Kant, Mill, and the Bankruptcy of Modern Mass Media

Kant, Mill, and the Moral Bankruptcy of Modern Mass Media




Submitted in partial fulfillment for the
Bachelor of Arts degree in the Program of Liberal Studies




1. Introduction and Purpose

The popularity of media ethics in the United States certainly has grown rapidly in the recent decades. The trend could be attributed to a growing, public disapproval of media practices and an increasing amount of amateurism in mass media due to competition from technological advances which allow ordinary citizens to switch into reporter roles. But the cause of increased interest in media ethics, a field which ought to, at the very least, mention some philosophical background, is not up for debate. This essay will address the lack of a principled, ethical groundwork to facilitate ethical decisions in mass media. The elements that moved me to write this essay are similar to the emotions stirred up in Immanuel Kant when he composed his Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals, a significant work in developing his moral theory. He says in the preface:
Morals themselves remain subject to all sorts of corruption as long as we are without that clue and supreme norm by which to appraise them correctly.
(Groundwork, 4:390)

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The morals in media ethics have proven to be incomplete, as proven by the amount of scandals even at the most prestigious outlets. The current solutions to problems in media ethics appear to be panels of accomplished ‘media ethics experts’ and forums both in public places and on the internet, where people merely spout feelings and opinions without valid reasoning behind arguments—far from a respectable dialectic, “a mere groping about” (Critique, B viii).
The goal of this essay is to shed the ambiguities in modern media ethics by searching for fundamental moral laws that can successfully guide decision-making in professional journalism. Two traditional ethical theories will be critical in the pursuit—Kant’s moral philosophy, specifically his use of the categorical imperative, and John Stuart Mill’s Act Utilitarianism. By examining the two systems and applying them to general ethical dilemmas in modern journalism as well as particular, real-life situations, perhaps this essay will assist in providing some guidelines and principles to future decision-making in the journalist’s occupation. It is very disappointing to find media ethics books that merely mention Aristotle, Kant, or Mill in their introductions and then proceed with a series of case studies or general examples of ethical issues without further reference to some of the traditional ethical theories, as if they suddenly lose all significance when the journalist is faced with a serious moral situation, and these systems can only serve as an entertaining accompaniment to reality. I seek to reposition the current field of media ethics within its intellectual ancestry of traditional moral philosophy. Just as wonder ought to coexist with thought through the entire development of a philosophy, so should general ethical philosophy permeate the moral policies in modern journalism.
Before diving into any argument, I should clarify some terms and limits of this essay. By ‘journalist’ or ‘reporter,’ I am describing the journalist in the common, professional sense. The journalist works for an organized media outlet that seeks to accurately report the news and inform the public. I am not delving into citizen-journalist philosophy—that everyone has a journalistic responsibility and is therefore a journalist; nor am I including independent bloggers or pundits that often exist outside of journalism’s traditional system of writer/editor. I will not deal with topics concerning technological advancements, such as describing the different liberties a major news outlet and an independent blogger often take in covering a story. I will not delve into the struggle between media outlets and their corporate interests in depth; a discussion of business ethics misses the points I wish to make here. All that will be said is that competition has certainly led to a laxness in media ethics because it gives a media outlet weak excuses in decision-making, e.g. “if we don’t report the story, the hundreds of outlets that compete with us will. So what difference does our decision mean in the grand scheme?” While the argument might matter to an investor, it should not matter to a loyal and well-disciplined audience. I will not include writing for the sake of entertainment, rather than informing, in my definition of journalism because that style is of a broader category.
I will not discuss the role of the editor’s decision-making—e.g. the location of a story in a news broadcast or the page number in a publication or choosing to publish or not to publish a story. That and other topics concerning the newsroom’s hierarchy are more appropriate for a larger project. In this particular essay, the ethical dilemmas will be handled by the individual reporter. His editor or producer may take the liberty to make decisions for him, but all of the cases and topics in this essay will be affected by the reporter’s personal moral choice. A reporter cannot expect an editor to take full responsibility for his mistakes or transfer culpability to his editor’s judgment. Assuming so would defeat the purpose of a reporter having any moral responsibility in media ethics and reduce the journalist to a robot that merely conveys details with no conscious, ethical decisions concerning a story’s content or the way in which it is covered.
I do not wish to paint a picture that the journalist has a unique role in the amount of ethics training required in his line of work, but the amount of attention that is paid to the members of the occupation in upholding its standards is noteworthy. I am not denying that the fields of medicine, business, politics, law, and several others all must abide by similar moral laws—sometimes with human life at stake. Because the journalist’s duty, however, is so public and open, their moral shortcomings interest the average citizen to a greater extent than most other ethics violations (with a few exceptions). Since the media as a whole are largely responsible for how the public receive any information, when there is corruption at the very start of that process, the public may also wonder about the extent to which the vice has spread. The journalist needs a firm grounding in daily decision-making to be prepared for extreme cases where the journalist’s reasoning may be called into question after the fact.
I will proceed by providing a brief background of both Kant’s and Mill’s moral philosophies. Then I will illustrate the flaws in the majority of current literature in the field of media ethics and argue for media ethics as a subfield of moral philosophy. Next I will give real examples of common controversy in the journalist’s decision-making capacity. Using the discussion of Kant and Mill from the previous sections, I will demonstrate how moral philosophy is not only applicable, but also a necessary guide to modern media ethics.

2. Kant and Mill

Kant’s moral philosophy in his Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals stems from the concept of a good will. For Kant, an individual’s “moral worth” lies in his will. There is nothing higher that rational beings have any control over than the will. The will is internal, and if its intent is good, an individual will perform good actions necessarily. The good will is unique in that its nature, insofar as it is good, is unconditional—unlike other goods which are either conditional on other elements or dependent upon the existence of a good will. But the good will is only conditional or dependent on itself. As scholar Allen Wood points out, Kant argues that consequences which arise from luck or fortune may cause individuals to “infer that they deserve to be better off, and this arrogant delusion frequently contributes both to prudential unwisdom to moral evil.” These external goods or feelings of happiness that exist independent of the will have no relevance in a discussion of a system of morality because they are simply a product of chance. Kant can discuss the will because all moral beings have it, and its value is, as Wood says, “the basis for a scheme of values.”
Another aspect of Kant’s theory is the concept of duty, which makes the will “shine forth all the more brightly” (Groundwork, 4:397). Duty, defined as “the necessity of an action from respect to moral law,” allows us to distinguish between acts that are performed in conformity with a moral law and acts that are performed out of the recognition of a moral law (Groundwork, 4:400). Kant’s example features a shopkeeper who prices his items honestly, not for the sake of being fair, but to maintain a steady intake of customers. Kant argues that this type of reasoning misses the point of performing duty out of a good will. “An action from duty has its moral worth not in the purpose to be attained by it but in the maxim in accordance with which it is decided upon” (Groundwork, 4:399). By “maxim,” Wood notes that Kant means “principle of volition.”
The next step is determining what this law must be. Kant says that since the will has been stripped of obeying everything else,
nothing is left but the conformity of actions as such with universal law, which alone is to serve the will as its principle, that is, I ought never to act except in such a way that I could also will that my maxim should become a universal law.
(Groundwork, 4:402)

