Who Are You Beckoning Me from a Distance?
By Munshi Firoz Al Mamun
Hansen had never learned how to leave a newsroom on time.
Officially, his duty hours were from three in the afternoon to ten at night. Unofficially, his life began at nine in the morning and dissolved somewhere between midnight and one. The fluorescent lights of the newsroom knew him better than his own bedroom. The clatter of keyboards, the smell of stale coffee, the restless glow of monitors—these were not accessories of his profession; they were his habitat.
He had arrived in journalism armed with credentials that once meant something: a BA (Honours) and MA in English, followed by an LLB. Words were not merely his tools; they were his discipline. He understood law the way others understood gossip, and he could carve a sentence so clean that editors noticed it before they noticed him.
From the outset of his career, his writing stood out—precise, elegant, unafraid of complexity. His edits rescued careless reports. His headlines carried weight without noise.
But excellence, Hansen would later learn, was never a neutral act.
The Weight of Extra Ink
Beyond reporting, Hansen became the newsroom’s silent problem-solver. Corporate profiles that needed “polish”? Hansen. PowerPoint scripts for board presentations? Hansen. Advertisement copy that had to sound intelligent yet submissive? Hansen again.
Many nights, while the city slept, he remained at his desk shaping language for projects that were never credited to him and never paid separately. Deadlines were imposed, never negotiated. Nights disappeared. Weekends dissolved.
Journalism did not just take his time—it consumed his youth.
At first, the admiration was real. Editors praised him openly. Juniors gathered around his desk, asking how to sharpen a lead, how to structure an argument, how to stay truthful without inviting libel.
Hansen taught generously. He believed knowledge multiplied when shared.
That belief would cost him.
The House of Easy Journalism
Journalism, however, was no longer alone in the building.
Behind glass partitions and closed doors sat Henry, Jacob, Sharlow, and Jesica—journalists in title, survivors by strategy. When assignments were handed out, their keyboards remained eerily silent. No tapping, no muttering, no drafts scrapped in frustration.
Ten minutes later, polished reports appeared in the submission folder—long, confident, and hollow.
ChatGPT had become their ghostwriter.
When editor Denish Farlow assigned a complex story, Hansen could hear the difference. His own screen filled with revisions, citations, and cross-checks. Their desks remained calm, untouched, like shrines to automation.
Authentic reporting had become a disadvantage; speed was currency, and integrity a liability.
Hansen felt pressure—not from management, but from the quiet resentment of colleagues whose shortcuts were exposed by his diligence. His presence was a mirror they refused to face.
Silika and the Price of Excellence
Silika understood that mirror well.
She had returned from London with a postgraduate degree and an unshakable confidence in her craft. Her writing was sharp, her captions thoughtful, her ethics uncompromising. She rose quickly—and paid for it.
The newsroom server, designed for collaboration, became a weapon. Anonymous hands altered her headlines, weakened her leads, and introduced subtle errors—small enough to evade casual notice, damaging enough to raise suspicion.
Whispers followed. Doubt crept in.
Hansen noticed. He confronted. He documented.
But professionalism, he learned, had no defense against coordinated malice.
Praise Before the Fall
One afternoon, during a meeting with the newspaper’s owner and chairman, editor Denish Farlow praised Hansen openly.
“His writing sets the standard,” the editor said. “His edits rescue us.”
Hansen felt something rare that day—validation.
Fifteen days later, both Hansen and Silika were terminated.
No warning. No performance review. No explanation worthy of the word.
In protest against the discrimination and unjust treatment of Hansen and Silika, around 23 top and meritorious journalists took a stand—and were subsequently terminated as well.
The newsroom learned a brutal lesson: dissent would not be tolerated, merit would not be defended.
Merit had lost the race.
The Corporate Shadow
Behind the scenes operated a corporate official assigned by the parent company to oversee media operations—newspapers, television, radio. He had no background in journalism. Worse, he had no working command of English. Yet power clung to him like a second skin. His name was Mankin Devil.
The chairman and managing director of the parent corporate house never visited the newsroom. They relied on reports, hearsay, and carefully curated narratives. Truth was outsourced. Accountability was optional.
This official summoned journalists like suspects. Phones were confiscated at the door. Voices were raised. Humiliation was routine.
