Ululations and dabke performances broadcast live over videos of destroyed southern villages. Deafening screams and dramatic scenes in a program supposedly built around debate and dialogue. Cameras are storming cinema halls to chase and film people in intimate moments while targeting marginalised communities. TV shows are inviting psychologically vulnerable individuals onto live broadcasts and turning their breakdowns into material for public consumption. Hosts and reporters physically leaning into guests to extract a confession, a tear, or a moment of shock fit for clipping and sharing. Reports aired under the banner of “defending the people,” while exposing faces, names, and locations, leaving individuals fully vulnerable before an entire society.
Somewhere between the screen and the algorithm, much of the Lebanese media no longer seems satisfied with merely covering reality. Instead, it has begun manufacturing its own spectacle. What we are witnessing today bears little resemblance to the ethical foundations the profession is supposed to uphold, where public interest, the protection of vulnerable groups, the principle of “minimising harm,” respect for privacy, and informed consent before filming or publishing are meant to take precedence.
Algorithms Have No Ethics
Algorithms are no longer merely technical tools organising what we see on our phones. They now directly shape the way media itself is produced. Newsrooms today understand that content provoking outrage, shock, or instant curiosity stands a far greater chance of spreading. As a result, much of today’s media is no longer created solely to inform the public, but also to satisfy the logic of platforms: how can viewers be kept watching for as long as possible? How can they be pushed to comment, share, and repost?
In this context, the very shape of news has changed. Headlines must become more shocking, scenes more provocative, the pace faster, and emotions more intense. Even humanitarian issues are now sometimes packaged for rapid consumption, because the algorithm rewards whatever captures attention instantly, not what requires time, reflection, or context.
With the rise of algorithms, Lebanese media has visibly transformed, becoming even more extreme during wartime moments like the one South Lebanon is enduring today. The camera no longer limits itself to documenting events or conveying information. Instead, it searches for the “viral moment”: the breakdown, the scream, the tears, the confrontation, or the public humiliation. Media content is now expected to be easily clipped and rapidly shared, rather than accurate, balanced, or even safe for those appearing in it. This shift is not confined to political or social programs. It extends to the coverage of everyday incidents as well. Invading people’s privacy, chasing individuals through the streets, and turning marginalised communities into material for ridicule or pity have all become part of a media landscape increasingly shaped by the logic of digital platforms.
The problem lies not only in the act of filming itself, but in the way the entire media scene is constructed. Today, cameras often enter not to document reality, but to manufacture a dramatic moment designed for consumption. Guests are sometimes pushed to relive their pain repeatedly to provoke a “stronger” reaction, while suspenseful music, tight close-ups, and emotionally charged questioning are used to create tension that serves ratings far more than truth or public interest.
Amid this transformation, the line separating journalism from voyeurism has become increasingly fragile. Instead of asking, “Does publishing these details serve the public?”, some media institutions now seem to ask, “Will this clip generate engagement?” In this environment, human suffering is turned into fast-moving daily content, while dignity becomes secondary to the temptation of reach and virality.
The “TikTokification” of Lebanese Television
TikTok is no longer just an app existing separately from traditional media. It now shapes the very form of television itself. The rapid pacing, suspense-driven music, shocking headlines, emotional performances, and exaggerated reactions have all migrated from digital platforms to TV screens. Even talk shows are sometimes produced as though they were a sequence of short clips waiting for the one moment that will become a “trend.” The goal is no longer always understanding or analysis, but generating as much engagement as possible.
In this context, the presenter has shifted from being an interviewer or narrator of events into becoming part of the spectacle itself. Heightened performances, sarcasm, aggressive confrontations, and even physical theatrics within the studio have become visual tools in the daily battle for views and attention.
What is striking about this landscape is that such content does not appear by accident, nor does it pass through the hands of a single individual. Before any episode reaches the air, it moves through a long chain of producers, researchers, directors, editors, newsrooms, and executives within the media institution itself. And yet, it rarely seems that anyone says “no.” No one pauses to ask whether the material is humiliating, exploitative, or potentially dangerous to those involved, or whether it contributes to normalising public humiliation as a legitimate form of media entertainment.