The principle works because it involves the execution of acts out of a good will, and all who simply have a will also have the capacity to participate in this universal law. According to Kant, the human will crafts “understanding, wit, judgment and the like, whatever such talents of mind may be called” (4:393). When the will acts rightly, it produces “qualities of temperament” (4:393). The will can also act harmfully when it misuses the “gifts of nature,” but for Kant, this all traces back to his notion that nothing is greater than this notion of a good will.
The second part of Kant’s Groundwork delves into the concepts of imperatives, that is, the formulae for a command, as objective principles for the will (Groundwork, 4:413). Kant distinguishes between a hypothetical imperative—a principle as means to achieve another purpose—and a categorical imperative—a completely unconditional principle. Just as the good will’s nature is so great because of its unique unconditionality, so too is the superiority of a categorical imperative over a hypothetical imperative. Kant concludes that there exists simply one categorical imperative: “Act only in accordance with that maxim through which you can at the same time will that it become a universal law” (Groundwork, 4:421). The categorical imperative can be expressed in several different ways, leading to other rules concerning morality, but subsequent laws relate back to this single formula. Any moral law must be categorical because “its function is to tell us not how to reach some prior end of ours based on what we happen to want, but rather commands us irrespective of our wants or our contingent ends, and is therefore not conditional on any of them.” From this principle, Kant develops several different formulae which act as practical laws for ethics including: “So act that you use humanity, as much in your own person as in the person of every other, always at the same time as an end and never merely as a means” (4:429), “The idea of the will of every rational being as a will giving universal law” (4:431), and “Act in accordance with maxims of a universally legislative member for a merely possible realm of ends” (4:433).
After establishing this principle of morality and its manifold expressions, Kant proceeds to apply it in common examples, which I will omit for now, in an attempt to keep the focus on the theory’s principle itself. He later emphasizes that an individual “must be able to will” that the particular maxim can become universal law (Groundwork, 4:424). While the definition of the categorical imperative does not mention the will explicitly, Kant wants to make sure his audience does not forget the significance of a good will.
One should also note that Kant’s universal moral system cannot be reduced to the categorical imperative, but rather the categorical imperative acts as a principle for, as the treatise’s title suggests, the metaphysics of morals. For Kant, it is necessary that individuals do not act in a means-to-an-end manner because each individual moment is an end in itself (4:428). For example, if an individual A does harm to individual B in an attempt to rescue individuals C & D, the harm done to B as an act has value independent of what happens to the individuals C & D. It is also important to note that by Kant’s principle, it is morally necessary for humans to act, not just in accordance with, but out of respect for the rational nature of other humans. Hence, Kant’s example of the shop owner that keeps prices moderate out of a principle of fairness to his customer base, not out of an external greed to maximize profit. If an individual respects his own rationality, under Kant’s philosophy, he necessarily must respect the rationality of another.
In another practical example, an individual should not lie to someone, even in an attempt to fight injustice. Lying is inherently wrong because one would not reasonably desire it be done universally and therefore lying should not be permissible as a means to achieving some other end. Individuals should do away with acting for the purpose of a larger end because that action (and its corresponding thought), in itself, has value, and therefore, is its own unique end as well. If one adopts a system of action out of indirect means, this perspective provides license for individuals to use the life of other humans as means as well, as Kant notes (4:433). An additional issue is that rational beings do not have complete control over their ends. When an individual takes the liberty of ignoring a principle in an attempt to achieve a greater end, there is no guarantee that the greater end ever will be achieved—in some cases there might not be an increase in probability. If an individual always acts with his actions’ individual ends in mind at all time as a matter of principle, this corruption in reasoning will not be possible.
Kant’s system also appears fair because it treats all humans equally, insofar as they have reason. Reason is a higher point for judgment because it serves as an access point “in metaphysics to the a priori elements in practical experience.” Once people start acting out of those lesser elements in their soul, Kant says, the idea of a moral law is no longer possible because it will not abide by universal reasoning (4:434). Hence, there may be no exceptions given to the universal laws derived from the categorical imperative. For example, the act of lying has an inherently corrupt moral quality in it, even when an individual lies in an attempt to achieve good, as Kant notes in a brief essay titled, “On a Supposed Right to Tell a Lie From Benevolent Motives.” Committing the act itself is a violation, not only to the individual to whom the lie is told, but also to “mankind generally, since it vitiates the source of justice.” Kant provides an anecdote that if an individual lies to a murderer that the man he is looking for is not at home, when as far as he knows, the man is there, the individual is responsible for all consequences thereafter because “truthfulness is a duty that must be regarded as the basis of all duties founded on contract.” In fact, as far as the individual knows, while he has been speaking with the murderer in the doorway, the man who was hiding in his house may have escaped out the back door. And should the murderer come across the man as he leaves the house down the street, it could be argued that the individual’s lie played a significant role in leading to the murder. Kant says, “But if you have strictly adhered to the truth, public justice can find no fault in you.” This notion of adhering to the principle for the sake of itself, even though at first glance, violating the principle might appear to benefit others, will play a significant role in the anecdote provided towards the end of the essay.
While Kant’s system may seem beyond reality or reasonable application because of the principle’s priority to, rather than conformity with, action, the formula which dictates that humans can never be used as means to an ends, including the agent, makes Kant’s transcendental reasoning somewhat more tangible. He seeks to find the ethical principle that exists completely unconditional of all other principles to begin his moral philosophy. We can see how his philosophy can now be applied to real, moral dilemmas before proceeding, armed with an ideal and lofty rule of acting just as we would want all other human beings to act. This formula concerning humanity, often coined the “Formula of Humanity as End in Itself” will be relevant for some of the individual cases discussed when the discussion in the essay turns towards the ethical dilemmas which modern journalists face. Before exiting the discussion of moral philosophy altogether, it is time to discuss Mill’s system of morality to point out some of the differences between morality from duty (deontology) and results (consequentialism).
Mill’s theory declares “that actions are right in proportion as they tend to promote happiness, wrong as they tend to produce the reverse of happiness. By happiness is intended pleasure, and the absence of pain.” (Utilitarianism, ch.2, p. 55). The theory declares the morality of an act depends on its (expected) consequences. The point is that utilitarianism quantifies its means and ends, allowing the individual to weigh alternatives before acting rationally. Rawls notes that utilitarianism seems to unite the notions of “good” and “right,” which are necessarily distinct, though not necessarily divorced, in Kant’s ethics. Rawls argues that “right” and “good” should not be two different separate concepts in an act utilitarian system —perhaps defining the good as “satisfaction of rational desire.”
Rawls later says that the unique feature of utilitarianism is that “it does not matter, except indirectly, how [the] sum of satisfactions is distributed among individuals any more than it matters, except indirectly, how one man distributes his satisfactions over time.” The end of utilitarianism is acting in a way that achieves the highest good for the greatest amount of people.
The utilitarian argues that moral actions need to be evaluated based in terms of the action’s consequences rather than the intention of the agent. Intentions may play some role in Mill’s philosophy, but he is not absolutely clear on this point, and it may stray from his main argument for act utilitarianism. Goodness and happiness are only realized in actuality, so it does not matter what means one takes to achieve this end as long as the end is realized. An action is morally good if its consequences are good. For example, if Kant’s shopkeeper maintains fair prices for his customers, the happiness of the shopkeeper and customer are the relevant details. Perhaps the shopkeeper is acting in accordance with some ethical principle, but for Mill the consequences of the action and the happiness of the individuals involved are emphasized as a greater concern. Critics have argued that this system seems more practical for specific situations. An individual can easily imagine a situation where doing something ordinarily considered wrong might be a more attractive pursuit: lying, cheating, or stealing in order to save human life—the goodness of the end’s value greatly cancels out the wrongness of any of those means for the act utilitarian. Whereas the Kantian system relies on a fundamental principle that guides all actions, it can also be criticized in that it traps individuals into acting against what they might think of as common sense. Mill views ethics as a science that requires the individual to evaluate every single situation and calculate the potential utility in each action. Mill explicitly criticizes the categorical imperative in Kant’s Groundwork, arguing that when he attempts to “deduce from this precept any of the actual duties of morality, he fails” (Utilitarianism, ch.1, p. 51). Whereas Kant is concerned with the conditions for moral principle, Mill is already concerned with matter.
Mill argues that this doctrine of utility certainly is a principle in guiding human morality. He does not want to restrict the possibility of any action at any given time as being evil qua evil because of the possibility of a worse end looming in the distance. For Mill, lying for one’s own good has some qualitative difference from lying in an effort to do the best of one’s ability in a moral situation—a clear example of a difference between Kant’s and Mill’s theories. Cheating to win the lottery is different from lying to convince a dictator to save the lives of innocents. By adhering to a single, individual principle, such as Kant’s categorical imperative, Mill does not believe that this would necessarily lead to a highest good—which is critical for his concept of ethics. Therefore Mill introduces his own principle concerning the greatest good—that a system of ethics should lead human beings to adopt a principle leading them to the greatest happiness (Utilitarianism, ch. 2, p. 36).
It is important to note that although Mill uses the term “pleasure” as what all humans seek, this should not be interpreted in a selfish, hedonistic term that some current connotations may indicate. By the term “pleasure,” Mill simply defines an object of desire. Rawls adjusts this definition to an object that satisfies a “rational desire” to avoid any hedonistic interpretations of utilitarianism. To distinguish the qualities of pleasures, Mill simply says that “if there be one to which all or almost all who have experience of both give a decided preference, irrespective of any feeling of moral obligation to prefer it, that is the more desirable pleasure” (Utilitarianism, ch.2, p. 56).


