1. Nosza, hajdú, firge varjú, Járjunk egy szép táncot! Nem vagy fattyú, sem rossz hattyú, Kiálts hát egy hoppot! Szájod mondjon, lábod járjon Egy katonatáncot.
3. Nosza Rándulj! hol vagy Viduj? Fujd az bagi táncát, Az emlőjét, az tömlőjét, Ne kéméld az sípját! Mert emennek, Kis Péternek Adta az bal sarját.
4. Gyászolj, Buda! Eger tornya Fönnen hányja füstit, Karánsebes, Kisbelényes Béhunyta jobb szemét, Az tokosnak, rossz fattyúnak Nem állhotja kezét.
5. Haja, Tisza, haja Duna, Száva, Dráva vize, Mindeniknek, mikor árad, Zavaros a vize; Az német is hogy általjött, Megváltozott íze.
6. Majre, csajre, Molduváre Fut Havasalföldre, Ungur, bungur, amaz rumij Sátorát fölszedte. Szatuj majre, pita najre, Nincs pénz, az ebverte!
7. Erdély, Lippa és Bronicska, Megjárd lábom, megjárd. Amaz gyöngyös, kis keszkenyős, Né, hol fut jó banyád! Mit dudorgasz, hogy nem ugrasz? Kurva volt az bábád!
8. Alsóbánya, Fölsőbánya, Jó kövér szalanna! Bő az bora, korcsomája, De ingyen nem adja! Ha pénzed nincs, költséged nincs, Meg is koplaltatna.
9. Kis tartomány, igen sovány Amaz Máramaros. Nincs búzája, gabonája, Megette az tokos. Ne féljen bár, hogy lészen kár, Vagy búzája dohos.
10. Kurta Szamos, tarka Maros, Sajó két mellyéke, Noha hegy-völgy és erős tölgy, De nincs búza benne, Amaz tokos, rossz kalapos Mert azt mind megette.
11. Kis-Küköllő, Nagy-Küköllő Gyönyörű folyása, Nyárád vize, kedves íze. Rózsa az illatja, Bő terméssel határidat Isten látogassa!
12. Könnyen csörgő, kövön pöngő Amaz Kis-Aranyos, Mikor árad, meg nem szárod, Fölötte hatalmas; Szalmamaggal vidékiben Megtelik az nagy kas.
13. Előljárja, rátoppantja Doboka vármegye. Után' Torda, ne hadd soha, Tied az erszénye Megborsolva, vajba rántva Mind elkél az leve.
14. Szépen járja, amaz fújja Szépen Szeben vára. Nosza gazda, ne fuss gazra, Hozz bort az asztalra! Mert ha külön csak félen vonsz, Megüt amaz csalfa.
15. Félen tartod az nagy orrod Déva, Görgény vára, Barassónak az kűlfala Pogácsábul rakva. Jer ki, Kata, ha köll néked Füles habarnica.
16. Az hariska, tatárbúza Vajki jó puliszka. Nosza kurta, hol az kurva? Vigyorog az farka; Az nagy papnak, az vargának Bialbőr kalapja.
17. Marosszékrül, Udvarhelyrül Megyek Háromszékre, Szépségérül térségére, Nincs mása Erdélyben, Isten tartsa, szaporítsa Gabonáját benne!
18. Egészséggel, békességgel, Édes lakóföldem, Kit sóhajtott és óhajtott Ez napokban szívem, Ím! hogy inték, belépék, Megvidula lölköm. 19. Nohát immár minden ember Örüljön ez napon, Nagy jókedvet, víg örömöt Mutasson ez házban, Az én szívem, mert hazajött Szerencsés órában! 20. Egészséggel, idvösséggel, Édes szép szerelmem, Isten hozott és hordozott Örvendetes hírben, Itthon már ülj és velünk légy Együtt szeretetben!
Former National Institutes of Health Director Francis Collins has
admitted that tunnel vision handicapped the development of public
policy to deal with the COVID-19 pandemic.
Collins, who stepped down at the end of 2021, was the superior of
former director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious
Diseases Anthony Fauci, who along with Collins proposed and supported lockdowns as the major policy element to deal with the pandemic.
During the recently unearthed interview, interviewer Wilk Wilkinson bemoaned the fact that too few open discussions took place about the pandemic and the lockdown policy.
Collins said putting public health bureaucrats in charge meant that a one-dimensional policy would ensue.
