The publication by Daraj of a series of investigations into the violations committed by the Syrian regime, as part of the “Damascus Files” project led by the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists and involving around 25 international media organizations, sparked a wide debate about the limits of journalistic work and its ethical responsibility. Following the release of the project’s promotional poster, a number of women and men who survived enforced disappearance, as well as families of the missing and forcibly disappeared, voiced objections to the way the project was announced, arguing that some elements breached principles of privacy protection and the victims’ right to control their own narratives.
In response, the Daraj team published a clarification and an apology, explaining the enduring tension between respecting the ethical boundaries of journalism on the one hand and the necessity of exposing the atrocities of the Syrian regime and keeping them in the public eye so that governments and international institutions are held accountable on the other. These apologies represent an important step toward accountability and transparency, and an acknowledgment that committed journalism always sits at a delicate intersection between the duty to inform the public about major crimes and the duty to respect professional ethics and the rights of those most harmed.
The media is not infallible, and it is necessary to acknowledge that journalistic coverage can have unintended impacts on those who have experienced violence, regardless of how carefully ethical standards are considered. This was underscored by Daraj’s internal review referenced in its latest clarification. This raises the question: where does that fine line lie that allows for journalism that is both rigorous and ethical? Is a journalist to be condemned for revealing the truth in a context where truths have been suffocated for decades? Is an apology alone sufficient to restore trust among those who felt harmed or violated? And what mechanisms can reduce the tension between the ethical urgency to expose crimes and the need to respect the agency of affected individuals and communities? Does responsibility rest solely with the media, or does the solution require building effective institutional structures for accountability and transitional justice?
These questions are not new. They reflect a deeper dilemma: what ethical principles can be relied upon to minimize the harm caused by revealing sensitive information, without sacrificing communities’ right to access reliable knowledge about crimes and violations? I recall here what one researcher wrote about apartheid victims. Depriving individuals of the ability to tell their own story, and to name the violence they endured, is an act of double violence. Narration is not merely an exercise in remembering. It is a reclaiming of dignity and of the right to own the truth that people lived through in their bodies and memories.
Yet this principle does not offer a complete solution. What do we do in cases where victims’ voices are absent, because they are disappeared or killed, or because trauma makes participation impossible? And who holds the moral authority to speak on their behalf? We encountered a similar dilemma while documenting testimonies of adults who had been trafficked for the purpose of illegal adoption. These individuals, who were deprived of their most basic right to know their origins, and whose adoption experiences carried deep wounds, sexual violations not being the most violent among them, were clear about one central demand: that their stories be published in ways that would not endanger those who had trafficked them. Not to protect the perpetrators, but because these individuals still hold fragments of the truth about their biological families.
Many of them asked that information we actually possess be withheld or that details that could lead to identifying perpetrators be obscured, because doing so, even by opening a small window, might bring them one step closer to discovering their origins and identities. But when public campaigns began demanding full disclosure of what we know, we found ourselves facing a dilemma with no simple solution. Not naming those involved, despite having evidence, left these individuals hostage to those who wield truth as a tool of blackmail. In the absence of a legal or ethical accountability framework, the path to knowing one’s biological roots came to pass through individuals lacking even minimal responsibility and transparency.
Such dilemmas now cast a shadow over the debate around the “Damascus Files.” The absence of the voices of victims, those detained, killed, or disappeared, means that any publication of information carries the risk of inaccurate or harmful representation. At the same time, keeping these atrocities concealed contributes to entrenching impunity and grants repressive regimes the ability to reproduce their violence. There is no ready made ethical formula, but two fundamental principles can be affirmed as points of balance amid this complexity.
First, safeguarding human agency, meaning enabling survivors, families, relatives, and those who remain to determine what they wish to share, how, and to what extent. This requires that documentation and journalistic work be built on partnership and respect, not on the appropriation of narratives or knowledge. Second, the duty to reveal the truth responsibly. Journalistic documentation is not a neutral act. It is an act of resistance to organized violence. But this resistance must be grounded in transparency, context, clarity about the reasons for publication and its limits, and the procedures adopted to protect individuals and their families.
This tension will persist. There will be no complete solution, because the crimes committed by the Syrian regime, including detention, torture, disappearance, and killing, have created a void in the voices of those who are absent on the one hand, and have placed their families and society in a state of perpetual waiting on the other. Still, the most enduring ethical principle remains making the utmost effort to preserve people’s dignity and agency in their narratives, while simultaneously establishing clear and transparent mechanisms for revealing facts and preparing the ground for publication in ways that allow for prior understanding of what will be presented.
This tension will not subside without holding all those implicated in this tragedy accountable, a tragedy that continues to bleed into the lives of Syrians to this day. In the end, the question that should be posed as a compass connected to fundamental intent remains: why do we write? The publication of the “Damascus Files” is a reminder that the tragedy is ongoing, that those implicated are many, and that some of them may be at the heart of today’s attempts at silencing.