3. The Judges in the Field of Media Ethics

With a clearer understanding of two ethical systems, it is time to examine some of the literature available concerning media ethics. A major problem in current works on the subject is that the authors offer several case studies without any solutions. Although this may not come as a surprise, it should be cause for concern that the questions are more popular than the solutions—a concept that could be tied to the general lack of precise moral reasoning in modern media ethics. The shelves of books that deliver case studies only to end chapters with sets of questions rather than the author’s individual thoughts on the matter—in fact, somewhat forcing the reader to labor in the book’s construction without receiving any royalties for filling in the blanks!—dangerously and implicitly suggest that there is neither a correct answer worth defending successfully and (more importantly) that there is no certain incorrect answer in the given situation (that is to say, if everyone is right, then no one is wrong).
Almost as popular as the academic literature that provides the case studies without the arguments for reasoning are the books that deliver principles grounded by reason and moral codes without any suggestion of how these rules and regulations would come into play in the individual ethical dilemmas. The books that have the rules do not provide examples, and the books that give examples do not promote any helpful rules. Combining the two separate entities does not make for a peaceful whole, either. Documents such as the American Society of Newspaper Editors Statement of Principles (ASNESP) appear helpful framed on a wall, but out in the field, they are not clearly connected to helping a reporter determine how to cover a story as accurately or fairly as possible. The ASNESP declares principles of freedom, truth, impartiality, and accuracy, but it offers no answer in cases that involve conflicts of these values. Although it may be difficult to rank these goals and ideals (perhaps at the risk of a broad generalization), the ASNESP would serve as a more useful guide if it subscribed to or at least suggested a value hierarchy rather than blandly stating a laundry list of vague and easily misunderstood ideals. The ASNESP and other documents of the sort read more like robotic oaths rather than useful references for ethical decision making.
Understanding the relation between theory and practice is necessary for any progress in the field. If some scholars simply provide examples as thought experiments, there are no facts given, no arguments made, and nothing to discuss between audience and author. If other scholars offer principles or creeds with no real grounding or example, the audience is forced to rely on the author’s wisdom as an authority, without any understanding of the relationship between the rules and their use.
Other sources push the problem back a step without really addressing the issue. Conrad Fink, a college professor in newspaper management and a former reporter, emphasizes handing off ethical issues to an editor or boss. While there is nothing wrong with this advice, it seems rather intuitive for a person who wants to keep his or her job to come to a superintendent when a question arises. What should the editor do? That question must be answered in another book, because it does not appear in Fink’s work that initially addresses the issue. Some authors even admit of contradiction in values and yet say that this is a sad reality that journalists just have to figure out on their own. Caution and diligence do not even seem emphasized in presenting the principles!
The time is long overdue to unite the theory and practice in the field. A common error in popular literature is a blatant disregard for the relevance of the Kantian system of ethics to media practices. When media ethics forums congregate, most participants rely on the assumption that no rule is so golden that it does not even have its rare exception. The majority blindly take the theory of act utilitarianism for granted, perhaps even unconsciously, since I have not come across a single piece of media ethics literature that has advocated a law that reporters should not use anonymous sources under any circumstances. Surely this is no coincidence. For a topic that has cost so many reporters (and editors) their jobs because of mistakes made when allowing themselves an exception, it is striking that there is not a single influential voice that stops and, at a minimum, considers the thought that adhering to a principle without exception could be in the best interest of the journalist and the public. The journalists seem more interested in justifying their current practices rather than working towards a better understanding of media ethics. It seems much more convenient to justify the current ways rather than abandon them and start with some of the traditional moral philosophy in mind.
But the current writers in the field might object that media ethics should not be categorized as a subset of moral philosophy (or at least their lack of mention of moral philosophy in their work implicitly says so). Certainly other fields of medical and business ethics focus on more than just Mill, Kant, and other philosophers that were concerned with general human ethics. I am not looking to argue that media ethics necessarily abides by the same rules as moral philosophy. But does it not seem reasonable for the media to use some philosophy in their ethical policies? The questions regarding rules, duty, and justice have been discussed in thousands of years of tradition. To completely ignore it in favor of individuals who would like to defend their own errors and argue using their feelings, opinions, and imaginary scenarios seems ludicrous. In medical, business, and other trades that emphasize ethics, the traditional moral philosophy might not extend into many of the technical intricacies within the industry, just as the United States Constitution has to be interpreted to deal with situations that were not considered over three hundred years ago. At the very least, it would be prudent for a discussion of media ethics to use philosophy, rather than just mention it, because it will have to answer the same objections that moral philosophies have faced as well—questions about reasoning and defining justice and truth.
As an example of general ethical considerations in journalistic practices, I will explore the problematic use of anonymous sources in depth.

4. The Complicated Transition From Theory to Practice

At this point in the essay, it is time to move on to some of the practical situations where moral dilemmas come into play. Since the use of anonymous sources has generated so much literature and because so many stories and tragedies have come about from their use, it seems appropriate to include the topic in an essay on moral dilemmas in journalism. I will touch upon a few specific stories in recent history and discuss the principle at stake.
The use of anonymous sources has been a topic included in media ethics classes since the popularity of the Watergate case, when Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward of The Washington Post uncovered a major political scandal by using a source that would only be known as “Deep Throat” (until W. Mark Felt admitted in 2005 that he was the source). Anonymous sources can be very tricky for journalists because when someone reveals information available by a source who wishes to remain anonymous, the reporter is shouldering the responsibility himself and assuming the information is accurate. In a case where the source is attributed for information, if the information turns out to be false, the source can be found, questioned further, and the public can find out who was lying. If information from an anonymous source happens to be false or damaging (and sometimes even if the information is accurate), the reporter gets pressure from the public to reveal who provided him with the information.
The morality of the matter is distinct from the legality as well. It is not meant to be interpreted that the use of anonymous sources is wrong if it is illegal. Since reporters have accepted jail time on the principle of protecting the identity of anonymous sources, there must be something aside from the law that is relevant for the journalist in determining using information from anonymous sources. The journalist needs to determine whether his morals are more important than the consequences of illegal action or pressures from his occupation.
The reasons sources give for wishing to remain anonymous run the gamut. If the source is discussing business matters with a reporter, the source may believe his job and reputation are in danger if his colleagues discover he has been revealing information about them. For example, an executive at a corporation that is cheating its employees out of benefits might only agree to disclose details of the scandal if he is guaranteed anonymity so he can keep his post without suspicion. If the source is disclosing information about criminal acts, the source may fear that those whom he is discussing may attempt to quiet him violently. For example, a witness to a violent crime who tells a reporter the details might wish to keep his name out of the story in case the suspect comes after anyone that might identify him in a police lineup. Sometimes a source may wish to remain anonymous for a reason the source does not even feel comfortable confiding in the journalist. If a reporter finds the information essential to his story and he trusts the source, he may find no problem with not identifying him. No matter the reason, when a journalist permits a source to remain anonymous, he is implicitly agreeing to letting the source have a voice without any chance of being identified based on the context of the story. As long as the writer acknowledges his promise and keeps his mouth shut, the source can be as protected to the extent that he wishes. But the fact that a source wishes to remain anonymous can be lethal to a story’s credibility. Often the journalist will seek to identify his source by a narrow subset or job title, e.g. “administrative official,” “former friend,” or “male student,” to convince the audience that the source would have legitimate means to the information revealed in the story. Because this is as specific a description as the public receive, the audience may only speculate about the identity, and, of course, if under suspicion, the source can always deny being the unnamed because there is no proof in the public eye. Imagine the regular situation of an anonymous source outside of journalism, perhaps in everyday life, if someone gave you information without telling you his or her source:


(A) An acquaintance: So I heard you were going to lose your job.

(B) A girlfriend: I hear your last relationship did not end well.

(C) A boss: I have reason to believe you have not been meeting
company standards.

(D) A police officer: We received a call that there was illegal activity going on
in this residence.


In (A), the subject might wonder if this information came from a boss or superintendent. If you had no idea you were about to lose your job, you might believe its truth all of a sudden, begin questioning your performance at work, trying to remember if any of your co-workers mentioned anything to you or acted strange the last time you were on the clock. But it is just as possible that the information is inaccurate—even though this thought might not be your initial reaction. In (B), you might wonder if the current girlfriend is a personal friend of the past girlfriend, or perhaps the connection is more indirect than that. You may question the reliability of the remark because you doubt the objectivity of the possible source. In (C), you wonder which of the people that shares an office with you has been snitching, why someone would report that to your authority, whether it is true or not. In (D), you run down a mental list of your neighbors, trying to figure out who would call the police and report something going on in your house. The important point is that in no situation can the character determine with certainty who is responsible for the accusations. At most, journalists have found, the only one to aim at is the messenger.
In journalism, the use of anonymous sources is similar to the above scenarios albeit with a much greater effect because the exchange of information is no longer personal—it is public. One of the most noteworthy examples involves a New York Times reporter and an administrative official:
Judy Miller was an established, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, but not everything about her career was smooth. She got into trouble because of a story on the search for Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD) in Iraq, back before the United States entered war [in 2003]. Several criticisms said that her misleading articles concerning the existence of WMD’s in Iraq might have influenced the government’s decision to enter war with Iraq.