“As a guy living inside the Beltway, feeling a sense of crisis,
trying to decide what to do in some situation room in the White House
with people who had data that was incomplete,” Collins said.
“We weren’t really thinking about what that would mean to Wilk and
his family in Minnesota, a thousand miles away from where the virus was
hitting so hard. We weren’t really considering the consequences in
communities that were not New York City or some other big city,” he
said.
Collins said that health experts never considered the ripple effects of their decisions.
“The public health people — we talked about this earlier and this
really important point — if you’re a public health person and you’re
trying to make a decision, you have this very narrow view of what the
right decision is. And that is something that will save a life; it
doesn’t matter what else happens,” he said.
“So you attach infinite value to stopping the disease and saving a
life. You attach zero value to whether this actually totally disrupts
people’s lives, ruins the economy, and has many kids kept out of school
in a way that they never quite recover from. So, yeah, collateral
damage,” he said.
“This is a public health mindset and I think a lot of us involved in
trying to make those recommendations had that mindset and that was
really unfortunate. It’s another mistake we made,” he said.
It’s hard to overstate how irresponsible and
destructive Francis Collins’ view is and was. He dispensed with all the
rest of public health to focus on covid and lockdown, and countless
millions — especially children and the poor — paid the price, sometimes
with their lives. https://t.co/J8dv5ro3xV
The Wall Street Journal responded with an editorial that noted, “This was precisely the argument we made on March 20, 2020 (‘Rethinking the Virus Shutdown’),
for politicians not to accept the lockdown advice of public-health
officials as gospel. They think too narrowly, and political leaders have
to consider the larger consequences of policies for the public good.”
“Dr. Collins’s mini-mea culpa still doesn’t make up for his
collaboration with Anthony Fauci to discredit the Great Barrington
Declaration, which advocated a strategy of focused protection on the
elderly and vulnerable while letting younger people at lower risk
continue with their lives. Nor does the former NIH head apologize for
trying to censor different health-policy advice,” the editorial, which
also noted that this interview was part of a summer symposium hosted by a
bipartisan group, stated.
The Journal noted that the “lockdowns did tremendous harm that we are
still living with. That and the effort by Drs. Collins and Fauci to
shut off all debate is a major reason the public has lost trust in
public-health experts.”
In an Op-Ed on National Review, Rich Lowry wrote that what Collins said earlier last year would have triggered punishments during the pandemic.
“Not too long ago, anyone who said that epidemiologists might be
overly focused on disease prevention to the exclusion of other concerns —
you know, like jobs, mental health, and schooling — were dismissed as
reckless nihilists who didn’t care if their fellow citizens died en
masse,” he wrote.
“If Francis Collins and his cohort got it wrong, the likes of Florida
governor Ron DeSantis and Georgia governor Brian Kemp — and the
renegade scientists and doctors who supported their more modulated
approach to the pandemic — got it right,” he wrote.
Uri
Berliner, a senior business editor at NPR, says he started sounding the
alarm internally when he noticed a bias creep into the network’s
coverage. (Pete Kiehart for The Free Press)
Uri
Berliner, a veteran at the public radio institution, says the network
lost its way when it started telling listeners how to think.
You
know the stereotype of the NPR listener: an EV-driving, Wordle-playing,
tote bag–carrying coastal elite. It doesn’t precisely describe me, but
it’s not far off. I’m Sarah Lawrence–educated, was raised by a lesbian peace activist mother, I drive a Subaru, and Spotify says my listening habits are most similar to people in Berkeley.
I fit the NPR mold. I’ll cop to that.
So
when I got a job here 25 years ago, I never looked back. As a senior
editor on the business desk where news is always breaking, we’ve covered
upheavals in the workplace, supermarket prices, social media, and AI.
It’s
true NPR has always had a liberal bent, but during most of my tenure
here, an open-minded, curious culture prevailed. We were nerdy, but not
knee-jerk, activist, or scolding.
In recent years, however, that
has changed. Today, those who listen to NPR or read its coverage online
find something different: the distilled worldview of a very small
segment of the U.S. population.
If you are conservative, you will read this and say, duh, it’s always been this way.
But it hasn’t.
For
decades, since its founding in 1970, a wide swath of America tuned in
to NPR for reliable journalism and gorgeous audio pieces with birds
singing in the Amazon. Millions came to us for conversations that
exposed us to voices around the country and the world radically
different from our own—engaging precisely because they were unguarded
and unpredictable. No image generated more pride within NPR than the
farmer listening to Morning Edition from his or her tractor at sunrise.
