In times of human tragedy, sensitivity must come first. The writer on the #GoHomeIndianMedia campaign.

I have an abiding image from the blanket coverage of the Nepal earthquake — a baying crowd of reporters insisting that Nepal Prime Minister Sushil Koirala talk to them now. Koirala kept repeating that he would talk later, after his tour. But the reporters (predominantly Indian) kept up the screaming for comments. A more ungracious and vulgar scene would be hard to find.

If the people of Nepal are annoyed with Indian media, they have every reason to be. From the earliest days of the coverage, it has been embarrassing to watch TV channels at work. The attitude, the tone, the body language… everything has been wrong. There was an unmistakeable sense of suppressed excitement at getting ‘breaking news’. The non-stop footage with shrill commentary underlined the feeling that channels were “enjoying” a good story.

Eye-witnesses say reporters fought to get on Army choppers. The Nepalese people have complained that it’s inhuman for journalists to get to a disaster zone first without carrying any relief.

None of this is to take away from the hard work reporters did or how they mobilised support and information. But in times of great human tragedy, it should be made mandatory for anchors and reporters to use appropriate voices and gestures. It is troubling to watch hearty, eager and melodramatic coverage of scenes of immense suffering. Sunita Shakya of Nepal has accused Indian reporters of acting as if they are “shooting a family serial”.

Television has done this earlier too, during the tsunami and the 26/11 terror attack, with blitzkrieg coverage running roughshod over everything. Many argue that this is right; that they are catering to the people’s ‘right to know’. My question is this: Koirala has just landed in a crisis zone. What can he really say instantly? Second, assume he says “I am heartbroken,” exactly how does this improve the viewer’s understanding of the quake or add value to the bereaved? The answer is, not at all. Realising this, any civilised reporter should respect the PM’s refusal, back off, and regroup later.

Another nasty note was struck with the cheap numbers game of ‘who has done how much’. To treat an enormous tragedy in Nepal as some sort of pub contest between India and China is to stoop extremely low. Yes, one realises there is geo-strategy involved, and that India wants to project a certain regional image, but there is a time and place to establish that. And that’s not now, with homes reduced to rubble and dazed survivors looking on.

Just weeks ago, we saw the same crowing in Yemen about India rescuing the most people. While it is nobody’s case to ignore this vital fact, in a sane world it would be one aspect of an unfolding drama, the equivalent of what print calls the ‘boxed piece’. Television, though, would make you believe that India’s only interest in Yemen was not the crisis, not even the trapped Indians anymore, but just the show of strength.

This sort of jingoistic drivel is increasingly colouring all television reportage; a sort of hyper-patriotism that demands everything genuflect before it. It happens during cricket, during talk shows when representatives from neighbouring nations are treated like dirt, and now during disasters. One Hindi TV headline actually said “ Nepal mein Bharat ke ‘bhagwan’ (Indian gods in Nepal).”

It is high time television introspected about the ethics of disaster journalism. This is when journalism’s core principles are most tested; when people’s right to know comes directly in conflict with people’s right to privacy. It is important to give a human face to tragedy, but sensitivity must come first. Asking a mother who has lost her child ‘how she is feeling’ is cheap drama, not human interest journalism. The difference is a fine line that journalists must learn to walk.

One idea might be to ask for consent, stick to facts, and limit questions. Second, viewers don’t come first, the bereaved do. Finally, whenever relief conflicts with journalism, relief gets precedence, always. People don’t need to know everything, immediately. In the 1996 Dunblane tragedy when 16 children were shot dead, the British press — not known for its ethicality — agreed to leave before the funerals took place. That is the kind of sensitivity one would like to always see.