It’s a trope as old as time.
News organizations from countries that funded the overthrow of President Bashar al-Assad through Syrian rebels, including Al Qaeda reincarnates, have floored the hypocrisy pedal.
“Opulent palace,” decried CNN, as its team stomped through the presidential residence in fascination, curiosity, and even jealousy. The coverage is fascinating for what it reveals about the media: Do these highly-paid reporters truly expect state residences to be monastic?
Take the White House; it was designed to appear relatable to the “common man,” signaling the U.S.’s break from Britain’s regal hegemony. Yet inside, with its antiques and grandeur, it is no more and no less opulent than other state residences in wealthy nations.
Whether it is heads of state or government, military leaders, or once-feared figures, the media’s cheap outrage taps people’s frustrations for ratings. Voyeuristic tours of the homes of the deposed or departed to “expose” their greed is a hit formula, often wielded with political purpose.
Saddam Hussein’s sanitary fittings were sensationalized to portray his fallen regime as decadent, conveniently overlooking how Western powers had previously allied with him. The Shah of Iran’s national art collection became a symbol of his excess, obscuring how the West had propped him up until the Revolution left him a spent asset. Then there’s Osama bin Laden, slain monarch of modern-day terror and once a “good jihadist” in the U.S.’s book. Foreign media hyped his Abbottabad hideout as a “mansion,” though it was barely distinguishable from a typical Pakistani middle-income house. But people lapped it all up hook, line, and kitchen sink.
This strategy of exaggeration is timeless, with local institutions eagerly dog-earing the same manual—but with less lasting results.
The May 9 attack by an opposition party on the Lahore Corps Commander’s residence followed the familiar script, with looted items paraded as emblems of cruel luxury to validate rage and rebellion. It shook the Army’s carefully cultivated image, but did no real immediate damage.
After Shahid Khaqan Abbasi completed his leftover term in 2018, the incoming government herded journalists to inspect the Prime Minister’s House—where Abbasi never resided. These intrepid reporters lounged in an empty jacuzzi and golden-accented furnishings, indulging their schadenfreude fantasies. Some raided the kitchen to televise the contents of the fridge only to find no caviar, no Cristal, no cheese.
In 1999, after the coup against Nawaz Sharif, the Army seized his agrarian estate in Lahore as evidence of corruption. To heighten the drama, they also claimed to uncover intimate items that would make any good Muslim blush. (It was likewise for bin Laden’s alleged pornography stash—which the U.S. government subsequently confessed was fabrication.) Sharif triumphed back to political relevance in 2008 and, in 2013, became the only three-time elected prime minister of Pakistan—this was an indictment of the military’s failed bids to remake the political landscape.
Journalists, always keen to make gains off grievance, have been complicit in the mythmaking. Media professionals in Pakistan, self-styled protectors of the poor, have even invoked religion to justify their posturing. They have defended public looting, at home and abroad, as divinely sanctioned spoils in the war against the corrupt.
All this relentless focus on crass spectacle corrodes trust in the media and reifies simplistic narratives that do little to inform or enlighten. In its haste to humiliate the once-mighty, the media only ends up humiliating itself—and its audience.