On June 23, 2003, Miller visited I. Lewis Libby, Vice President Dick Cheney’s Chief of Staff. While discussing Middle East politics, she recorded the name “Valerie Flame” in her notes. The notation was a play on words to name Valerie Plame, an undercover C.I.A. operative. Less than a month later, the name of the agent, which for all practical national security reasons ought to remain out of the public view, appeared in a syndicated column by Robert Novak. It is also punishable by law to reveal the identity of an undercover operative. Novak did not disclose where he learned the name of an undercover agent in his story.
By uncovering the agent’s identity, the reporters were putting Plame, Plame’s family, and almost anyone who had had contact with Plame in danger. With little information about what role she played at the C.I.A., the reporters had no idea what effect leaking her name could have. Certainly some of the responsibility falls on Libby for leaking the identity in the first place, and Libby was punished on March 6, 2007 when a jury found him guilty of obstruction of justice, lying to the Federal Bureau of Investigation and a double count of perjury.
Prior to the trial, Miller spent 85 days in prison for refusing to give up her anonymous source. In hindsight, the move was naïve, as Libby’s representatives gave Miller clear permission to reveal Libby as the source while imprisoned, and she nevertheless refused. It appeared Miller’s jail time was more out of her own volition to appear as a martyr for her cause rather than genuinely defending a source’s rights. While there are shield laws in some situations, and some states protect a reporter’s right to withhold a source in a trial, the shield laws did not apply in this situation. Miller was sent to prison for refusing to testify. According to all accounts, Miller had a very simple relationship with Libby, and there was no reason to believe that Miller would have been more likely to accept prison time for Libby than any other anonymous source.
There is little question that using an anonymous source placed Miller in an awkward position, especially when it was revealed that she had notes which included the leaked name of a C.I.A. official. Even though Miller never published the name or leaked the name to the public in a story (in fact, only Novak printed a story with Plame’s name in the column), she was still using information from a source that wished to remain anonymous. With the background and facts at hand, I will examine the case using the earlier background in moral philosophy.
A Kantian in Miller’s shoes might approach this situation very differently than an act utilitarian. Keeping in mind Kant’s Categorical Imperative and Universal Law of Nature, that one ought to act such that every moment is an end of itself and that the individual should base decisions upon whether or not every other act should proceed from the same principle, a reporter might never use anonymous sources as a matter of principle. The individual can picture situations where using anonymous sources would not be a just principle in realizing the primary role of a reporter: informing the public to the best of one’s ability with accurate facts. If the individual uses an anonymous source in one example, what is stopping the individual from using anonymous sources at any point? If the reporter uses information about the Middle East from an administrative official that wishes to remain anonymous, suddenly the burden of proof falls on the journalist, since there exists no specific, primary attribution.
Moreover, the Kantian can evaluate the situation from the perspective of the public, since the audience has some role in determining the journalist’s duty. The public should be able to trust the reporter to provide accurate information based on facts. If a reporter is allowed the liberty to use information from unknown sources, just as was shown above in the examples of unknown sources in personal exchanges, that trust becomes much tenser. Not only is the journalist suddenly asking the public to have faith in his reporting ability, now he is asking the public to have faith in a source that they do not know. The public may also see that this journalist’s liberty can be manipulated and result in a loss of credibility or trust. If a source can be given a voice without having to shoulder any of the responsibility in the accuracy of what he is relaying, the system has a serious flaw in its principles for the Kantian.
The act utilitarian might agree with Kant in the ultimate decision of using an anonymous source in this particular situation, although he might ponder the dilemma more. While the Kantian might reject the use of anonymous sources as a matter of principle, the act utilitarian would have to evaluate the situation based on its possible consequences. In the case of Miller/Libby, there is very little to be gained by outing an undercover C.I.A. operative. The public do not have an inherent right to know the identity of security officials for security reasons. While it is simple to see after the fact, the reporter should have been able to see at the time that she was pursuing smaller stories regarding Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD’s) in the Middle East, not uncovering any enormous scoop about the administration’s power. Miller’s stories amounted to a high-ranking administrative official openly criticizing the way the administration (which he represented) handled the WMD situation. She went to jail and started blabbering about freedom of press and reporters’ rights, when what she did was certainly criminal, regardless of any first amendment laws. There was no critical information for the story that benefited the public anymore than they would have lived without it, and she was responsible for revealing the identity of a C.I.A. agent. For Mill, Watergate would serve as a better example of how using an anonymous source could be done correctly.
Several works on media ethics that discuss the use of anonymous sources generally provide some answer closer to the utilitarian response and then allow a few guidelines to moderate their use. Here are such guidelines:
• The story must be of overwhelming importance and in the public interest.
• The story cannot be obtained by any other means.
• The trustworthiness of the source must be above suspicion.


