David Laitphlang
Every year on World Press Freedom Day, the ritual plays out predictably. Statements are issued, seminars are held, and the language of democracy flows freely. The press is hailed as the fourth pillar. Freedom is celebrated as a given.
But step into a newsroom in Meghalaya, and that rhetoric begins to feel detached from reality.
On paper, journalists here are free. There is no visible censorship, no daily crackdown on reporters, no overt attempt to silence the press. But freedom is not merely the absence of restraint — it is the presence of security, dignity, and the ability to work without constant anxiety about survival. Strip those away, and what remains is freedom in name alone.
The uncomfortable truth is this: journalists in Meghalaya are among the worst paid in the country. Many are not even issued formal appointment letters — a convenient arrangement that keeps employers outside the obligations of the Majithia Wage Board, whose recommendations were upheld by the Supreme Court of India. Instead, contracts are handed out — flexible for management, fragile for the journalist.
The Majithia Wage Board itself was meant to change exactly this. Constituted to fix fair wages and standardise working conditions for journalists and non-journalist newspaper employees, it laid down structured pay scales, allowances and safeguards to bring dignity to the profession. The Supreme Court’s 2014 ruling made its implementation legally binding.
Yet, more than a decade later, enforcement remains patchy at best. In Meghalaya, there has been little visible effort to ensure compliance. The absence of monitoring or accountability has allowed many establishments to sidestep the framework altogether — reducing what was meant to be a safeguard into little more than a suggestion.
The consequences play out daily in the lives of reporters.
For many young journalists, the job is not just about chasing stories — it is about survival. Covering an assignment can mean choosing between spending on transport or having a proper meal. Petrol expenses, reimbursements, arrears — these are not standard practice in several local newsrooms. The romantic notion of journalism fades quickly when the job demands you file a copy while worrying about how to get home.
And yet, the expectations remain relentless. Break news. Be first. Be accurate. Be fearless.
Fearless — on what foundation?
Local media houses, many of them tightly controlled by individual publishers, often operate on a hire-and-fire culture that would make even the gig economy seem structured. Promotions and demotions can hinge less on merit and more on internal whims. At the same time, these establishments are quick to point to delayed government advertisement dues as the root of their financial troubles, as though that alone justifies paying wages that barely sustain a basic standard of living.
It would still be inaccurate to suggest that everyone is failing. A small number of publications — one English and one vernacular — have demonstrated that paying journalists fairly and offering some degree of stability is possible.
But that only sharpens the contradiction. If a handful can make it work, then the argument that poor pay and insecurity are unavoidable collapses. What remains is not compulsion, but choice.
The institutional cracks run deeper. The so-called publishers’ and editors’ forum, which claims to represent the interests of the media fraternity, cannot even bring itself to recognise a long-standing English daily that has produced generations of accomplished journalists — simply because it is printed outside the state, in Guwahati.
That exclusion is telling. It reflects a narrow, inward-looking ecosystem where legitimacy is decided less by contribution and more by convenience.
Meanwhile, structured support systems for journalists remain almost non-existent. There is no meaningful insurance cover, no dependable emergency financial assistance, no incentives for impactful reporting. A journalist who breaks a major story is often rewarded with little more than expectation of the next one.
The only consistent support has come from within the fraternity itself. The Shillong Press Club, despite limited resources, has stepped in time and again — offering assistance during crises, mobilising help, and in some cases even contributing towards funeral expenses. When a profession must rely on its own modest collective to ensure dignity in death, it speaks volumes about the system surrounding it.
The government, to its credit, has introduced measures such as the Journalist Welfare Scheme and ex-gratia assistance for deceased accredited journalists. But here too, intent is blunted by bureaucracy. Applications can take years to process. Families are forced into repeated visits to offices, chasing files for what is often a modest sum.
Even the design of these schemes raises questions. Why must medical claims be scrutinised and reduced by the Directorate of Health Services when the Directorate of Information and Public Relations has its own financial framework? Why is assistance so conditional, so delayed, so exhausting to access?
At what point does welfare stop being supported and start becoming a test of endurance?
And this brings us back to the central question — what does press freedom really mean?
If a journalist is underpaid, overworked, and uncertain about their future, can they truly be free? Or do they become more vulnerable — to pressure, to influence, to compromise?
Economic insecurity is the quietest form of control. It does not require laws or force. It works from within, shaping decisions subtly but powerfully. A journalist worried about their next paycheck is less likely to take risks, less likely to push uncomfortable truths, less likely to challenge authority.
Not because they lack courage — but because they cannot afford the consequences.
Meghalaya may not have a visible crisis of press freedom. But it faces something more insidious — a system that expects journalists to uphold democratic ideals while denying them the basic conditions needed to do so.
Freedom, in such a context, becomes a hollow word.
If press freedom is to mean anything beyond ceremonial observance, the conversation must shift. It must address the economics of journalism. Enforce wage standards. Ensure job security. Streamline welfare mechanisms. Recognise that the well-being of journalists is not peripheral to democracy — it is central to it.
Because a press that is struggling to survive cannot truly be free.
And until that changes, every observance of World Press Freedom Day will continue to ring hollow.