Back in 2011, although NPR’s audience tilted a bit to the left, it still bore a resemblance to America at large.
Twenty-six percent of listeners described themselves as conservative,
23 percent as middle of the road, and 37 percent as liberal.
By
2023, the picture was completely different: only 11 percent described
themselves as very or somewhat conservative, 21 percent as middle of the
road, and 67 percent of listeners said they were very or somewhat
liberal. We weren’t just losing conservatives; we were also losing
moderates and traditional liberals.
An open-minded spirit no longer exists within NPR, and now, predictably, we don’t have an audience that reflects America.
That
wouldn’t be a problem for an openly polemical news outlet serving a
niche audience. But for NPR, which purports to consider all things, it’s
devastating both for its journalism and its business model.
Like
many unfortunate things, the rise of advocacy took off with Donald
Trump. As in many newsrooms, his election in 2016 was greeted at NPR
with a mixture of disbelief, anger, and despair. (Just to note, I
eagerly voted against Trump twice but felt we were obliged to cover him
fairly.) But what began as tough, straightforward coverage of a
belligerent, truth-impaired president veered toward efforts to damage or
topple Trump’s presidency.
Persistent rumors that the Trump
campaign colluded with Russia over the election became the catnip that
drove reporting. At NPR, we hitched our wagon to Trump’s most visible
antagonist, Representative Adam Schiff.
Schiff, who was the
top Democrat on the House Intelligence Committee, became NPR’s guiding
hand, its ever-present muse. By my count, NPR hosts interviewed Schiff
25 times about Trump and Russia. During many of those conversations,
Schiff alluded to purported evidence of collusion. The Schiff talking
points became the drumbeat of NPR news reports.
But when the Mueller report found no credible evidence of collusion, NPR’s coverage was notably sparse. Russiagate quietly faded from our programming.
It
is one thing to swing and miss on a major story. Unfortunately, it
happens. You follow the wrong leads, you get misled by sources you
trusted, you’re emotionally invested in a narrative, and bits of
circumstantial evidence never add up. It’s bad to blow a big story.
What’s
worse is to pretend it never happened, to move on with no mea culpas,
no self-reflection. Especially when you expect high standards of
transparency from public figures and institutions, but don’t practice
those standards yourself. That’s what shatters trust and engenders
cynicism about the media.
Russiagate was not NPR’s only miscue.
In October 2020, the New York Post published the explosive report
about the laptop Hunter Biden abandoned at a Delaware computer shop
containing emails about his sordid business dealings. With the election
only weeks away, NPR turned a blind eye. Here’s how NPR’s managing
editor for news at the time explained the thinking:
“We don’t want to waste our time on stories that are not really
stories, and we don’t want to waste the listeners’ and readers’ time on
stories that are just pure distractions.”
But it wasn’t a
pure distraction, or a product of Russian disinformation, as dozens of
former and current intelligence officials suggested. The laptop did
belong to Hunter Biden. Its contents revealed his connection to the
corrupt world of multimillion-dollar influence peddling and its possible
implications for his father.
The laptop was newsworthy. But the
timeless journalistic instinct of following a hot story lead was being
squelched. During a meeting with colleagues, I listened as one of NPR’s
best and most fair-minded journalists said it was good we weren’t
following the laptop story because it could help Trump.
When the essential facts of the Post’s reporting were confirmed and the emails verified
independently about a year and a half later, we could have fessed up to
our misjudgment. But, like Russia collusion, we didn’t make the hard
choice of transparency.
Politics also intruded into NPR’s
Covid coverage, most notably in reporting on the origin of the pandemic.
One of the most dismal aspects of Covid journalism is how quickly it
defaulted to ideological story lines. For example, there was Team
Natural Origin—supporting the hypothesis that the virus came from a wild
animal market in Wuhan, China. And on the other side, Team Lab Leak,
leaning into the idea that the virus escaped from a Wuhan lab.
The
lab leak theory came in for rough treatment almost immediately,
dismissed as racist or a right-wing conspiracy theory. Anthony Fauci and
former NIH head Francis Collins,
representing the public health establishment, were its most notable
critics. And that was enough for NPR. We became fervent members of Team
Natural Origin, even declaring that the lab leak had been debunked by scientists.
But that wasn’t the case.
When
word first broke of a mysterious virus in Wuhan, a number of leading
virologists immediately suspected it could have leaked from a lab there
conducting experiments on bat coronaviruses. This was in January 2020,
during calmer moments before a global pandemic had been declared, and
before fear spread and politics intruded.
