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On a humid August morning in Bogura, a group of journalists from the northern district of Naogaon gathered not for a press briefing or a breaking-news chase, but for something quieter and arguably more essential: a two-day training programme designed to sharpen the craft of responsible reporting. The session, organized by Gram Unnayan Karma, or GUK, brought together thirty working journalists alongside senior reporters and academics, creating a rare space for reflection, dialogue, and skill-building. Though the venue was physical, the most anticipated voice of the day arrived virtually. Additional Press Secretary to the Prime Minister, Atikur Rahman Ruman, joined the programme through a screen, and his message carried the weight of someone who has spent years inside the machinery of government communication. Speaking from his position within the administration, he did not use the platform to praise the government or to hand out easy applause lines. Instead, he issued a challenge to the journalists in attendance: present accurate information, avoid falsehoods, and resist the spread of misinformation. It was a simple instruction, but in an age of viral rumors, partisan media, and speed-to-publish pressure, it was also a reminder of how difficult—and how necessary—honest reporting has become. The BSS dispatch from the event captured his remarks with clarity, noting that the training programme was held in Bogura on August 21, 2026, and that Ruman’s speech was delivered virtually to an audience of journalists from Naogaon. For those in the room, the message was not merely professional advice; it was a call to remember why journalism matters in the first place: to serve the public with truth, not to serve any political appetite with convenient narratives.
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Ruman’s central appeal was built around a familiar yet often overlooked idea: journalists should portray facts and the correct picture, even when doing so means acknowledging uncomfortable realities. He encouraged reporters to engage in constructive criticism of government shortcomings, a phrase that might sound cautious to some ears but which carries real meaning in the context of press-government relations. Constructive criticism, as he framed it, is not about attacking for the sake of attention or amplifying every flaw into a scandal. It is about pointing out problems in a way that is honest, evidence-based, and aimed at improvement. This kind of reporting does not humiliate; it illuminates. It does not seek revenge; it seeks accountability. At a time when newsrooms are often pulled between the pressure of power and the temptation of populism, Ruman’s words invited journalists to stand in a more difficult middle ground—a space where facts are respected, where errors are acknowledged, and where criticism is offered with the public interest at heart. He reminded the journalists that their duty is not to flatter those in office, nor to demolish them, but to serve the truth as carefully and completely as possible. For a press secretary to urge this kind of rigor was notable, especially because government spokespersons are often expected to defend, deflect, and spin. Instead, Ruman used the occasion to reinforce the idea that a healthy democracy depends on a healthy press, and that a healthy press cannot thrive if it surrenders to falsehood or comfortable silence. The journalists listening to him were being given permission, in effect, to do their jobs with integrity—not to become adversaries of the government, but to become faithful servants of the public record. It was a delicate balance, and Ruman acknowledged the difficulty by stressing the need for accuracy in every story, every headline, and every broadcast.
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Perhaps the most striking part of Ruman’s address was his assertion that the BNP government has always supported independent journalism and respects the right of journalists to criticize its activities. In a country where the relationship between political power and the press has often been tense, this claim stood out. Ruman went further, recalling that several newspapers had published false reports against the BNP during the previous Awami League government, yet the BNP, he said, does not practice revenge politics. This was a deliberate statement, aimed both at reassuring journalists of their safety and at drawing a contrast with the past. The suggestion was that even when the press gets it wrong—even when coverage is unfair or based on false information—the party in power should not respond with punishment or vindictiveness. Instead, it should continue to respect the freest possible exchange of ideas, trusting that over time, truth will surface and credibility will be earned. Whether that portrait matches every chapter of political history is a matter for historians and journalists to examine, but the message was clear: a government that fears criticism is a government that has something to hide, while a government that tolerates uncomfortable questions is one that believes in its own legitimacy. For the journalists in the room, this was both reassuring and demanding. It promised freedom, but it also placed responsibility squarely on their shoulders. If the government would not punish false reports, then the profession itself would have to address them. Publishers, editors, and reporters would have to hold one another to high standards, because external threats alone could not be blamed for bad journalism. Ruman’s remarks, as reported by BSS, framed this as a matter of principle rather than convenience. He was not offering a bargain or a trade; he was articulating a philosophy of press freedom that depends on mutual trust and professional integrity.