While these restrictions might be helpful in terms of determining when and when not to use anonymous sources for stories, there is still no absolute certainty that the information acquired via source who wishes to remain anonymous is accurate. Kant would argue that the argument for using anonymous sources is flawed. While these three restrictions might lead a reporter down a path or provide a checklist, how can an individual judge accurately whether or not a story is of “overwhelming importance?” Certainly there is a difference between using an anonymous source for information about a possible terrorist threat that affects the lives of millions of people and an anonymous source revealing that the president prefers his steak medium rare. But as is often the case with these ethical dilemmas, the situation is not so black and white.
How hard must a reporter work before determining the story cannot “be obtained by any other means?” Should he have the right to judge that for himself? If he reports how many man-hours he put into attempting to convince his source to allow his name in the story, does that make the information any more credible? Perhaps if a reporter works extraordinarily hard to convince a source to reveal his identity and still fails, the public might interpret this as all the more reason not to believe the credibility of the source.
How can a reporter determine the “trustworthiness” of a source? He only has the insufficient evidence previous experience to base his judgment. A reporter is more likely to allow anonymity for a friend he has known for several years over someone he has just approached about the story. But how can one argue that one’s previous loyalties and relationships are enough for judging whether a source can be trusted? If the source wishes to remain anonymous, perhaps it is because this is the first time he has ever told a lie in his life. The source certainly has some fear. Otherwise he would not have demanded anonymity. That fear could be lethal to the story’s truth.
The New York Times states in their rules that although anonymity “should not be offered to a source . . . exceptions will occur.” The clause does not clarify this point any further, and the only purpose it seems to serve is so the policy can cover journalists when they allow the exception to happen. But it does not convincingly justify the exceptions in any way. The Washington Post’s policy reads that “in some circumstances, we will have no choice but to grant confidentiality to sources.” Just like the policy at the Times, though, the policy does not make it clear why the publications’ hands are tied in this matter. Despite all the disasters at various levels of mass media, major media corporations argue that occasional exceptions to—what should be strict—rules are morally permissible.
The reason why several works on media ethics are willing to grant the reporters the liberty within these specific guidelines is that most of these books were written by journalists who have experienced these particular situations. Perhaps someone like Judy Miller of the New York Times might have a different opinion on when it is safe for a reporter to use an anonymous source after her experience. Or if she agrees with the three guidelines listed above, perhaps she could shed more light on how to follow them in practice. But the ultimate reason why the journalists do not adhere to a strict no-anonymous-source policy is that they can imagine and find scenarios where it was necessary to use anonymous sources in order to best serve the public. Hence, the example of the anonymity of Deep Throat in the Watergate case is often cited as concrete proof for most journalists that there are benefits to using information from anonymous sources.
The problem with this argument as a proof for the use of these anonymous sources is that even though the public can look back on the Watergate case and see that the reporters discovered secret information regarding Nixon’s presidential campaign—and that this information was vital in bringing a corrupt administration to justice—there is no absolute proof that the use of anonymous sources was the only means about proving the scandal’s validity. Nor does it prove that the scandal may have been brought to light by other means in a short time afterward. I am not taking away any of the credit for the work of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. They set tremendous examples for future reporters of how to work feverishly towards truth and justice in the occupation. But the Watergate case had an unintended effect of opening the minds of journalists to the opinion that using anonymous sources to get a story could have a tempting payoff, while the particular case does not even prove completely that the use of an anonymous source was necessary. There may be similar situations today where reporters go to the lengths that Woodward and Goldstein did to uncover falsities and injustices, but there are also several other reporters, such as Miller, who use a lack of a no-anonymous-source policy for their personal advantage.
The absence of a principle allows reporters the liberty of getting lazy in their work. If a source does not want to be revealed in a story, the reporter no longer has to fight with every inch of strength to make the source reveal his identity to get the story published. If the question of whether a story is overwhelmingly important for the public is vague, the reporter (as honest as he may be) is working under the sole condition of his personal conscience in determining whether a story is important enough to allow for the use of an anonymous source.
None of this would be an important matter if there were no stories, in hindsight, that fit the three guidelines of Retief. But Watergate and several other extreme cases have proven important in history. Are we simply to judge subjectively when the situation arises based on the factors we know before the first word is printed? It would seem necessary to make an exception to the rule in dire situations.
An objection might be that if we only use act utilitarianism or consequentialism in extreme situations, that is no better than reducing our ethical decision-making skills to utilitarianism altogether because Kant’s system calls for absolutely no exceptions whatsoever as a matter of principle. If we are to adhere to Kant’s theory, there must be no exception to the principle, as demonstrated in his brief essay against telling lies when they are thought of as benevolent.