Reporting on a
possible lab leak soon became radioactive. Fauci and Collins apparently
encouraged the March publication of an influential scientific paper
known as “The Proximal Origin of SARS-CoV-2.” Its authors wrote they
didn’t believe “any type of laboratory-based scenario is plausible.”
But
the lab leak hypothesis wouldn’t die. And understandably so. In
private, even some of the scientists who penned the article dismissing
it sounded a different tune. One of the authors, Andrew Rambaut, an
evolutionary biologist from Edinburgh University, wrote to his colleagues, “I literally swivel day by day thinking it is a lab escape or natural.”
Over
the course of the pandemic, a number of investigative journalists made
compelling, if not conclusive, cases for the lab leak. But at NPR, we
weren’t about to swivel or even tiptoe away from the insistence with
which we backed the natural origin story. We didn’t budge when the
Energy Department—the federal agency with the most expertise about
laboratories and biological research—concluded, albeit with low confidence, that a lab leak was the most likely explanation for the emergence of the virus.
Instead, we introduced our coverage of that development on February 28, 2023, by asserting confidently that “the scientific evidence overwhelmingly points to a natural origin for the virus.”
When a colleague on our science desk was asked why
they were so dismissive of the lab leak theory, the response was odd.
The colleague compared it to the Bush administration’s unfounded
argument that Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction, apparently
meaning we won’t get fooled again. But these two events were not even
remotely related. Again, politics were blotting out the curiosity and
independence that ought to have been driving our work.
Uri Berliner near his home in Washington, D.C., on April 5, 2024. (Photo by Pete Kiehart for The Free Press)
I’m
offering three examples of widely followed stories where I believe we
faltered. Our coverage is out there in the public domain. Anyone can
read or listen for themselves and make their own judgment. But to truly
understand how independent journalism suffered at NPR, you need to step
inside the organization.
You need to start with former CEO John Lansing. Lansing came to NPR in 2019 from the federally funded agency that oversees Voice of America.
Like others who have served in the top job at NPR, he was hired
primarily to raise money and to ensure good working relations with
hundreds of member stations that acquire NPR’s programming.
After
working mostly behind the scenes, Lansing became a more visible and
forceful figure after the killing of George Floyd in May 2020. It was an
anguished time in the newsroom, personally and professionally so for
NPR staffers. Floyd’s murder, captured on video, changed both the
conversation and the daily operations at NPR.
Given the
circumstances of Floyd’s death, it would have been an ideal moment to
tackle a difficult question: Is America, as progressive activists claim,
beset by systemic racism in the 2020s—in law enforcement, education,
housing, and elsewhere? We happen to have a very powerful tool for
answering such questions: journalism. Journalism that lets evidence lead
the way.
But the message from the top was very different.
America’s infestation with systemic racism was declared loud and clear:
it was a given. Our mission was to change it.
“When it comes to
identifying and ending systemic racism,” Lansing wrote in a companywide
article, “we can be agents of change. Listening and deep reflection are
necessary but not enough. They must be followed by constructive and
meaningful steps forward. I will hold myself accountable for this.”
And we were told that NPR itself
was part of the problem. In confessional language he said the leaders
of public media, “starting with me—must be aware of how we ourselves
have benefited from white privilege in our careers. We must understand
the unconscious bias we bring to our work and interactions. And we must
commit ourselves—body and soul—to profound changes in ourselves and our
institutions.”
He declared that diversity—on our staff and
in our audience—was the overriding mission, the “North Star” of the
organization. Phrases like “that’s part of the North Star” became part
of meetings and more casual conversation.
Race and identity
became paramount in nearly every aspect of the workplace. Journalists
were required to ask everyone we interviewed their race, gender, and
ethnicity (among other questions), and had to enter it in a centralized tracking
system. We were given unconscious bias training sessions. A growing DEI
staff offered regular meetings imploring us to “start talking about
race.” Monthly dialogues were offered for “women of color” and “men of
color.” Nonbinary people of color were included, too.
These initiatives, bolstered by a $1 million grant
from the NPR Foundation, came from management, from the top down.
Crucially, they were in sync culturally with what was happening at the
grassroots—among producers, reporters, and other staffers. Most visible
was a burgeoning number of employee resource (or affinity) groups based
on identity.