This is where the deeper problem lies: when provocative content becomes a normalised part of the institution’s own workflow. At that point, it is no longer simply an individual lapse by a presenter or reporter, but an entire production culture that rewards shock and treats it as professional success. “Trending” becomes an unspoken measure of quality, and an episode’s success is judged by the scale of the controversy it generates, rather than by how respectfully it treats people or how closely it adheres to ethical standards.
In this environment, the role of the journalist gradually recedes in favour of the logic of the “content creator.” Inside many newsrooms, the central question becomes: how do we produce material that captures attention instantly? Rather than: how do we produce journalism that is accurate, fair, and responsible? As a result, media institutions slowly turn into extensions of digital platforms themselves, rather than spaces capable of questioning or resisting their logic.
In this environment, the role of the journalist gradually recedes in favour of the logic of the “content creator.” Inside many newsrooms, the central question becomes: how do we produce material that captures attention instantly? Rather than: how do we produce journalism that is accurate, fair, and responsible? As a result, media institutions slowly turn into extensions of digital platforms themselves, rather than spaces capable of questioning or resisting their logic.
Even the classic “gatekeeping” theory of journalism, which assumes the existence of editors and decision-makers capable of filtering content and making ethical judgments before publication, now appears deeply shaken under the pressure of speed and platform culture. Much of the material broadcast on air or published online passes through dozens of people within a media institution, yet no one seems to pause and ask: Should this footage even be published? Does it serve the public interest, or is it simply shocking content designed to spread?
At the same time, the “uses and gratifications” theory appears to have gained greater influence in contemporary media practice, though often in a distorted form. Rather than trying to understand the audience’s informational or political needs, some media institutions now treat viewers primarily as consumers of shock and instant emotional stimulation. News is transformed into an entertainment product, while sensationalism becomes a central tool for holding the audience’s attention within an overcrowded and economically strained media market.
Even the concept of “agenda-setting” has itself been transformed. Instead of the media determining which public issues deserve the greatest societal attention, algorithms and trends increasingly shape both what gets covered and how it is covered. What dominates today is not necessarily what matters most, but what is most shareable and capable of generating engagement.
What is happening in practice places many young journalists before a genuine dilemma. The same institutions that ask them to uphold ethical standards in training rooms are often the ones that later reward the most shocking and widely circulated content. At this point, the crisis is no longer merely about individual choices, but about an entire media structure that has gradually lost its ability to distinguish between journalism as a public service and content as a commodity sold within the economy of views and engagement.
The Attention Economy, Not Journalistic Ethics
This transformation cannot be separated from the economic crisis that has devastated Lebanese media. As traditional funding models collapsed, views and engagement became a primary currency for survival. In the midst of fierce competition between platforms and television channels, spectacle became cheaper than in-depth investigations, emotional reactions faster than analysis, and scandal far more marketable than thoughtful discussion.
But the problem is not only about economic collapse or political polarisation. It is also about the erosion of the boundaries between journalism and entertainment. At times, it is no longer clear where news coverage ends and theatrical performance begins. Human tragedies are presented as entertainment segments, while people themselves are reduced to “cases” designed for rapid consumption within an endless cycle of daily content.
Who Protects People When Exposure Becomes the Story?
The question today is no longer only about professionalism, but about the very meaning of media itself. What happens when human dignity becomes less important than reach? What happens when humanitarian issues are transformed into spectacle? And can we still meaningfully speak of “journalism” when the primary goal becomes extracting the greatest possible amount of attention, regardless of the ethical cost?
Perhaps the central crisis in Lebanese media is no longer merely the absence of professionalism, but the erosion of the very idea that journalism is not simply content production, but an ethical practice as well.
In a fast-moving world governed by algorithms, view counts, and relentless competition, it is easy for any media institution or any journalist to fall into this trap. Everyone operates under the pressure of speed, trends, and the constant need to remain visible within an endless cycle of content. But this is precisely where real responsibility begins. Because the role of the media is not truly tested when ethical standards are easy to uphold, but when violating them becomes tempting, profitable, and capable of generating massive reach.
Human dignity is not a slogan to be displayed inside television studios. It is a practice that begins the moment the camera is turned on, during the preparation process, and even in the writing of the script itself. Sometimes, true responsibility lies in knowing when to stop filming, when silence is more ethical than live broadcasting, and when protecting a person matters more than any scoop, any trend, or any rating.
