Tanushree Pandey Interview
Q. You’ve reported from intense ground situations like Manipur and Hathras. What pushes you to choose stories that involve risk and discomfort?
I do not deliberately choose stories because they are difficult or risky. I choose to go beyond the headlines and walk that extra mile to reveal the truth and expose the perpetrators of wrongdoing or crime — and that, in itself, is always dangerous and challenging. Governments and powerful people frequently work to ensure certain truths never come to light, and that is precisely why journalism matters.
Journalism, to me, is about bringing to the fore and amplifying the voices of those who are oppressed, ignored, or silenced. Growing up, I witnessed injustice closely, and it shaped my understanding of power, truth, and responsibility. I have always felt compelled to stand with people who cannot speak for themselves.
My first major story, at the age of 19, was from a Naxal-affected region in Chhattisgarh, where tribal women had allegedly been assaulted by security forces. Since then, I have naturally gravitated toward stories rooted in injustice, especially in conflict zones and political investigations.
I believe journalism is not public relations for those in power. Its purpose is to expose truths that powerful people often want hidden, and to ensure that the stories of the vulnerable are neither erased nor forgotten.
Whether it is Manipur, Hathras, or any conflict zone, these stories matter because they document suffering, demand accountability, and ensure victims are not forgotten. Even if I can help deliver justice to one person, I believe my work has meaning.
Q: Tell us about one moment in the field that changed your perspective as a journalist.
I have had two moments that fundamentally changed my perspective as a journalist.
One of my earliest major stories was from a Naxal-affected region in Peddagellur, Chhattisgarh. This was in 2014, when Naxalism was still very active in the area. I was just 19 years old, with no prior experience of conflict reporting. I pitched a story about tribal women who had allegedly been raped and sexually assaulted by security forces.
To reach the village, we had to travel far beyond the last CRPF camp — the final motorable point. From there, it was over 20-25 kilometers through dense forest with no roads. You walk, ride, fall, lift the bike, cross streams and rivers. There are snakes, scorpions, and constant uncertainty. But the most dangerous part is that this is a zone where IEDs can be anywhere. The security forces do not enter unless there is an encounter, and Naxals do not come out unless there is conflict. It exists in a kind of silent, unspoken standoff.
After a long and exhausting journey — starting at 4 a.m. and reaching around 4 p.m. — we finally arrived.
What I saw there has stayed with me forever.
The women were living in extreme deprivation. They had very little access to clothing, basic food, or clean water. They survived on whatever they could gather — including red ant chutney mixed with rice. There was no system, no support, no presence of the state in any meaningful sense.
And yet, these women had allegedly suffered sexual violence at the hands of security forces.
What struck me most was the contrast. If something like this happens in a city like Delhi, there are candlelight vigils, media attention, names, faces, outrage. But here, no one had come to ask them what happened. No one had documented their suffering. They were invisible.
These women were also afraid — of both Naxals and security forces. They lived between two sources of fear, with nowhere to turn. Many of them had even walked long distances barefoot just to give statements, only to be turned away or ignored.
When we arrived with a camera for the first time, they were scared. They had never been filmed before. It took time and reassurance before they agreed to speak.
Then came a moment I will never forget.
Before filming, I was doing a simple on-camera touch-up — just trying to look presentable. For me, it was routine. But for them, it was completely unfamiliar. They had never seen makeup, cameras, or even the idea of “presentation” for a screen. They started laughing softly — not out of disrespect, but out of curiosity and innocence.
At that moment, my cameraman said something that changed me:
“They don’t look like they have been raped.”
That sentence stayed with me.
It forced me to confront something deeper — how society constructs the idea of a “perfect victim.” As if trauma must always look a certain way. As if pain must always be visible in a prescribed form.
But these women were simply human. They were not performing their pain. They were not performing anything at all. And that’s exactly what made them real.
I told him then: we cannot judge people’s truth based on their expressions in a moment. Trauma does not freeze people into one emotional state forever. A person can laugh today and still carry unimaginable pain from years ago.
That was the first major shift in my thinking as a journalist: you must leave all judgment, bias, and prejudice behind when you enter the field. You are meeting people whose lives you have never lived and may never understand fully. Your role is not to interpret them through your assumptions, but to listen.
