate businessmen challenging the coalition for political supremacy in the April election. “They are a mystery to us all.”

Grist for Criticism

Nearly every move that the 34-year-old Gross makes as director of his coalition becomes instant grist for criticism: Passing folded notes to Mayor John Heilman and Councilwoman Helen Albert (both coalition members), Gross is accused of controlling their votes. Taping a flag over his office desk, he is branded a Communist (Gross described the flag, which has been taken down, as a United Farm Workers banner; his enemies say it was a hammer and sickle). Shaving his wispy beard and wearing suits instead of flannel shirts, he is said to be cleaning up his act for public consumption.

“People set me up as the enemy all the time,” Gross said. “They do it out of fear and envy. They really don’t have the foggiest notion of what CES is all about.”

Gross’ Hold on Coalition

Their obsession with Gross is hardly unwarranted. About 13 years after he founded the coalition with a group of peace activists and leftist leaders, Gross is the only original member left. Organizers and volunteers have come and gone, leaving because of “activist burnout,” because they needed a better-paying job or because of personal or philosophical conflicts. But Gross remains.

Although ostensibly a democratic organization, the coalition has remained securely in Gross’ control. His partisans say he is central to CES because of his natural leadership abilities; former members and enemies attribute his endurance to Machiavellian political cunning. But in the end, many who have watched Gross say he remains in control of the coalition because he simply is the coalition.

“Our success all trickles down from Larry,” said Jacqueline Balogh, the coalition’s membership director. “Without him, CES wouldn’t exist.”

Gross is a lean, fox-faced man who has a closet athlete’s fascination with competitive sports and a weakness for interrupting his organizing activities to attend Dodger and Laker home games.

He tries to keep his private life shielded from public scrutiny. “I don’t like the focus on me,” he said in a recent interview. “It’s the organization and what it has accomplished that’s important.”

Friends and former acquaintances say Gross lives in a sparsely furnished rented duplex in Echo Park. Five years ago, he made barely $500 a month at his job. These days, he makes more, but declines to reveal a figure. He still drives his decade-old Ford despite its growing list of automotive maladies.

His voice bears traces of a Queens accent that becomes thicker when he excitedly addresses crowds. “The landlords are trying to say rent control is not an issue in dis campaign!” he roared to an enthusiastic hall filled with senior citizens early this month. “The reason is dey don’t stand for strong rent control!”

Odd Man Out

The accent is one of the few facets of Gross’ activist life style that he has not polished. His is a career that began at Forest Hills High School in New York, where Gross found himself odd man out among fellow students in the late 1960s. “I was the only radical on campus,” he said.

He is the son of divorced parents. His father, a trade school teacher, lives in Miami; his mother, a volunteer with the Simon Wiesenthal Center, lives in Los Angeles, not far from West Hollywood. Both were influences on his burgeoning activism, his father as an active union member, his mother as a Holocaust survivor.

“What she went through outraged me whenever I thought about it,” Gross said.

Often joining older college students in peace marches at Central Park and other anti-Vietnam War activities, Gross graduated from high school with few prospects. He took a job as a clothing store salesman, but in 1972, came to Los Angeles to visit his mother, who had moved here.

Extending his stay by taking political science classes at Los Angeles City College, he became active in local efforts to drum up support for the impeachment of President Richard Nixon. Drifting between activist groups, Gross in 1973 became involved in new union of peace and civil rights organizations which was protesting Nixon’s cuts in social service budgets.

The umbrella group became the Coalition for Economic Survival. “They had a little flat on Vermont Avenue with a small file cabinet in the back,” said Rosa Factor, an early coalition volunteer. “It was real small-scale. Larry was a lot different in those days. His hair was long and frizzy, hippie-style.”

Strong Points

The group’s forte was picket line protest and street theater. Demonstrating against high milk prices in 1974, coalition organizers toured inner-city shopping centers, urging a boycott. Gross and his fellow activists spoke from the back of a pickup truck, where they mounted a purple papier-mache cow named “C. Brunel Cow” after then-state Agriculture Secretary C. Brunel Christensen. At a later demonstration, protesting a Pico-Union expansion of a Pep Boys warehouse complex, Gross and his followers marched to the chant: “Manny, Moe and Jack! We want our buildings back!”

At first preoccupied with consumer issues such as rising bus fares and utility costs, the coalition managed to win favorable coverage in newspaper and television reports. They had little influence, however, on the commissions which made the decisions.

Skyrocketing rents that accompanied Los Angeles’ real estate speculation fever in the late 1970s gave the coalition a ready-made issue. “We cut our teeth on rent control,” said Norman Chramoff, a former coalition member who now works in West Hollywood’s rent control administration. “That’s when CES membership grew and grew.”

The new members were senior citizens, outraged that their rents were doubling and tripling, often in the span of a year. After learning to live on fixed incomes, many elderly tenants became afraid that they would be evicted from apartments where they had lived for years.