He empowered second-tier operatives, undermining chief editors, rewarding obedience over competence. Strategy replaced ethics.
The Meeting Without the Accused
One morning, all section heads were summoned urgently.
No agenda. No hint.
Only after arriving did they learn the meeting concerned a mistake on the business page. The irony was sharp: the journalist responsible had not been called.
When confusion filled the room, the corporate official demanded a clarification—in English.
He ordered Hansen to write it.
Hansen complied. Precision was his habit. He explained the incident, contextualized responsibility, clarified editorial workflow.
The official read it for thirty minutes.
Then asked, quietly, the meaning of a single English word.
The room understood everything at once.
Lines That Should Not Be Crossed
The descent accelerated.
One afternoon, the corporate official instructed chiefs of all online portals under the group to write letters to international agencies—including Interpol—targeting specific individuals. The order was illegal. The deadline, unreasonable.
The chiefs hesitated. They sought refuge in editors’ chambers.
Doors closed.
Fear had replaced leadership.
Later, the official summoned senior journalists one by one, stripping them of devices, dignity, and voice. Abuse followed.
Then came the final test.
Hansen was ordered to write a complaint against the chief editor of the English daily.
He refused.
For that refusal, his salary was cut by one month. Harassment intensified. Isolation followed.
The Trap
When Hansen later took over as online chief for six months, another directive arrived: issue a show-cause notice to a subordinate journalist for repeated mistakes.
The mistakes had occurred three times—before Hansen assumed charge.
Bound by instruction, he issued the notice.
The corporate official then summoned the accused journalist privately and coached him to reply by implicating Hansen—that the mistakes continued because the new section head failed to guide him. In the irony of fact, the subordinate committed such mistakes before Hansen’s tenure.
Meanwhile, Mankin Devil forgot the limit of his power. One midnight, the managing director visited the media complex silently. He asked: "Why are you damaging my organizations?" Initially, Mankin rejected the claim. Later, MD insisted he had evidence. Mankin replied he allowed no mobile phones, leaving no proof.
As MD pressed again, Mankin arrogantly said: "These are my organizations... my decisions."
The MD, enraged, punched him. Mankin, a bulky man of around 150 kg, fell into a nearby canal. The water was cold. He cried, but people rescued him.
The trap had been perfect.
The Quiet Exit
Hansen understood then that journalism, as he had known it, no longer existed in that building.
He did not shout. He did not beg.
He studied.
PHP. Laravel. Website development. Digital marketing. Systems that rewarded logic, not flattery. Fields where output mattered more than allegiance. Nights once spent correcting others’ distortions were now invested in building something real.
The transition was not easy—but it was honest.
Holding the termination letter, Hansen sat alone in a corner at the office exit, tears streaming. From behind, Silika touched his shoulder.
“Who?” he asked.
“I am,” she replied. She consoled him and urged him not to break down. They discussed the conspiracy that had replaced performance in their workplace.
After returning home, Hansen felt the weight of unemployment. He browsed IT institute websites, discovering popular courses in website design and development, PHP, Laravel, digital marketing, and more.
That night, he dreamt of a figure beckoning him toward a career in IT—a world ruled by technology and innovation, where workplace conspiracies had no place.
“Who are you beckoning me from a distance?” he asked aloud. The figure disappeared.
The next day, he enrolled in a website design and development course. Over time, he mastered PHP, Laravel, digital marketing, graphic design, and data entry.
Hansen had become a different person.
A Digital Dawn
Hansen was no longer just a journalist.
He was also a lyricist, composer, and singer. He wrote English songs, composed tunes, codified them with the precision he applied to software, and sang them himself. Many of these songs were letters in melody, meant for Silika—where words and music carried what journalism could no longer hold.
Technology became his new language. Innovation, his new freedom. Each line of code replaced a compromised sentence; each system became an editor that valued truth through function.
Silika—no longer just memory—was inspiration. Her integrity, her courage, her refusal to bend remained his constant companion.
They no longer shared a newsroom, but they walked the same ideals.
The newsroom lights still flickered behind him. Keyboards still hummed. ChatGPT still wrote stories for those who never learned to write.
But ahead lay dawn—a digital dawn.