5. Applying Moral Principle to a Specific Example

I would like to draw attention to a particular anecdote and examine it within the context of Kant’s and Mill’s ethical theories. New York Times reporter Anthony DePalma told the following story in front of a group of media ethics students in 2006 to encourage the class to think critically about an extreme ethical dilemma in his occupation where an entire family’s life could have been at stake. He adopted a “means-to-an-end” approach, much to the dismay of most of the students.
While covering a violent crisis in Eastern Europe in the early 1990’s, DePalma wanted to write a story with a personal feel, to give his audience an idea of what it would be like to suffer some of the hardships the citizens endured. He traveled across the Serbian border into Albania with a desperate family. He interviewed the paterfamilias who was driving a tractor that held all of his family’s personal belongings in the back as well as his wife, children, and mother. The family was part of a larger wave of citizens that were moving to Albania to flee the Serbs with no plan about where to settle.
As DePalma asked the man questions, and the line of refugees crossed the national border into Albania, where the Serbs were hoping they would find safety, the man suddenly turned to DePalma and asked a simple question: “Where do I go?” The man, and presumably none of the refugees, had any clue where they were headed or how to find help. DePalma was somewhat familiar with Albania’s landscape because of his earlier coverage of the area. He knew that if the line of refugees continued in the direction it was headed, it might take a few days to find a town that had resources to keep all the Serbs safe. DePalma knew of a village less than a day’s travel away if the line changed to a more direct route. DePalma asked the class what we would do in the journalist’s role in that scenario.
Nearly everyone immediately agreed that DePalma would have to tell the man the truth for one reason or another. While DePalma had a duty as a journalist to cover the story as accurately as possible without interfering with the actual events, I argued that he also had a duty as a human being to always do what is right—a duty which trumps his occupational role. Therefore, DePalma should tell the man the truth because if the characters were reversed, and DePalma was the desperate man, he could reasonably expect an honest answer from the journalist, qua fellow human being.
After listening to a barrage of reasons and ideas from the class and giving the impression that we were all correct with his body language, DePalma looked at the students and said frankly: “I didn’t tell him.” Some of the students were shocked and most were confused, but then one student in the room raised his hand and tried to defend DePalma’s reasoning. He said that the decision might have stemmed from a journalistic instinct that if he told the man the truth, he would have no story of suffering to tell. Perhaps if the group of refugees wandered through the country aimlessly and some became seriously ill or died, there would be horror stories to tell. These horror stories would certainly grab more attention than a mundane report about refugee emigration. As insensitive as that sounds, the goal was to keep “journalistic distance,” DePalma said, to “write an accurate portrayal of the plight of 200,000 refugees.” DePalma’s story might have tremendous influence, since he wrote for one of the largest audiences in the world, and if he could illustrate the terrible amount of pain among the Serbian refugees, maybe he could raise more overall awareness about the situation in America and give grounds for American activism in the region more convincing, even if it meant withholding the truth from an interviewee. It is questionable how critical DePalma’s notion of “journalistic distance” was in making the story successful, but he certainly believed it critical enough to compromise honesty.
There were a few factors that DePalma had not mentioned when he offered his anecdote. For one, he said that if he did tell the man the truth, there was a possibility of chaos that if an individual steered away from the line, the rest of the line might follow him or violence could erupt out of the disorder. If everyone followed DePalma’s man to the village, the consequences might be worse for some in the line since there was no way the small town could be a resource for so many people unexpectedly in a short period of time. If the people gradually spread out into the country, maybe that would be better in general.
I still maintain that DePalma’s decision to prefer his journalistic duty over his duty as a human was not morally permissible. As many factors as DePalma withheld from the class in his account of the story, there are at least as many factors, if not more, that DePalma did not know himself in the given situation. Perhaps the man was absolutely desperate and hopeless, and when he asked, “Where do I go?” it was a final prayer for salvation. He might have been thinking that if he did not get an answer and had to suffer more in this wretched line of refugees, ignorant of any destination or any reason to hope for the future, it may be time to take desperate measures. If DePalma told the individual he did not know where he should go, the man might get violent as a consequence. Perhaps he might even take out the violence on his own family. Then not only is DePalma involved in a deeper ethical dilemma, but now he also has to worry about his own safety and think about how he would explain his decision after the fact. Similar to how the individual in Kant’s anecdote from “On a Supposed Right…” would bear responsibility for the consequences of his lie, DePalma would take on the responsibilities of any tragedies as a result of his “I didn’t tell him.”
The key is that if DePalma tells the man the truth, even if something evil happens because of it, he can still explain his reasoning that he acted with the man’s best interest in mind, and that is what it means to act in a morally sound, justifiable manner. His intent would have been said to be in the right place, and that ought to carry some value. If DePalma lies to the man, his reasoning is certainly called into question by all.
As DePalma noted, he also wanted to abide by a principle of “journalistic distance,” in short, an idea that the reporter should not take part in a story, but rather an objective eye is only possible from the outside. For example, a reporter might not call the police in the middle of a fistfight to have the least effect on the story he is covering. If DePalma told the man where to go, perhaps this could be viewed as affecting the outcome of his article. He would surely have to mention that he gave the man instructions in the article, and then questions of objectivity would arise. If DePalma neglected the fact that he gave the man advice, this would be a worse offense in journalism—dishonesty and inaccuracy. But I object that whether DePalma tells the man what to do or not, he is having an effect on the final story nevertheless. Perhaps in some situations where human life or danger is not at stake, a principle of journalistic distance may come into play to make for a more accurate portrayal of events. In this particular anecdote, however, the journalist is involved in the story just as much by not giving the man advice because that also leads to subsequent events which DePalma incorporated into his final article. Certainly every journalist wants to remain as objective as possible in his or her work, but it is irrefutable that in this particular case, DePalma is already interrelated with his interviewee when the question was asked.
This illustrates specifically the advantage of following a Kantian theory of morality gives the journalist. Not only does it often lead to a morally sound answer, but if the journalist’s reasoning is called into question, if he acts out of a categorical principle, the judge and jury will have no choice but to agree with his mindset. As soon as the journalist abandons his human duty to pursue journalistic instincts, he is responsible for much more severe consequences, and the public can criticize his mode of thinking.


