On a warm morning in Savusavu, Fiji, where the ocean breeze drifted through open windows and the rhythm of island life continued beyond the walls of a busy conference hall, a group of Pacific journalists gathered for the opening day of the 2026 Pacific Islands News Association Summit. They had come together to talk about storytelling, to share the pressures of their work, and to celebrate a craft that has never been more complicated. But Andrew Drummond, the editor-in-chief of the Australian Associated Press, did not offer them a comfortable welcome. Instead, he laid out a sobering picture of the world in which they work. According to the United Nations Global Risk Report 2024, misinformation and disinformation now rank as the third-highest risk facing the world in the digital age. That ranking places the corruption of information above large-scale wars, natural hazards, and geopolitical tensions, a startling reminder that the stories we tell, and the lies we allow to spread, are shaping the future as much as any earthquake or conflict. For the journalists in the room, Drummond’s words carried an urgent, personal weight. They were being asked not only to report the news, but to defend the very idea that the truth is knowable at a time when many audiences have grown exhausted, suspicious, and uncertain about who to believe.
One of the most human consequences of misinformation and disinformation is the slow erosion of trust. Drummond told the assembled reporters that false and misleading content is growing at an all-time high, and he did not hide what that means for the industry: it is costing journalism dearly in increasing levels of mistrust. For Pacific journalists, this is not an abstract problem. It is the relative who refuses to believe a cyclone warning, the community divided by a rumour that spread faster than the facts, or the young reader who dismisses all news as fabricated because they have been deceived online too many times. In many Pacific societies, journalism has always been relational, woven into the fabric of village life, shaped by oral traditions, reciprocity, and a deep respect for community. When misinformation enters that space, it does not just confuse people. It breaks the links that hold communities together. People begin to suspect every source, question every motive, and retreat into the stories that comfort them rather than the facts that challenge them. Drummond reminded his audience that audiences around the world are not satisfied with the present state of media. They are seeking solutions. They are calling for ethical, professional journalism they can trust, a press that acts with integrity, stands up for the vulnerable, and delivers facts that break through the noise. That is a demanding standard, but it is also a hopeful one, because it means the public still believes journalism can be a source of good.
The rise of artificial intelligence has made the search for truth even more urgent. In recent years, AI tools have become capable of producing articles, photographs, and audio clips that are difficult to distinguish from reality. A fabricated image can appear on a phone screen and go viral before anyone has a chance to examine it. A voice clone can say anything in a leader’s tone, and a false headline can be generated in seconds. For journalists in the Pacific, where resources are sometimes limited and distances between communities are vast, these technologies create a new kind of pressure. The same tools that connect island nations and give a voice to the region can also be used to flood public spaces with lies. Drummond was clear about the response: as journalists, what we are doing to verify information remains essential to credible journalism. He also mentioned that when people hear about misinformation and disinformation, many minds often turn to fact-checking. That instinct, he suggested, is right. Fact-checking may not be the most glamorous part of a reporter’s day. It means reading dull documents, making awkward phone calls, asking difficult questions, and refusing to publish something simply because it is easy or exciting. But fact-checking is an act of respect for the reader. It says that their time matters, that their trust is not being taken for granted, and that the journalist does not expect them to accept a story on faith alone. The AAP, Drummond noted, has had its own fact-checking operation for several years, an institutional commitment to the idea that accuracy is not optional in any newsroom, no matter how large or small.
Drummond’s message was not simply about avoiding mistakes. It was a vision of what journalism should be in an age of suspicion. He urged journalists to remember their highest purpose: a press that acts with integrity, a press that stands up for the vulnerable, and a press that delivers facts capable of breaking through the noise. In practical terms, that means treating authority with healthy skepticism and never confusing an official handout with the whole truth. Too often, especially in under-resourced newsrooms, a press release can look like a story. It arrives in a clean format, comes from a source with power, and offers an easy way to fill space. But Drummond warned against the habit of simply accepting what is put in front of you. If you receive a press release, he said, be sure to tell the other side of the story. That is not a demand for false balance, but for fairness, transparency, and a sincere effort to understand how policies and events affect real people. It is the journalist who calls the farmer affected by a new regulation, who asks the nurse whether a government announcement matches what she sees every day, who listens to the person who voted against the powerful candidate, that keeps democracy alive. This kind of work takes courage, especially in places where newsrooms are small and communities are close. It is not easy to challenge a friend or an employer, but it is necessary. When journalists do that difficult work, they are not just chasing stories. They are rebuilding a fragile trust, one story at a time.
The implications of this conversation reach far beyond the newsroom. Misinformation and disinformation have real-world consequences that can be measured in public health failures, election manipulation, community violence, and even lives lost. When people are misled about vaccines, they may make decisions that endanger their families. When voters are fed manufactured stories about candidates, the democratic process is corrupted. When false narratives about neighbours, cultures, or religions spread, they can tear apart the social fabric. The Pacific is not isolated from these forces. In fact, small island states can be especially vulnerable because information travels fast through intimate networks, family groups, church communities, and social media feeds. A single piece of misinformation can reach thousands of people within hours, and once it settles in the mind, it is difficult to remove. Meanwhile, the stories Pacific reporters must cover are often matters of survival: rising seas, stronger cyclones, changing fish stocks, health emergencies, economic inequality, and the influence of global powers competing for strategic ground. All of these issues require a public that can make informed decisions, and informed decisions are impossible without trusted information. That is why Drummond’s reminder of the UN Global Risk Report is so significant. The fact that misinformation and disinformation are considered greater risks than large-scale wars and natural hazards is not just a strange statistic. It is a warning that the information environment itself has become a battleground, and that journalism is one of the most important defenses ordinary people have.
Yet for all the darkness in that warning, there was hope in the room. The very fact that the PINA Summit was happening in Savusavu was proof that Pacific journalists are not giving up. They are still asking hard questions, still learning from each other, still willing to do the slow and patient work of verification. Drummond’s emphasis on fact-checking offered a practical way forward, but it also suggested something deeper: trust is not lost forever. It can be rebuilt, day by day, story by story, by reporters who refuse to cut corners and by audiences who reward honest work. Journalists alone cannot fix the problem. Editors, publishers, governments, technology companies, and citizens all have a role to play. Audiences can pause before sharing a sensational headline. They can support public-interest media with their time and, where possible, their money. They can demand transparency instead of outrage. Journalists, in turn, can return to the reasons they entered this profession in the first place: not to win arguments or serve powerful interests, but to tell the truth. As Drummond stepped away from the podium, the journalists in Savusavu were left with a simple but profound question. In a world full of lies, half-truths, and algorithmically driven confusion, whose story will they choose to serve? The answer will be written in the choices they make every day, in the sources they call, in the facts they check, and in the courage they show. Outside the conference hall, the ocean remained calm under the afternoon sun, but the currents beneath it were strong. The same could be said for Pacific journalism, a profession standing on the edge of change, determined to keep the truth above the waterline.