To begin with, a small note about myself: I am a student at the Joseph-König high school in Haltern, Germany. I knew both the teachers and some of the students who were killed in the Germanwings plane crash in the south of France on 24 March. I was not the best friend of any of the victims, and nor do I claim to be a representative or spokesperson for all of the students, but I would like to write about something many people I have spoken to have experienced: dubious methods of journalism when dealing with the grieving.
Let me start chronologically: Tuesday, 1.05pm. An announcement from our headmaster: all students should go home, something had happened, but the early termination of lessons should not be taken as a cause for celebration. Some already knew what might be happening. The date of the exchange with the Spanish school had been announced in the school newsletter, and some students use their smartphones in the classroom during lessons. All of us knew that the plane was supposed to land in Düsseldorf.
The first journalist on site came from the local press, at about 1.40pm. Given the proximity, that was perfectly legitimate. I was one of the last students to leave the building, at around 2pm, by which time two or three members of the press were there. By 5.30pm, when I had returned to school, the scene had started to resemble a human zoo, with the press behind their barricades ogling us students. Even though there was still not 100% confirmation of the deaths, there were already lots of tears. We felt as if the press were just waiting for our response to the final confirmation to film us, the emotionally destroyed people.
Wednesday morning was the climax of the madness. The barricade that was keeping the press in check was shifted about five metres back, and was by now crammed full of journalists. It had been obvious in advance that the media presence would be high. But the number that actually showed up surprised everyone. Imagine you are being observed from all angles and are supposed to weep freely. It basically meant that no one could really commemorate those who died.
Later, during the press conference at the new town hall, someone suggested that the students needed a protected space to handle the situation. But as we had already been filmed and interviewed on the way to school, we had already been affected before we entered the classrooms, so we were definitely not able to deal with the situation as we should have been allowed to.
Things got worse after that. One journalist reportedly put on an emergency pastoral care unit waistcoat to get access to the students. It appears that others approached mourners at the candles with a dictaphone in their pockets to record conversations; a mobile phone in a bouquet of flowers was allegedly used to take exclusive pictures. One person tried to disguise himself as a teacher – at a school that is so small that the roughly 80 teachers are known to everyone. How in the world could someone even come up with such a desperate idea?
Money was offered for interviews or records of the discussions in the early hours of Wednesday: in one instance, about €80 for an on-site interview. These interviews were not always requested from halfway mature students in senior classes, but also from innocent souls from the lower years. To make such deals with 10- to 13-year-old pupils is not only questionable, but borders on the criminal.
Phone calls, some of them in the middle of the night, added to a state of paranoid fear among the affected. One I heard of was particularly foul: someone pretending to be a young girl called one of the bereaved families. The conversation went something like this:
“Hi, I’m from one grade lower than [the deceased student]. I’m so sorry.”
“So you’re in year nine?”
“Yes, I think so. When is the funeral ceremony taking place?”
It must be dreadful when you are already in deep pain to then lose your home as a safe haven because it’s besieged by journalists. These ruthless journalists argue they were just doing their job – a face-saver we hear so often these days. But the public service broadcasters are often proof that it doesn’t have to be done this way: no speculation, no hunt for relatives, no interviews for money – and yet the same information.
Can you imagine how glad we were on Thursday evening when for the first time since Tuesday there were no reporters standing behind us taking pictures? The mood changed noticeably. After the tension of the days before, now finally the atmosphere was appropriate to the situation.
Funerals, funeral marches, annual commemorations: all of these events are yet to come in the small town of Haltern; 4 April is already set as the date of the official funeral march. And again, everybody expects to be the centre of attention. Our only hope lies in the anonymity of the crowd.
We want journalists to show that it is possible to report with decency and dignity on the relatives of the deceased victims and grief. We, the inhabitants of Haltern, would be pleased by a moderate array of cameras and less use of close-up lenses.
Dear representatives of the press: do you remember the promises that you once gave when receiving your official press pass? Show us that you are still capable of shame and compassion. Do not try to get the most exclusive footage at any cost.
Dear consumers of tabloid media: avoid reading the most sensational news. Reputable portals provide better information, less emotional agitation and are more objective in general.
In the end, it comes down to this: you, the consumers, pay the journalists who are willing to cross any boundary to appear on the doorsteps of affected families.