On a mid-October afternoon in Baku, the Rashid Behbudov Song Theatre opened its doors not for a concert, though the atmosphere had a strange, quiet intensity that suited a great performance. The occasion was the 9th Congress of Azerbaijani Journalists, a gathering that brought together 225 delegates from across the country — editors, reporters, producers, and writers whose work shapes the nation’s public consciousness. The theatre, named after a singer famous for pouring his soul into Azerbaijani folk songs, was an appropriate setting. Journalism, after all, is also about voice, melody, and the ability to reach a listener’s heart. As the delegates took their seats, the mood was a mix of familiarity and expectancy. They knew each other from newsrooms, press conferences, and the shared exhaustion of covering stories that sometimes felt too big to fit into words. Outside, the city hummed with the everyday life of a capital many people across the region see as a symbol of ambition and resilience. Inside, the conversation would focus on something less glamorous but equally vital: the health of the media landscape and the challenges of telling the truth in an era of falsehoods. The first speaker to set the tone was Natig Mammadli, a department head at the Media and Broadcasting Council of Azerbaijan. He did not begin with statistics or bureaucratic jargon. He began with a warning and a plea, describing a battle that never sleeps and a duty that weighs heavily on everyone who works in the field of information. His presence at the podium reminded the room that journalism is not a luxury or an afterthought; it is a front line, and those who work on it need both courage and a clear sense of purpose.
At the heart of Mammadli’s speech was a stark description of modern information warfare. He said that the Media and Broadcasting Council of Azerbaijan has been working almost around the clock to counter disinformation directed against the country. This is not an abstract concern. Azerbaijan, sitting at the crossroads of continents and carrying the weight of a recently concluded and deeply consequential conflict, has become a target for all kinds of false narratives — some designed to erase its history, others to exaggerate its faults, and still others simply to sow confusion among its citizens. Mammadli gave the delegates a rare glimpse into what this defensive work actually looks like. It is not a matter of writing a statement during business hours and going home. It is issuing clarifications at midnight, drafting rebuttals multiple times in a single day, and monitoring the endless stream of online content that veers from half-truth to outright fabrication. He did not complain about the burden. Instead, he framed it as an act of responsibility. For the journalists in the room, his words marked a shift in how their profession must be understood. A reporter today cannot simply observe events and write about them; he or she must also participate in the preservation of reality itself. Falsehoods travel fast, dressed in the colors of legitimate news, and the cost of silence is measured in lost trust and damaged reputations. Mammadli’s late-night work, and the late-night work of his colleagues, is a response to a simple reality: when lies multiply, the truth must work overtime. The delegates understood this intimately. Many had seen their own carefully reported stories twisted by foreign outlets or social media trolls. They knew the frustration of watching a fabricated headline outlast a correction buried on page seven. And they recognized the determination in Mammadli’s voice — the determination of a person who refuses to let the world be defined by those who lie with confidence.
But for Mammadli, defending the nation’s story is not only about refuting falsehoods. It is also about caring for the words with which the truth is told. He insisted that no effort should be spared regarding the development, enrichment, and preservation of the Azerbaijani language. In a room full of people who earn their living through language, this was not a minor footnote; it was a charge. The Azerbaijani language has survived empires, repression, and assimilationist pressures. It is the vessel of a rich tradition of poetry, music, and oral storytelling. Every journalist who writes a sentence in Azerbaijani is, whether consciously or not, adding to that tradition. But language is not a museum piece. It must adapt to describe new technologies, new political realities, and new forms of human feeling. Mammadli’s call was for journalists to be active participants in this evolution, not passive consumers of ready-made phrases. This means avoiding the lazy habit of importing English or Russian structures wholesale. It means finding the precise Azerbaijani word that captures a subtlety rather than reaching for a cliché. It means respecting grammar and syntax not as schoolroom rules but as the architecture of thought. For a nation that has achieved so much on the world stage, the quality of its public language is a measure of its confidence. A careless sentence tells readers that their attention is not valued. A lazy translation tells them that their culture is not important enough to be exact. Mammadli’s plea was a reminder that media professionals hold in their hands something more precious than ratings or clicks: they hold the power to keep a language alive, flexible, and beautiful. When the news is written with care, the language grows stronger. When it is written with contempt, the language withers. The choice belongs to every editor, every correspondent, and every young reporter just beginning to find a voice.