Remembering the horrors of the Depression, many seniors feared a return to poverty. “Anybody who lived through the Depression can’t imagine how scared we were,” said Martha Newman, a woman in her 60s who is an ardent coalition supporter. “CES saved us from that.”

Limited Victories

The coalition promised relief from the surging apartment rental rates. In a series of political confrontations with landlords, the coalition won limited victories. Although it did not get the strong rent protections it wanted, the coalition did help push a moderate rent control law (4% annual rent increase) through the Los Angeles City Council. In Los Angeles County, the coalition pressured supervisors, but was only able to help pass an even weaker rent law in 1979 (7% annual increase).

In November, 1983, a coalition-sponsored referendum failed to persuade county voters to adopt a tougher rent control law. Because of overwhelming support among senior renters, the referendum did well in West Hollywood–passing there by a 5-1 ratio–but it was not enough to keep rent control alive. That vote, which led to the expiration of county rent control in 1985, set the stage for West Hollywood’s incorporation battle.

By that time, the coalition had made deep inroads into the city’s elderly community (estimated at 40% of the area’s population). Those inroads proved crucial in the 1984 incorporation election.

Gross estimates that 2,000 of the coalition’s 5,000 members are in West Hollywood. Political observers of all stripes in West Hollywood agree that in an election year campaign, the coalition can command upwards of 2,000 votes–a significant block among West Hollywood’s 19,000 registered voters.

“West Hollywood is sort of our flagship,” Gross said. “We have a tremendous opportunity here.”

The city’s elderly tenants also provide the coalition with much of its financial support. At coalition meetings, organizers pass around empty fried chicken buckets, which are often returned brimming with cash and checks.

Several allegations of discrepancies in the coalition’s finances were reported to county officials last year. But Candace Beason, a prosecutor in the county district attorney’s investigative division, said her department has declined to investigate them. “They were relatively minor complaints,” she said last week. “The case is closed.”

Since its incorporation victory in November, 1984–in which two coalition members, Heilman and Albert, were elected to the council and the coalition aided the election victories of council members Alan Viterbi and Valerie Terrigno–the coalition has worked to consolidate its power.

New Headquarters

Late last year, the group moved its headquarters from a cluttered office on Pico Boulevard in Los Angeles to a cluttered office in the Crescent Heights Methodist Church in West Hollywood. Working at night, amid old metal desks and boxes sagging with files, coalition organizers quickly felt at home in the new city.

But, as with nearly everything they do, coalition organizers found themselves under attack, this time just for moving into West Hollywood. Landlords, Republicans and businessmen tried to pressure church leaders and city officials to evict them but the CES has stayed put.

The coalition–and Gross, in particular–are under constant fire. During the 1984 incorporation election, he was branded a Communist by Jewish Defense League activist Irv Rubin. Rubin claimed then–and maintains today–that he has “inside information” proving that Gross visited Cuba as a guest of Fidel Castro.

Gross labels the charges “the ravings of the far right.” Despite continued whisperings about “hidden agendas,” landlords and other political enemies of the coalition have never proved their claims.

But at least half a dozen former coalition members say they were invited by some coalition organizers to attend Marxist study meetings and similar functions. One former member, Mark Siegel, who is now chief deputy to Los Angeles Councilman Joel Wachs, said that he was asked several times to join a Marxist study group. He declined.

“The thing is, (CES) was such a loose group,” Siegel said. “There were all kinds of philosophies floating around there. We certainly weren’t being directed from Moscow.”

Both Gross and Heilman also admit that some members have been philosophical Marxists. “But we have Republicans among our steering committee people, too,” Gross said. “We even have one person who sells Amway products. Should we throw them out for that? I don’t think it really matters.”

‘I’m Scared’

“Of course it matters,” argues Tony Melia, who heads West Hollywood for Good Government, the group opposing the coalition in the April elections. “We want officials who choose for us, without any hidden agendas. If the rumors I hear are true, then I’m scared.”

Gross and his followers have also been portrayed as dogmatic and unwilling to take part in the compromises that are the basic components of small-town politics. “That is my one real gripe with them,” said Councilman Stephen Schulte. “There’s no middle ground to them.”

To that criticism, Heilman responds: “I don’t call that being dogmatic,” he said. “We stand for certain principles. Why should we deviate from them?”

Arguments over covert Marxism and political rigidity, however, mask the nature of the real power struggle in West Hollywood. Perceived as the most influential organization in the city, the coalition’s apparent clout is envied by groups that have had less sway with the City Council.

“At least until this election is over, they (the coalition) have the appearance of the most-organized political entity in town,” Schulte said. “One doesn’t confront them lightly.”

Those who do can expect to become enemies. When Melia unveiled his Good Government group earlier this year, he portrayed it as a rival of the coalition for political clout in West Hollywood. Gross immediately branded the group as a “front for the landlords.”

While it is indeed probable that the landlords would prefer victories by Good Government candidates in the April election, Gross immediately set into motion “an us-versus-them situation,” according to community activist Bob Conrich.