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The training programme itself, organized by Gram Unnayan Karma, reflected a broader commitment to strengthening journalism from the ground up. Thirty journalists from Naogaon took part in the sessions, which were led by senior journalists and academics. The design of the programme was clearly intended to move beyond theory and into the practical realities of reporting. For two days, participants would have had the opportunity to discuss news writing, source verification, interviewing techniques, ethics, and the challenges of covering local communities. Naogaon, much like other districts outside the capital, faces its own set of complexities: limited resources, local power dynamics, and the difficulty of covering issues that matter to ordinary people without falling into sensationalism. Training programmes such as this one are vital because they create a space where journalists can learn not only from experts but also from one another, sharing experiences, mistakes, and strategies. The involvement of GUK, a development-oriented organization, also signaled that journalism is not merely a political or entertainment enterprise but a developmental one. Accurate reporting helps citizens make informed decisions, holds public officials accountable, and gives voice to marginalized communities. When journalists are equipped with the tools to distinguish fact from rumor, they become agents of stability rather than sources of confusion. The presence of academics in the sessions added another layer, reminding participants that journalism is a discipline, not just a trade. It has methods, standards, and histories. It has lessons to be drawn from both failures and successes. Ruman’s virtual address was a highlight, but the real work of the programme was in the conversations, the exercises, and the quiet exchanges that take place when journalists sit together and think seriously about their craft.
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For the journalists of Naogaon, this training arrived at a moment when the information landscape is more crowded and more hazardous than ever. Social media has transformed news consumption, but it has also given rise to a torrent of unverified claims, deepfakes, manipulated images, and algorithmically amplified outrage. A false story can travel thousands of miles in minutes, and once it is out, correction often lags far behind the damage. Journalists today are not only competing with one another; they are competing with everyone who has a smartphone and an internet connection. In this environment, the discipline of verification becomes a form of public service. When Ruman urged journalists to avoid spreading falsehoods and misinformation, he was speaking to a challenge that is not limited to Bangladesh but is faced by newsrooms around the world. Still, the local context matters. In districts like Naogaon, where journalists often know their sources personally and where stories have immediate consequences for real people, the temptation to cut corners can be intense. There may be pressure to publish quickly, pressure to take sides during conflicts, or pressure to remain silent about powerful figures. A training programme cannot solve every one of these problems, but it can strengthen the resilience of the journalists who face them. It can remind them that their first loyalty is to the truth, and that accuracy is not an obstacle to success but the foundation of it. Ruman’s speech, delivered across a screen, was a message of solidarity with that struggle. He was not lecturing from a distant capital; he was acknowledging the difficult work happening far from the spotlight. Humanizing the moment, one can imagine the journalists nodding as he spoke, recognizing in his words their own daily battles—and feeling a renewed sense of purpose in the craft they have chosen.
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In the end, this gathering in Bogura was about more than a single speech or a single training session. It was a statement about the kind of society Bangladesh aspires to be. A free press is not a luxury for peaceful times; it is a necessity for any time, especially when trust in institutions is fragile and information is weaponized. Ruman’s call for accurate reporting, constructive criticism, and rejection of revenge politics was not just advice for journalists. It was an invitation to the entire country to embrace a more mature, more honest public conversation. Governments must be willing to hear uncomfortable truths, and journalists must be willing to tell them without exaggeration or malice. Both sides have responsibilities. The BSS report of his remarks captured a moment when a government spokesperson publicly affirmed the value of independent journalism and the dignity of critical but fair reporting. That affirmation matters, especially in a political environment shaped by decades of rivalry and mistrust. But by its own logic, it also demands accountability. If the BNP truly supports press freedom, then the behavior of its officials, its institutions, and its supporters must reflect that commitment not just in speeches but in actions. Similarly, if journalists truly seek accuracy, they must hold themselves to the same standard they demand of others—verifying sources, correcting errors, and declining to amplify rumors even when they are convenient. For the thirty journalists from Naogaon, the training programme and Ruman’s address may well serve as a turning point, a reminder that journalism is a calling with moral weight. As they return to their newsrooms, their notebooks, and their communities, they carry with them a simple yet profound instruction: tell the truth, serve the public, and do not add to the noise. That is the kind of journalism that builds trust, and trust, once restored, becomes the strongest foundation for any democracy.