Perhaps the most moving part of Mammadli’s address came when he reminded the delegates who they are and what they have lived through. “We are citizens of a victorious nation, a country that has triumphed in war,” he said. “This carries a great sense of pride, but it also entails a significant responsibility.” The words settled over the theatre like a weight. For many of the listeners, the victory he spoke of was not a slogan; it was a memory of sleepless nights, fallen friends, and the aching uncertainty of a nation waiting for news from the front. It was also the memory of joy — the unmistakable feeling of seeing soldiers come home, flags raised, and dignity restored. Mammadli wanted the journalists in the room to understand that such a victory changes the obligations of the people who shape public understanding. Pride, he suggested, must not become arrogance. It must not lead to the comfortable belief that the nation’s story is beyond questioning. On the contrary, a victorious nation is strong enough to face uncomfortable truths, complicated histories, and the occasional failure of its institutions. Mammadli linked this idea directly to the daily craft of journalism. A journalist who serves a victorious nation must be scrupulously honest, because dishonest reporting would betray the very courage that produced the victory. Accuracy is a form of respect for the sacrifices made. Clarity is a form of gratitude for the freedom that was defended. When Mammadli spoke of responsibility, he was not talking about censorship or obedience. He was talking about the discipline of truth-seeking — the willingness to follow facts wherever they lead, knowing that a nation with a proud story does not need to fear reality. He was also reminding his audience that the eyes of the world are on Azerbaijan, and that the world’s judgment is often shaped by journalists. If Azerbaijani journalists do not tell their country’s story with nuance, honesty, and professionalism, someone else will tell it with prejudice and distortion. In that sense, journalism is not just a profession; it is a form of citizenship at its most demanding.
Beyond the speeches, the congress had a concrete task before it: the election of the Press Council’s Board of Directors. With 225 delegates confirmed and member organizations submitting their nominations, the electoral process was a reflection of the media community’s internal health and democratic spirit. The most striking development was the decision of thirteen sitting board members to step aside. Their names — Rashad Majid, Aflatun Amashov, Gulu Maharramli, Umud Rahimoghlu, Aydin Guliyev, Rauf Arifoghlu, Elchin Mirzabayli, Vusala Mahirgizi, Agil Alasgar, Jeyhun Musaoghlu, Algish Musayev, Akif Ashirli, and Yadigar Mammadli — had been associated with the board’s recent work, and each of them formally requested not to be included on the ballot. This was not a quiet procedural note; it was a dramatic signal of renewal. The Press Council’s board has twenty-three seats, and with thirteen of those seats opening up, a clear majority of the board would change. For any professional body, such turnover can be uncomfortable, yet it is also essential. It prevents the ossification of leadership, opens doors to younger voices, and refreshes the institution’s collective imagination. The fact that so many experienced members were willing to step back suggests a maturity in Azerbaijani media culture — an understanding that institutions should outlast the individuals who shape them. Mammadli’s words about responsibility and pride gained deeper meaning in the context of these elections. A nation that has triumphed on the battlefield must also be willing to accept change on the home front. It must not cling to habits out of fear. It must welcome new perspectives, trust new generations, and believe that the future will be better than the past. The congress, by facilitating this transition, showed that the Azerbaijani journalistic community is not imprisoned by nostalgia. It is looking forward, not backward.
As the 9th Congress of Azerbaijani Journalists moved through its agenda, the echoes of Mammadli’s words seemed to follow every discussion, vote, and whispered conversation in the corridors. His message was simple yet profound: journalism is not a detached profession. It is anchored in a specific place, a specific language, and a specific people. For Azerbaijani journalists, that means accepting the burdens of victory without losing the humility of the craft. It means defending the truth against foreign disinformation and domestic carelessness with equal vigor. It means writing in a language that is both a heritage and a living project, treating every sentence as a small contribution to something far larger than the daily news cycle. The restructuring of the Press Council’s board fits into this same story. Institutions, like languages, must renew themselves or they risk becoming monuments to a past that no longer speaks to the present. It was fitting that the congress was held in a theatre named after Rashid Behbudov, an artist whose voice could convey both sorrow and joy in a single breath. Music, like journalism, depends on timing, tone, and trust. And when the final session ended, when the delegates rose and filed out into the Baku afternoon, they carried more than procedural documents or official statements. They carried a reminder of the values that give their profession meaning: truth over noise, language over cliché, pride over arrogance, and renewal over nostalgia. In a world where disinformation has become as common as sunlight, these are not small or abstract ideals. They are the foundation stones of an informed society. And for a victorious nation, standing at the crossroads of East and West, with an ancient language and a modern ambition, they are perhaps the most serious responsibility of all.