Black and White

“They have no gray areas,” Conrich said. “Larry’s convincing his elderly constituency that the landlords are waiting behind every corner to gouge them. It’s an effective political tactic, but it’s dishonest and it sets this city up for the same situation in every election. Larry will set someone up as a tool of the landlords and then try to knock them down.”

Such was the case earlier this month, when coalition organizers filled a hall at Plummer Park with senior citizens and raised the threat that the city’s rent control ordinance was in danger. “This election is going to be a big battle,” Gross said. “They have the money. They had it last time. But we have the people.”

It has been harder for the coalition to bring out their people when the heat of an election has cooled. During last year’s rent control battle, landlords far outnumbered tenants at public hearings on the proposed law.

Still, in rent control votes and in pressing for an affordable housing policy with the city’s interim growth ordinance, the coalition lived up to its reputation. On other votes, though, without obvious backing of its elderly constituents, the coalition has found itself sometimes limited in its influence over council decisions.

That became embarrassingly obvious to coalition organizers when the council refused to exact concessions from the Pacific Design Center in return for a planned major expansion. Heilman and Albert, backed by coalition lobbyists, pushed for fees that would have paid for a day-care center and provided seed money for a community development corporation. But in the end, the two council members gave up their fight.

Close Votes

The coalition has even had trouble getting some of its members appointed to city commissions. In close votes in recent months, the coalition’s candidates for posts on the city’s Transportation and Human Services commissions were defeated and the coalition even was unable to prevent landlord leader Grafton Tanquary from winning a spot on the Affordable Housing Task Force.

Schulte, Melia and a number of other political observers say such defeats indicate a lessening of the coalition’s clout. “I don’t think they loom as high on the horizon as they did six months ago,” Schulte said. “They haven’t kept up the pressure.”

But Gross and other coalition members say those defeats were minor ones, offset by gains achieved in a less obvious area–political organizing among the city’s 89% tenant population. The coalition is trying to win more allies among the apartment dwellers for future elections.

In recent months, Gross and his fellow organizers have shown up weekly at apartment buildings scattered throughout West Hollywood for “house meetings,” small receptions where they explain the new rent control law to tenants and answer questions about other concerns.

Last month, Gross showed up at one building to explain the details of the city’s new rent law to six tenants. As a radio faintly played “The Poet and Peasant Overture,” Gross set up his folding chairs and waited for his small audience to arrive.

The meeting lasted just over an hour. The conversation did not get beyond the level of after-dinner chat. But in the eyes of many West Hollywood political observers, the coalition’s dependence on such seemingly insignificant meetings may provide the key to its future influence.

“They do the groundwork that no one else in West Hollywood is willing to do,” said Councilman Viterbi. “They’re out there all the time, making new contacts, renewing old ones. No one else in this city has the patience or the manpower to do that. As long as they keep it up, they’ll be a force to reckon with.”

Comments on the Coalition

Incorporation leader Ron Stone: “West Hollywood is (CES’) oil gusher.”

Rival coalition leader Tony Melia: “CES is run by a very small group of people. They are a mystery to us all.”

Councilman Stephen Schulte: “At least until this election is over, they (CES) have the appearance of the most-organized political entity in town. One doesn’t confront them lightly.”

Councilman Alan Viterbi: “They do the groundwork that no one else in West Hollywood is willing to do.”

Richarlison had given Robert de Zerbi’s disappointing side hope, after Enzo Fernandez and Andrey Santos gave the hosts a deserved two-goal advantage, when Chelsea‘s combative left-back Marc Cucurella unceremoniously dragged Spurs defender Micky van de Ven to the floor.

It came as Mathys Tel prepared to take a corner and Spurs demanded a penalty that never came, their disbelief doubled when Cucurella was cautioned over the incident.

Video assistant referee (VAR) checks detected his foul came seconds, maybe even one second, before the ball came into play, meaning a penalty could not be awarded.

Referee Stuart Attwell could only take action against Cucurella with a yellow card, and once VAR confirmed the ball had not been kicked there was no room to initiate a review and subsequent spot-kick.

Former Chelsea and England striker Daniel Sturridge told Sky Sports: “One second difference and it is a guaranteed penalty. Cucurella is so lucky.”

It was the tightest of calls.

Spurs boss De Zerbi refused to dwell on it, but said the Everton game was arguably “more important” than the club’s Europa League final against Manchester United last season, which they won in Bilbao.

He added: “It is not my business. My business is to focus on preparing the next game and to get the points we need because Sunday is the final for us.

“This game is important, more than playing for a trophy. Last season ended with playing for a trophy. We play for something more important than a trophy because of the pride and history of the club.

“You can win a trophy but it does not change anything. The most important thing is the pride and dignity of the club, so that we can go on holiday, in the Premier League.

“We have to stay alive. Sunday against Everton is a big day for us.”

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.