I didn’t grow up reading L’Orient-Le Jour (OLJ). When I started my career in the nineties—despite my francophone school education—it wasn’t the paper I dreamed of joining. I preferred English, and was lucky to begin at The Daily Star. It was in that newsroom, which I entered as a junior reporter and left almost a decade later as managing editor, that I learned everything about the profession I was, and continue to be, passionate about.

The Daily Star was not the biggest, richest or most influential outlet, but it offered what, for me as a journalist, mattered most: freedom. A freedom I later realized I should not have taken for granted. With the Star’s support, I ended up writing for The Washington Post. Later, when English felt like a barrier to reaching the audience I cared about, I moved to Al Arabiya, changing both language and medium. And when TV’s reach—rewarding as it was—didn’t translate into the accountability I sought, I co-founded Daraj.

It is in that role, as co-founder and CEO of Daraj, that I became not only an admirer but also a defender of L’Orient-Le Jour.

There are many professional reasons for this support, not least the values Daraj and OLJ share: a commitment to serving the public interest above all else.

This is not a slogan. I have seen firsthand how courageously OLJ has covered the financial collapse since 2019, exposing corruption even when it meant losing sponsors and advertisers. Not once did its management blink in the face of pressure or intimidation. I have seen the sacrifices and uncertainty the paper embraced to protect what it holds most sacred: its mission and credibility.

In 2020, after months of lonely work investigating Central Bank Governor Riad Salameh, Daraj published its first stories. We quickly realized we were not alone. OLJ was the only legacy media outlet in Lebanon that took on the story—first through its sister Le Commerce du Levant and later when the magazine was forced to close, in an even more determined tone through OLJ itself.

What might have been a competition among journalists turned into something much deeper: an informal alliance, bound by belief in what journalism is for. 

For us, as a small newsroom built for that purpose, it was our raison d’être. For OLJ, the risks were far greater. Yet the newspaper, its journalists, management, and investors never wavered—even when accused of serving foreign agendas, or as recently as last week, when a TV station republished an old article accusing the newspaper of betraying its audience and smearing it as “L’Iran Le Jour.” 

This is nothing new. For months, OLJ—like many independent outlets and civil society organizations, including Daraj—has been the target of demonization campaigns financed by banks and bankers fearful of exposure. Throughout this battle, my respect for OLJ only grew. But it was last Friday, at the event marking the paper’s 101st anniversary, that I truly understood what its story means—not only for OLJ, but for me and for Daraj.

As I listened to the story of how L’Orient and Le Jour merged decades ago for financial reasons, I couldn’t not think of my own organization, almost a century later.  

So much has changed, yet so little. The financial struggles of independent journalism remain, and so do violence and intimidation. Hearing the names of OLJ journalists killed during the civil war, I felt a rush of emotions. I remembered a letter I had sent last year, inviting colleagues to OLJ’s centenary—delayed because of the war.

Here are some excerpts. 

“For most people, Beirut may no longer be what it once was. Its wounds, old and new, remain open, and the fear of new ones is heavy. She doesn’t have the glitter of Dubai, the intrigue of Riyadh, or the wealth of Qatar. She doesn’t have the glory of Cairo or the richness of Baghdad. But for those who love it, Beirut is still what it has always been: a refuge and an inspiring sanctuary for those who fight for freedom of speech and thought—theirs and that of others.

The only real challenge to dictators’ narratives today comes from independent media and civil society. Both face existential threats. Even if they survive, their impact is shrinking. This will have consequences far beyond our borders. Every story—whether human, political, or geopolitical—will be controlled by centers of power and their allies, some in Washington and Brussels, others in Beijing, Moscow, or Tehran…

When I invite you to Beirut, it is not only to celebrate the city. It is an invitation to give Freedom back its worth. To remind ourselves and others that before being a business—and as important as that is—our profession is a mission, built on values that are not for sale. The memory of those who gave it their all, so it can keep its glory—not just in Lebanon, but across the region from Damascus to Cairo, from Baghdad to Riyadh—depends on it.”

At the Hippodrome last Friday, surrounded by familiar faces, I felt safe and at home. Among us were even ministers who, despite the challenges, share those values and work for them. In a world ruled by absurdity and populism, this may seem trivial. But for those who believe in it, it means everything. Survival may be the only victory we can claim, yet it is worth it—if only to be able to tell our children that even if we lose, it was never without a fight.

It’s been a long journey since my days at The Daily Star, my beloved newspaper that was forced to shut down in 2020 because of financial considerations. My wish is that one day it reopens—part of a revival of a new golden age for Lebanese media, away from the pettiness of today’s mainstream ecosystem. Until then, we have OLJ: a reference point that reminds the co-founder of a young, small, independent newsroom struggling to make ends meet that what we do matters, that no matter how hard things get, we can survive—and if we don’t, someone else will pick up the fight.

It’s an uphill battle. And to OLJ, on its 101st birthday: Happy anniversary. And as we say at Daraj, onwards and upwards.