They included MGIPOC (Marginalized Genders and
Intersex People of Color mentorship program); Mi Gente (Latinx
employees at NPR); NPR Noir (black employees at NPR); Southwest Asians
and North Africans at NPR; Ummah (for Muslim-identifying employees);
Women, Gender-Expansive, and Transgender People in Technology Throughout
Public Media; Khevre (Jewish heritage and culture at NPR); and NPR
Pride (LGBTQIA employees at NPR).
All this reflected a broader
movement in the culture of people clustering together based on ideology
or a characteristic of birth. If, as NPR’s internal website suggested,
the groups were simply a “great way to meet like-minded colleagues” and
“help new employees feel included,” it would have been one thing.
But
the role and standing of affinity groups, including those outside NPR,
were more than that. They became a priority for NPR’s union,
SAG-AFTRA—an item in collective bargaining. The current contract, in a
section on DEI, requires NPR management to “keep up to date with current
language and style guidance from journalism affinity groups” and to
inform employees if language differs from the diktats of those groups.
In such a case, the dispute could go before the DEI Accountability
Committee.
In essence, this means the NPR union, of which I am a
dues-paying member, has ensured that advocacy groups are given a seat at
the table in determining the terms and vocabulary of our news
coverage.
Conflicts between workers and bosses, between labor and
management, are common in workplaces. NPR has had its share. But what’s
notable is the extent to which people at every level of NPR have
comfortably coalesced around the progressive worldview.
And this, I believe, is the most damaging development at NPR: the absence of viewpoint diversity.
Today on Honestly Bari talks to Uri about this essay and his decision to publish it. Listen here:
There’s
an unspoken consensus about the stories we should pursue and how they
should be framed. It’s frictionless—one story after another about
instances of supposed racism, transphobia, signs of the climate
apocalypse, Israel doing something bad, and the dire threat of
Republican policies. It’s almost like an assembly line.
The
mindset prevails in choices about language. In a document called NPR
Transgender Coverage Guidance—disseminated by news management—we’re
asked to avoid the term biological sex. (The
editorial guidance was prepared with the help of a former staffer of the
National Center for Transgender Equality.) The mindset animates bizarre
stories—on how The Beatles and bird names are racially problematic, and others that are alarmingly divisive; justifying looting, with claims that fears about crime are racist; and suggesting that Asian Americans who oppose affirmative action have been manipulated by white conservatives.
More
recently, we have approached the Israel-Hamas war and its spillover
onto streets and campuses through the “intersectional” lens that has
jumped from the faculty lounge to newsrooms. Oppressor versus oppressed.
That’s meant highlighting the suffering of Palestinians at almost every
turn while downplaying the atrocities of October 7, overlooking how
Hamas intentionally puts Palestinian civilians in peril, and giving
little weight to the explosion of antisemitic hate around the world.
For
nearly all my career, working at NPR has been a source of great pride.
It’s a privilege to work in the newsroom at a crown jewel of American
journalism. My colleagues are congenial and hardworking.
I can’t count the number of times I would meet someone, describe what I do, and they’d say, “I love NPR!”
And
they wouldn’t stop there. They would mention their favorite host or one
of those “driveway moments” where a story was so good you’d stay in
your car until it finished.
It still happens, but often now the
trajectory of the conversation is different. After the initial “I love
NPR,” there’s a pause and a person will acknowledge, “I don’t listen as
much as I used to.” Or, with some chagrin: “What’s happening there? Why
is NPR telling me what to think?”
In recent years I’ve struggled
to answer that question. Concerned by the lack of viewpoint diversity, I
looked at voter registration for our newsroom. In D.C., where NPR is
headquartered and many of us live, I found 87 registered Democrats
working in editorial positions and zero Republicans. None.
So on
May 3, 2021, I presented the findings at an all-hands editorial staff
meeting. When I suggested we had a diversity problem with a score of 87
Democrats and zero Republicans, the response wasn’t hostile. It was
worse. It was met with profound indifference. I got a few messages from
surprised, curious colleagues. But the messages were of the “oh wow,
that’s weird” variety, as if the lopsided tally was a random anomaly
rather than a critical failure of our diversity North Star.
In
a follow-up email exchange, a top NPR news executive told me that she
had been “skewered” for bringing up diversity of thoughtwhen she arrived at NPR. So, she said, “I want to be careful how we discuss this publicly.”
