Mass Violence and the Media in America
I was watching, and occasionally engaging in the social media conversation the weekend following the Boston Marathon bombings and was struck by the extent to which we as a collective were seeking clarity on the meaning of the events, and needed to know the motive in order to make sense of the bombings. One particular exchange focused on whether this event was in the category of Columbine or of Oklahoma City. My initial response was that this event was Columbine with explosives, and I received quite impassioned responses that no, this was a terrorist event, and I was conscious that the labeling of the event mattered quite a lot. This shouldn’t surprise any of us; the label attached to violence has been part of the struggle throughout the history of terrorism. One poignant example is the ten IRA prisoners who died in 1982 in a hunger strike protesting Margaret Thatcher’s policy change removing political prisoner status from them and labeling them as criminals. As the rash of mass killings continues across the country it raises the question of where we draw the line. By academic definitions, these acts are not terror attacks because they lack a political motive and appear to be narcissistic demands for attention. But by these standards Boston presents us with a quandary. That these two suspects were born in Chechnya, the largely ignored site of some of this century’s most horrific mass violence committed by government and rebel forces alike, leaves us wondering if this is part of an organized terror campaign. By the time this article is published we will likely know much more about their motives, but my gut feeling is that no, this really was Columbine with explosives, yet another domestically brewed tragedy.
Our collective search for the information we need to create meaning and develop labels, and the systems that have developed to communicate that meaning, have profound consequences. Standard journalistic practice and norms following an event like the Boston bombings leave the public inundated with pictures and stories about the suspects, and the public has begun pushing back. A Facebook message that same weekend went viral bemoaning media practices. In part, Cam Siciliano says, “I don’t want to know his name. I don’t want to see his face… I don’t want to know what ‘cause,’ if any, he was fighting for…I don’t want to know. Because that’s what he really wants. I’ll be damned if I’m going to give him what he wants.” And he’s right: whether this was media seeking disaffected young men, or a terrorist campaign, the media spotlight is what perpetrators want. Modern terrorism (and increasingly modern mass violence) is about communication; it is about hijacking public discourse and demanding attention. It is about using destruction and innocent victims to send a message that can’t be as effectively sent by nonviolent means. This is not to lay the blame for acts of terror at the media’s feet; we as media consumers demand to know the back-story, demand to know the cause, and financially reward media outlets that give it to us. We are at a point in the struggle against mass violence and terrorism that we need to take seriously the incentive structure our public communication processes have created.
Access to the public discourse is not equal; it is dominated by governments and elites representing main stream society, people who look and believe like us. While social media allows more access for marginalized groups, it still doesn’t open up a line into mainstream discussion. We know from decades of media studies that violence sells newspapers (and airtime). Violence exponentially increases the chances of a marginalized group being covered in mainstream media. However, my research on media coverage of terrorism seems to indicate that violence actually decreases the amount of coverage that focuses on a group’s grievance or message. When a marginalized group can get media attention for something nonviolent, their chances are higher of having their history, and grievance presented than when they have acted violently. Nonviolent action, when it is covered, is a better tool for communicating than violence. But there is the paradox; nonviolence doesn’t often make media headlines. We are incentivizing violence by rewarding it with access to public discourse and then demanding information to make meaning.
What then do we do? Do we ask journalists to not cover violence, and request some kind of self-censorship? Probably not. But, we could ask them to change how they cover violence, and as a public, reward those who change with ratings and subscription dollars. During the manhunt for the Boston suspects there was utility in having their pictures splashed across T.V. stations and newspapers as a tool to find them. But why, when the manhunt was over, couldn’t the pictures featured be those of the victims and heroes of that tragic event? Echoing Cam Siciliano, can we imagine a public communication process that results in our knowing the names of the victims and not the perpetrators, the heroes and not the villains? Can we imagine a process that would allow access to the public discourse to nonviolent groups, minimizing the voice of those that use violence, a process that actively disincentivizes violent action? Let’s take seriously the need to cover nonviolence with depth and thoughtfulness, and do more of it.
The word is out; it is easier to get your 15 minutes of fame committing mass violence than by suffering through a season of a reality show or achieving something meaningful. If we, the collective, want to decrease the frequency and intensity of such violence we need to take responsibility for our part in it, recognize our role in the voyeurism of tragedy, and take action. We need to lobby media outlets, journalists, and talk show hosts to de-emphasize the perpetrators and to tell the story of victims instead. This won’t be easy; our demand for information in order to make meaning must be balanced against incentivizing violence. To stop the killing requires that we try.