6. Concluding Remarks

DePalma looked at consequences as the important factor rather than his own decision to lie. He was lucky that events turned out as he had anticipated. Just as I advocate Kant’s employment of a principle that it is always morally wrong to lie, I also see the additional benefit of having a strict policy advocate opposing the use of anonymous sources. If media were to function out of a categorical principle, less pressure would be on media practices for their ethical policies. For example, it is difficult to imagine a public that would hold media accountable for not pursuing a story that would have required using knowledge from an anonymous source—such an accusation appears circumstantial. Supposing the idea that some stories are so important for the public’s well-being that publishing facts from an anonymous source is acceptable, if the media do not pursue the story, there will not be pressure on the media in their actions. They can merely point to the principle that they do not want to establish a precedent of being manipulated by anonymous sources, and, therefore, they will not rely on information provided by any source that will not allow himself to be credited in the story. In the example of Watergate, if the journalists did not use information from Deep Throat, they would not have had enough evidence to bring down the administration. But if that is how the story happened, the public would not have blamed the journalists or editors for their role in the matter—the pressure would have stayed on the government with the evidence and suspicions already present from other sources.
It is likely that the reason media as a whole have not considered following a principle such as only using sources who will be identified in the story is that the spirit of journalism, as demonstrated with Woodward and Bernstein, is to question authority and get at the real truth behind the scenes. There is constantly a notion that media are a fourth branch of the government, holding the other three in check by keeping them honest and reporting on any incident where an official acts out of line. As soon as the media’s power is limited, they have lost that ability to work on the same level as the other branches of power in America, and mass media are reduced to reporting whatever the government wants them to say. Their role would be cut back significantly compared to where things stand today.
I think that view is extreme, however, since the use of anonymous sources, for as much as it has been discussed in this essay, is rare. Moreover, if media as a whole establish a precedent of never using sources anonymously because of past errors, perhaps more sources would be willing to come forward at the risk of being identified if there was no other way for them to make their information known to the public. The pressure would be on the source rather than the publication if the principle were in place. In (A), (B), (C), and (D) from the previous section, the best response would be: “I don’t believe you until you tell me who told you that.” So should be the response of a well-informed, well-reasoned public.
Another fear is that adopting specific principles without exception might prevent reporters from working in certain environments. For example, journalists embedded in military caravans to report on a war seek to write about military events objectively. But at the same time, the journalist’s safety might depend upon a healthy relationship with the military personnel allowing him to enter a dangerous area. If a journalist’s life depends on men who might not execute military commands ethically or even commit crimes against humanity, how can the journalist write about these immoral acts if his safety depends on the military group’s respect? The journalist might be left with no choice for the sake of his own life to report in a manner in which the military approves, as a result, being dishonest to his editors and his audience. One might raise an objection that there is no other way for the journalist to cover the story. A response to this is that the reporter does not have an inherent right to be everywhere. Maybe there are some places where journalists simply should not visit if they are not able to cover the events with an ethical principle in place. Will this lead to a downward spiral of limitations levied on the free press courtesy of other interests?
What about an ethical dilemma where a journalist is covering a poverty-stricken area and a child involved in his story begs him for food? Duty as a human appears to say the reporter should give the child what he needs to live, but at the same time, the journalist in his heart might tell him to write about the poverty rather than fight the cause. If no one reported on severe poverty and hunger in certain areas of the world, though, how would anyone know about them? Would the public criticize the media for not giving due attention to these crises? Is there not an equal concern for a matter of precedent in the question of duty as well? The journalist does not have enough to save all the children equally, so why should he help one? He can write about the whole situation instead and help indirectly.
DePalma’s objection might concern a matter of precedent in the situation—if interviewees viewed their reporters as just like them in every way, viz. abiding to exactly the same moral guidelines, there may be no more stories to cover. If the journalist tells the man where to go and there is no suffering, what does he have to report of interest? If the journalist calls the police when he witnesses the fistfight rather than prepares his notebook, how can he do his job properly? If the journalist saves the burn victim rather than takes a picture of it, where will the newspaper find a photo? If there is no story of tragedy at all, though, then that is a good thing in and of itself. If there were no murders to cover, no robberies, no bombs, no riots, no racial and gender issues, no refugee crisis, no military problems—if the journalist has to compromise his ethical principles as a reporter, he may contend he is no longer a reporter. Now he is a hero.
This idea of a principle at the foundation of media ethics might seem idealistic to the point that it is not seen as necessarily practically applicable. But perhaps this is not as much of a problem as it may appear upon first sight. If ethics dictate action from a level above reality (metaphysics, as Kant suggests), there seems to be no logical contradiction. Because if ethics are within reality, humanity no longer strives for an ideal in general, but remains complacent in a Mill-like, reality-grounded ethics—repeating the same human-manufactured error like a child trying to fit the square block in the circular hole. Maybe Mill was wrong and the concept of “happiness” is not really relevant in a discussion of ethical philosophy. He may need to take a step back further and explore the framework that allows him to make that claim. This might not make a deontological system of ethics ‘unuseful,’ as some act utilitarians may contend, let alone unreasonable. Even if an ethical system describes an unachievable, Utopian setting, at least that goal keeps the media, and humanity as a whole, on its toes in terms of moral progress.
Changes are necessary in the classroom and the newsroom. A student in a media ethics course ought to receive some understanding of moral philosophy before handling the case scenarios and reading the current controversies. Whether the student reads Kant, Mill, another philosopher, or a textbook, a background in moral philosophy will educate his or her outlook on media ethics. If a working journalist operates out of a framework of moral philosophy as well, he can serve as a shining example not only for the student, but for humanity as well.