The second moment came during my experience with institutional journalism and later in the field.
When I worked at mainstream media houses like CNN-IBN (now CNN-News18), I grew up professionally looking up to many journalists I deeply admired. But over time, I also witnessed how editorial independence began to shrink. After ownership changes, there were increasing pressures — subtle and direct — to align narratives, soften certain truths, or avoid politically sensitive reporting.
Gradually, I realized how fragile mainstream media can be when power structures begin to influence editorial decisions. It made me understand that telling the truth is not just about what you see on the ground — it is also about the system you are working within.
Then came Hathras.
I went to report what had already been a horrific crime — the rape and death of a young woman. But that night, I witnessed something I was not prepared for: the forced cremation of her body by the police against the family’s wishes.
In that moment, I was not thinking like a detached journalist. I was overwhelmed, angry, and deeply emotional. I live-streamed because I had no other way to document what was happening. I remember thinking of my own mother, imagining her helplessness if something like that happened to me.
That experience changed something fundamental in me again.
It made me realize that journalism is not just about reporting events — it is about being present at moments where history, power, and injustice collide in real time. And sometimes, you do not know what you are walking into until you are already there.
It also made me understand something else: when you leave home every day, you do not know what you will witness or whether you will return unchanged. But if you are fortunate enough to come back, that itself is a privilege — and with that privilege comes responsibility.
Over time, I also began to understand protest movements differently — including student movements like JNU. Earlier, I might have misunderstood them. But as my perspective evolved, I realized how essential protest is in a democracy. These are not people against the nation — they are often people demanding accountability from it.
Across all these experiences, one truth has stayed with me:
A journalist must first be a human being.
Empathy is not optional. Judgment must be left at the door. You cannot impose your worldview on people whose lives you are documenting. You have to listen more than you speak, observe more than you assume, and constantly question your own biases.
These moments — from Chhattisgarh to Hathras and beyond — have shaped not just how I report stories, but why I report them at all.
Q: In politically sensitive cases, pressure is real. Have you ever felt your story was being controlled or suppressed?
Absolutely. Most of the stories I have worked on have faced immense pressure, suppression, or attempts to bury them. Government influence often extends into editorial systems, where channels and media organizations are pressured to avoid uncomfortable truths.
After reporting on the 2020 Hathras gang rape and murder and the forceful overnight cremation carried out by the UP Police, I faced enormous professional consequences. I was taken off air for a period and severely reprimanded by my editors, as though I had done something wrong by simply doing my job. I was placed under intense pressure and eventually pushed out of my job. There have been FIRs, rape and death threats, relentless trolling, and direct intimidation.
But journalism under pressure is ultimately a test of integrity. You either compromise or stand your ground. I chose to stand my ground, despite the personal and professional risks.
Q. Your work often highlights voices that are ignored. How do you find these stories before they become headlines?
Finding such stories depends on a strong ground network, constant research, and building trust over time. Investigative journalism requires staying connected with local sources — human intelligence on the ground, most of whom are neither rich nor powerful, but people from the margins of society, victims, and ordinary citizens. You have to stay connected to the realities people are living through. Stories rarely come to you on their own; you have to go out and find them, especially because there are often deliberate attempts to suppress or hide them.
Many stories come through people who trust me because they know I will not ignore their suffering. For example, in the 2020 Hathras gang rape and murder case, the victim’s family reached out because they believed I would help amplify their voice through my mic and my pen. That is the only real power I have as a journalist — and, as the saying goes, the pen is mightier than the sword.
I also believe in going beyond official narratives. Journalism begins where surface-level truth ends. You cannot become biased, cynical, or prejudiced, but you must constantly question power, dig deeper, and search for what is being deliberately hidden.
Q. You’ve worked with platforms like India Today, NDTV, and BBC. What key difference did you observe in editorial freedom and storytelling?
There are major differences in editorial culture across organizations.
In some mainstream news organizations in our country, editorial decisions were often influenced by political convenience, where difficult truths could be softened or diluted.
