Kept in the dark, by decree or by choice

Barbie Zelizer

is the Raymond Williams professor of communication and director of the Scholars Program in Culture and Communication at the Annenberg School for Communication at the University of Pennsylvania

Which places get reported on by journalists has always been a problem in the news. But Tuesday's attack at Istanbul's Ataturk Airport is a poignant reminder of how much U.S. journalism's uneven regard for places in the news undermines the public capacity to understand and respond to distant violence.

The attack began roughly at 10 p.m. Istanbul time, putting it right at the center of the U.S. news cycle, midafternoon on the East Coast. That time slot made the incident a potentially productive topic of coverage for U.S. journalists. After all, the November terror attack in Paris had occurred around the same time and received widespread, even live, coverage worldwide.

But five hours later, as evening gave way to darkness in the United States, there was still little information to be had in its media outlets. Legacy news organizations either recycled video clips of airport travelers taken during the first moments of the attack, or offered rhetorical support for a war on global terror.

The provision of targeted information - details about the wounded or about how people were faring at the airport - was slow to follow. Social-media sites like Facebook and Twitter provided little more than enunciations of regret or postings by Turkish citizens safely situated elsewhere.

Much of the delay in reporting Tuesday's attack was caused by Turkish government censorship. Following strident regulations on the free flow of information set in place in April 2015, Turkish officials instituted a gag order within the hour over the country's media on grounds of "national security and public order." Prohibiting the distribution of "all news, interviews, and visuals regarding the incident," and banning information about the attack and attackers, official efforts also extended to social-media sites, shutting down local Turkish access to Facebook and Twitter.

Throughout the night, a shrunken image of Istanbul, held shakily in place by largely imagined but unexplained violence, prevailed. Even as Ataturk Airport reopened for airline traffic, it was accompanied by little information. The delay both prevented Turkish residents from sharing knowledge vital to recovery and deprived a global public from more fully understanding what had happened.

The uneven regard for places not immediately relevant to a news outlet's presumed audience is a long-held news convention. Back in the late 1970s, communication scholars George Gerbner and George Marvanyi drew visual maps that showed how divergent were the worlds reported by the United States and the Soviet Union. News in the United States focused on the United States, Western Europe, and the Middle East, with little coverage of the Soviet Union. Soviet coverage focused primarily on Eastern and Western Europe, with little coverage of the United States. Divergent views were further reflected in the world coverage provided by areas that saw themselves as aligned with one of the two Cold War media blocs.

Though the uneven coverage of Tuesday's attack was driven by Turkish censorship, it was exacerbated by a silent consensus of what works as news and of which places are necessary to know. The unequal regard given places in the news raises critical questions about journalism's capacity to respond to distant violence.

When journalism anywhere fails to cover places situated beyond its immediate comfort zone, the free flow of information is cut short. U.S. journalism is key to correcting its ramifications.

Tuesday's attack shows that when governments deny the free flow of information and stymie the activities of local media, journalists elsewhere need to step up their game, regardless of how much distance separates the news from its conveyors.

barbie.zelizer@asc.upenn.edu @bzelizer