APPENDIX A

AN EMAIL REPLY FROM ANTHONY DEPALMA TO JOE LATTAL
REGARDING HIS STORY ABOUT THE SERBIAN REFUGEES


March 28, 2007:


Joe Lattal wrote:
Mr. DePalma:

I was in the media ethics class which you visited at Notre Dame last spring. In
a discussion of ethical dilemmas, you provided an anecdote about writing a story
on a family crossing a national border in Eastern Europe. I would like to use
the scenario in an essay on modern media ethics, but I don't remember some of
the specific details (i.e. when it happened, which countries were involved).
On the principle of actually writing something ON media ethics, I figured I
should have my story straight. Would you mind reminding me of the ethical
dilemma and recount that situation? It was a terrific example, and I would
like to use it in the essay.

Dear Joe,

Thanks for writing. I'm [traveling in Europe] and won't be able to give you all the details, but you can check my website www.anthonydepalma.com for the original story from April 1999 when I was in Albania, on the northern border with Serbia, and the story of my encounter with the family fleeing the [Serbs] ran on page one. You can find it there. The issue was whether or not I [should] have provided the family with [information] that would have helped them resettle in Albania, or to keep my [journalistic] distance so I could write an accurate portrayal of the plight of 200,000 refugees.
Good luck,
A. DePalma



APPENDIX B
ASNE STATEMENT OF PRINCIPLES
PREAMBLE. The First Amendment, protecting freedom of expression from abridgment by any law, guarantees to the people through their press a constitutional right, and thereby places on newspaper people a particular responsibility. Thus journalism demands of its practitioners not only industry and knowledge but also the pursuit of a standard of integrity proportionate to the journalist's singular obligation. To this end the American Society of Newspaper Editors sets forth this Statement of Principles as a standard encouraging the highest ethical and professional performance.
ARTICLE I - Responsibility. The primary purpose of gathering and distributing news and opinion is to serve the general welfare by informing the people and enabling them to make judgments on the issues of the time. Newspapermen and women who abuse the power of their professional role for selfish motives or unworthy purposes are faithless to that public trust. The American press was made free not just to inform or just to serve as a forum for debate but also to bring an independent scrutiny to bear on the forces of power in the society, including the conduct of official power at all levels of government.
ARTICLE II - Freedom of the Press. Freedom of the press belongs to the people. It must be defended against encroachment or assault from any quarter, public or private. Journalists must be constantly alert to see that the public's business is conducted in public. They must be vigilant against all who would exploit the press for selfish purposes.
ARTICLE III - Independence. Journalists must avoid impropriety and the appearance of impropriety as well as any conflict of interest or the appearance of conflict. They should neither accept anything nor pursue any activity that might compromise or seem to compromise their integrity.
ARTICLE IV - Truth and Accuracy. Good faith with the reader is the foundation of good journalism. Every effort must be made to assure that the news content is accurate, free from bias and in context, and that all sides are presented fairly. Editorials, analytical articles and commentary should be held to the same standards of accuracy with respect to facts as news reports. Significant errors of fact, as well as errors of omission, should be corrected promptly and prominently.
ARTICLE V - Impartiality. To be impartial does not require the press to be unquestioning or to refrain from editorial expression. Sound practice, however, demands a clear distinction for the reader between news reports and opinion. Articles that contain opinion or personal interpretation should be clearly identified.
ARTICLE VI - Fair Play. Journalists should respect the rights of people involved in the news, observe the common standards of decency and stand accountable to the public for the fairness and accuracy of their news reports. Persons publicly accused should be given the earliest opportunity to respond. Pledges of confidentiality to news sources must be honored at all costs, and therefore should not be given lightly. Unless there is clear and pressing need to maintain confidences, sources of information should be identified.
These principles are intended to preserve, protect and strengthen the bond of trust and respect between American journalists and the American people, a bond that is essential to sustain the grant of freedom entrusted to both by the nation's founders.


© Copyright 2007 The American Society of Newspaper Editors



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