At NDTV, under Prannoy Roy, I experienced a stronger editorial commitment to honest storytelling. Similarly, the BBCstood out for its investigative rigor and its willingness to publish difficult truths without unnecessary dilution or sugarcoating.
The biggest difference, in my experience, was whether an organization prioritizes truth itself — or whether it filters truth to fit political comfort.
Q. You’ve covered stories involving death, violence, and injustice. How do you handle the emotional weight after the camera turns off?
I cry a lot. I am deeply emotional, and these stories leave permanent marks on me.
Witnessing violence, especially against women and marginalized communities, takes a heavy emotional toll. But with time, you learn to create a certain professional detachment — it becomes part of the job training. For the rest, I cope through dance and music. I live music. I also find comfort in deep, sometimes completely unfiltered conversations with close friends.
My work is also deeply spiritual for me. I see it as a calling. While every difficult story changes something inside me, it also strengthens my sense of purpose.
Q. Is there a story you wanted to report but couldn’t publish? What stopped you?
Yes, many stories have faced barriers and, in some cases, have been effectively stalled or killed.
The biggest obstacle has consistently been systemic pressure. Stories are often blocked through indirect censorship, newsroom influence, legal threats, or institutional suppression.
At times, media channels themselves become constrained, making it harder to pursue difficult investigations. However, many of these stories are not truly abandoned — they are delayed, fought for over time, or carried forward through alternative platforms and methods.
Q. Do you think journalism in India today is becoming more fearless or more restricted?
It is both. On one hand, journalism is under severe restriction. It is the end of press freedom in our country. Institutional independence has gone to the dogs, media control is at its peak, and truthful reporting often comes with extreme consequences. On the other hand, the journalists who continue reporting despite these risks are among the most fearless India has ever seen. Because the stakes are so high, you can be killed, thrown in jail, or thrown out of your job for just doing your job. Those who continue to report the truth are doing so with extraordinary courage. So while journalism as an institution may be almost extinct, fearless journalism still survives through individuals willing to resist.
Q. What does a normal day in your life look like when you’re not reporting from the ground?
When I am not reporting, I focus on emotional recovery, research, and personal joy. I spend time dancing, listening to music, being with close friends, reading, and maintaining my source network. I also continue researching stories, meeting people, and preparing for future investigations.
Even off the field, journalism remains central to my life. I also try to save money and travel as much as I can, because it opens up my perspective on the world and broadens how I see people, places, and stories.
Q. After covering so many serious stories, what’s the funniest or most unexpected moment you’ve had on the field?
One of the funniest moments happened during my early reporting trip in a Naxal zone.
My team was temporarily detained for a few hours by armed Naxals in the middle of a forest. While everyone was terrified, including me, my cameraman was most worried about the safety of the camera equipment, because he feared salary deductions if it got damaged.
Even in that life-threatening moment, his primary concern was the camera — not the guns pointed at us. It was absurd, terrifying, and hilarious at the same time.
That moment remains unforgettable because it showed how humor can unexpectedly survive even in extreme danger. We laughed about it later.
Bio:
Tanushree Pandey is an award-winning independent investigative journalist and documentary filmmaker based in New Delhi, known for fearless ground reporting and in-depth investigative coverage of politics, social justice, conflict zones, and human rights issues in India and beyond. Recognized for her frontline journalism in politically sensitive and conflict-heavy environments, she has built a reputation for impactful storytelling focused on accountability, governance, and ground realities.
She is a recipient of the prestigious Ramnath Goenka Award for Excellence in Journalism and was featured among “33 of India’s Most Powerful Women Who Shattered Stereotypes & Influenced Change” in 2020. Her investigative reporting on issues such as Hathras, Manipur, and governance failures has earned widespread national and international recognition.
Over the course of her career, Tanushree has contributed to leading media organizations and platforms including India Today, CNN-News18, NDTV, ThePrint, BBC, CNN, The Wire, and Al Jazeera, alongside various independent global and digital media platforms.
Her professional work spans investigative journalism, political reporting, conflict reporting, documentary filmmaking, and human rights storytelling, making her one of the prominent contemporary voices in independent journalism and documentary reporting.
Interviewed by: Abhisek Rath
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