For
years, I have been persistent. When I believe our coverage has gone off
the rails, I have written regular emails to top news leaders, sometimes
even having one-on-one sessions with them. On March 10, 2022, I wrote
to a top news executive about the numerous times we described the
controversial education bill in Florida as the “Don’t Say Gay” bill when it didn’t even use the word gay. I pushed to set the record straight, and wrote another time to ask why we keep using that word that many Hispanics hate—Latinx. On March 31, 2022, I was invited to a managers’ meeting to present my observations.
Throughout
these exchanges, no one has ever trashed me. That’s not the NPR way.
People are polite. But nothing changes. So I’ve become a visible
wrong-thinker at a place I love. It’s uncomfortable, sometimes
heartbreaking.
Even so, out of frustration, on November 6, 2022, I
wrote to the captain of ship North Star—CEO John Lansing—about the lack
of viewpoint diversity and asked if we could have a conversation about
it. I got no response, so I followed up four days later. He said he
would appreciate hearing my perspective and copied his assistant to set
up a meeting. On December 15, the morning of the meeting, Lansing’s
assistant wrote back to cancel our conversation because he was under the
weather. She said he was looking forward to chatting and a new meeting
invitation would be sent. But it never came.
I won’t speculate
about why our meeting never happened. Being CEO of NPR is a demanding
job with lots of constituents and headaches to deal with. But what’s
indisputable is that no one in a C-suite or upper management position
has chosen to deal with the lack of viewpoint diversity at NPR and how
that affects our journalism.
Which is a shame. Because for all
the emphasis on our North Star, NPR’s news audience in recent years has
become less diverse, not more so. Back in 2011, our audience leaned a
bit to the left but roughly reflected America politically; now, the
audience is cramped into a smaller, progressive silo.
Despite all
the resources we’d devoted to building up our news audience among
blacks and Hispanics, the numbers have barely budged. In 2023, according
to our demographic research, 6 percent of our news audience was black,
far short of the overall U.S. adult population, which is 14.4 percent
black. And Hispanics were only 7 percent, compared to the overall
Hispanic adult population, around 19 percent. Our news audience doesn’t
come close to reflecting America. It’s overwhelmingly white and
progressive, and clustered around coastal cities and college towns.
These are perilous times for news organizations. Last year, NPR laid off or bought out 10 percent of its staff and canceled four podcasts following a slump in advertising revenue. Our radio audience is dwindling and our podcast
downloads are down from 2020. The digital stories on our website rarely
have national impact. They aren’t conversation starters. Our
competitive advantage in audio—where for years NPR had no peer—is
vanishing. There are plenty of informative and entertaining podcasts to
choose from.
Even within our diminished audience, there’s evidence of trouble at the most basic level: trust.
In February, our audience insights team sent an email proudly announcing that we had a higher trustworthy score than CNN or The New York Times.
But the research from Harris Poll is hardly reassuring. It found that
“3-in-10 audience members familiar with NPR said they associate NPR with
the characteristic ‘trustworthy.’ ” Only in a world where media
credibility has completely imploded would a 3-in-10 trustworthy score be
something to boast about.
With declining ratings,
sorry levels of trust, and an audience that has become less diverse over
time, the trajectory for NPR is not promising. Two paths seem clear. We
can keep doing what we’re doing, hoping it will all work out. Or we
could start over, with the basic building blocks of journalism. We could
face up to where we’ve gone wrong. News organizations don’t go in for
that kind of reckoning. But there’s a good reason for NPR to be the
first: we’re the ones with the word public in our name.
Despite
our missteps at NPR, defunding isn’t the answer. As the country becomes
more fractured, there’s still a need for a public institution where
stories are told and viewpoints exchanged in good faith. Defunding, as a
rebuke from Congress, wouldn’t change the journalism at NPR. That needs
to come from within.
A few weeks ago, NPR welcomed a new CEO,
Katherine Maher, who’s been a leader in tech. She doesn’t have a news
background, which could be an asset given where things stand. I’ll be
rooting for her. It’s a tough job. Her first rule could be simple
enough: don’t tell people how to think. It could even be the new North
Star.
Uri
Berliner is a senior business editor and reporter at NPR. His work has
been recognized with a Peabody Award, a Loeb Award, an Edward R. Murrow
Award, and a Society of Professional Journalists New America Award,
among others. Follow him on X (formerly Twitter) @uberliner.
Interesting tidbits I found, mainly for my own entertainment. I copied some sites, since after some time, I find they are gone.
Erdekessegek amit talaltam, foleg a magam szorakoztatasara. Nehany oldalt masoltam, mert egy ido utan eltunnek.
